Trio (French Literature)
Robert Pinget
Language: English
Pages: 229
ISBN: 1564784088
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Trio marks the first time these three shorter Pinget works are collected in a single volume. From the sublime surrealism of Between Fantoine and Agapa, through the Faulknerian take on rural life in That Voice, to the musical rhythm and flow of Passacaglia, this collection charts the varied career of one of the French New Novel's true luminaries.The space between the fictional towns of Fantoine and Agapa is akin to Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha County: an area where provincialism is neither romanticized nor parodied; where intrigue--often violent intrigue--confronts the bucolic ideal held both by insiders and outsiders; and where reality is shaped not by events, but by talk and gossip, by insinuation and conjecture. Written over the course of his career, these three novels are by turns hilarious and dark, surreal and painstakingly accurate; together they demonstrate the consistent quality of Pinget's versatility.
Mapping Memory in Nineteenth-Century French Literature and Culture (Faux Titre, Volume 369)
Notre-Dame of Paris (The Hunchback of Notre Dame) (Penguin Classics)
Sentimental Education: The Story of a Young Man (Classic Reprint)
adjacent tomb was apparently that of a nephew, never any flowers on it, the family lives in the Antipodes. What does he do all day. And his godson, isn?t it something like what they call illegal confinement, his mother complains that she never has her child to herself but you know how it is, the old man dazzles her with the idea of his inheritance and she accepts the conditions of his blackmail, neither more nor less, for in fact Théodore never leaves his uncle?s side, the old man is so
isn?t grumbling, he makes his living out of breakdowns, apparently he waved to him, he had his apprentice with him. A few pictures that needed amplifying, extricating from their dross, obscuring until the moment when, having become interchangeable, their profound difference would give rise to a world of aggression and rout, that was the task he?d set himself at this very table, in this cold house haunted by years of insouciance, here everything took on the accents of nostalgia and on some
interesting to know which but they don?t remember, they don?t remember, and then, too, the parallels that people drew between these incidents and certain attitudes of the master who couldn?t do anything about it, solitude confuses you, inexplicable passions, what sort of man can he be to live like that between his maid and that imbecile of a doctor, seems he?s writing his memoirs, be interesting to see that, when just having to check a bill at the grocer?s is enough to send him more or less round
everything together, we?d say it from the morning on a full stomach until the evening when as the sun was setting we?d say it again with a stale mouth, no more need for either sleep or pleasure, a nourishing, soothing phrase, a panacea, while weeding the meadows, washing other people?s Ps, nutritious, absorbable, enlightening, until the day … And that day the idiot would appear like a seraph in that landscape with no perspective, his limpid eyes finally both looking at the same object, his
with me? My wife asked the innkeeper whether she knew of the prohibition. The innkeeper made a face as if she thought we were talking balderdash and we didn?t dare insist. There was a bit of a rumpus at the inn. The grandmother had got drunk. The previous night she had urinated in the jam pot on her bedside table, thinking it was the other one. At teatime they?d given her the jam pot without noticing and she?d swallowed the lot. So we left. The whole of the rest of the journey we were cudgeling
