I was going through a journal looking for some flotsam and jetsam to incorporate into the latest of my 10 Minute plays and came across some quotes from this book by Georges Simenon that I had noted down when I read it during the summer of ’06:
A low voice that made you think of a scar that hadn’t healed, of a hurt that lingers beneath consciousness, soft and familiar, deep inside.
For months now, Combe’s life had been going nowhere. But, until two days ago, he had at least been walking stubbornly in one direction.
He was frightened. He wondered if she was going to start talking about herself. Inevitably she would sometime, and then he’d have to do the same.
Seeing these quotes make me want to re-read the novel in full. It was a good novel, small in scope, perhaps, but incisive. Something about it reminded me at little of Milan Kundera’s work. Not so much in actual style, but there is an element of regret and desire to Simenon’s characters that tastes very similar to some of Kundera’s characters. Regret and desire like over-ripe fruit that is just gone bad but is close enough to good that you eat it, vaguely dissatisfied at the end but chewing nonetheless.