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Ma grand-mère avait les mêmes: les dessous affriolants des petites phrases
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Ma grand-mère avait les mêmes: les dessous affriolants des petites phrases

3.83 of 5 stars 3.83  ·  rating details  ·  23 ratings  ·  2 reviews
« Ce ne sont pas des passionnés de la brocante. Ils hésitent à s’enquérir du prix d’une paire de fauteuils, de couverts en argent. Ils s’éloignent de quelques pas, s’annoncent le prix revendiqué, et l’un deux lance alors : “ Ma grand-mère avait les mêmes ! ” Cela tombe comme une critique de ce marché de dupes où les choses sont vendues infiniment trop cher. »

Philippe Deler
Paperback, 112 pages
Published September 18th 2008 by Points Editeur
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On retrouve l'ambiance et le style de la "première gorgée de bière". Très plaisant.
Philippe DELERM depicts, better than anyone, every one's usual moments, and restores, almost intact, our little irritations, our stealthy pleasures, the great times of loneliness and amazements. Along the thread of these little sentences well settled, falsely insignifiant, he unmasks the buried feelings and lays bare the emotion ......
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Philippe Delerm est né le 27 novembre 1950 à Auvers-sur-Oise. Ses parents étant instituteurs, il passe son enfance dans des «maisons d’école» : à Auvers, Louveciennes, Saint-Germain. Études de Lettres à la faculté de Nanterre, puis nommé professeur de lettres en Normandie. Il vit donc depuis 1975 à Beaumont-le-Roger (Eure), avec Martine, sa femme, également professeur de lettres et illustrateur-au ...more
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La première gorgée de bière et autres plaisirs minuscules Il avait plu tout le dimanche La sieste assassinée Je vais passer pour un vieux con Autumn

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“It could snow
We don’t take care. The end of November came without coldness, with haunting and limp rains, pretty much leaves still laying anywhere on the sidewalks. It comes a morning with another grey, compact, closed, air changes its texture. Under the pharmacy green cross the thermometer sticks, in red, two degrees. The number, a bit blurred thins down in the space. We didn’t expect it, but it grows, far inside us, the little sentence. It comes to the lips like a forgotten song: “It could snow …” We should not dare to mention it in loud voice, it is still so much autumn, all could finish in a stupid freezing sudden shower, in a fog of boredom. But the idea of a possible snow came back, it’s what matters. No downhill in a sledge-trash-bag, no snowman, no children shouting,no pictures of landscape metamorphosis. Largely best then all that, because the essential snow is inside the unformulated. Before. Something we didn’t know we knew. Before snow, before love, the same lack, the same dimmed grey which days’ triteness creates pretending to suffocate.
We shall cross somebody:
- This time it’s almost winter!
- Yes we start to be crestfallen!
Workers hang pieces of tinsel. We didn’t say too much. Especially do not frighten away the slight shade of the idea. The red thermometer went down, one degree. It could snow.”
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