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L'Enterrement de Monsieur Bouvet

3.8  ·  Rating Details ·  35 Ratings  ·  2 Reviews
Un tranquille petit-bourgeois, M. Bouvet, est mort sur les quais de la Seine, tandis qu'il feuilletait un livre a l'etalage d'un bouquiniste. Rien de suspect dans cette fin, mais, comme on ne lui connait pas de famille, on publie tout de meme sa photo dans la presse. Cette publication va provoquer une cascade de revelations successives, qui plongeront l'inspecteur ...more
Paperback, 190 pages
Published November 13th 1997 by Livre de Poche (first published 1955)
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Genius, undimmed after 22 years.


As I have written elsewhere, this book has special resonance for me, as it was the very first book I ever bought from the Nilkhet market in Dhaka. Nilkhet, the largest second-hand book market in Bangladesh, was to occupy a central place in my life, becoming practically my second home for large swathes of the 1990s. I don't think a single week went by in that decade when I did not spent at least one lengthy session browsing through the shelves of the numerous sta
Jun 28, 2012 Yuki rated it really liked it  ·  review of another edition
Shelves: fiction
Monsieur Bouvet has a crucial role in the story, but it isn't him who forms his character, but many other people who appear after he died. The Japanese translation was little dull, but I liked the development.
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Simenon was one of the most prolific writers of the twentieth century, capable of writing 60 to 80 pages per day. His oeuvre includes nearly 200 novels, over 150 novellas, several autobiographical works, numerous articles, and scores of pulp novels written under more than two dozen pseudonyms. Altogether, about 550 million copies of his works have been printed.

He is best known, however, for his 75
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“At five-thirty the rain began to fall in great, heavy drops which bounced off the pavement before they spread out into black spots. At the same time thunder rumbled from the direction of Charenton and an eddy of wind lifted the dust, carried away the hats of passers-by who took to their heels and who, after a few confused moments, were all in the shelter of doorways or under the awnings of cafe terraces.

Street pedlars of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine scurried about with an apron or a sack over their heads, pushing their carts as they tried to run. Rivulets already began to flow along the two sides of the street, the gutters sang, and on every floor you could see people hurriedly closing their windows.”
“The sun finally died in beauty, flinging out its crimson flames, which cast their reflection on the faces of passers-by, giving them a strangely feverish look. The darkness of the trees became deeper. You could hear the Seine flowing. Sounds carried farther, and people in their beds could feel, as they did every night, the vibration of the ground as buses rolled past.” 1 likes
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