"for the art of memory with which he has evoked the most ungraspable human destinies and uncovered the life-world of the occupation".
I think his nobody status says more about us than about him.
The Nobel Prize in Literature for 2014 has been awarded to Patrick Modiano "for the art of memory which he has evoked the most ungraspable human destinies and uncovered the life-world of the occupation."
No it doesn't; I never cease reading great writers: perhaps he doesn't belong in that category. I just read the first pages of Missing Person in Amazon, and it's basically Raymond Chandler-level literature. Compared with what I've read lately: José Saramago, William Gass, Alexander Theroux, Vladimir Nabokov, his prose is mediocre.
Never heard of him, even though I am french speaking. Should be easier to find his books in french than in english. Anybody have any suggestions on where to begin? I was thinking of starting with La Rue des Boutiques Obscures which one the Goncourt in 1978
Never heard of him, even though I am french speaking. Should be easier to find his books in french than in english. Anybody have any suggestions on where to begin? I was thinking of starting with La Rue des Boutiques Obscures which won the Goncourt in 1978
It was three years ago, around the same time the old lady attacked me, but closer to June or July, that I was walking down the quai de la Tournelle. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon. I was looking at boxes of books from some of the bookstalls. Suddenly, my eyes captured the image of three very noticeable volumes, held together by a thick red rubber band. The first volume's yellow cover, its title and author's name written in black letters made my heart jump: The Concealing Memory by Fred Bouviere. I removed the rubber band. Two other books by Bouviere: Drugs And Therapies and Lies And Confessions. These books had been alluded to many times during the course of the Denfert-Rochereau meetings. Three impossible to find books, of which he had said that they were his youthful works. [...] I remembered all. I asked the bookseller where he had bought these books. He shrugged and said: somebody was moving out of town... Remembering the way in which Genevieve Dalame used to look at Bouviere with her blue eyes, the way she drank his words, I told myself that it was impossible for her to just get rid of these three books. Unless she wanted to brutally break away from a period of her life. Or she was dead.