The perfect summer reading. Particularly in
Italy, where Maigret’s books all come in bright yellow editions. I would read them
on train rides (one book being usually perfectly readable on a round-trip
between my hometown and Turin – the “big city” where teens trying to be cool
would go for a stroll on a Saturady), or on my parents’ terrace.
I always admired the dryness of Simenon’s
writing, his apparent decision to always use the fewest possible words to
construct his sentences. I loved Maigret’s wife, probably more than the
detective himself.
Then I made the mistake of trying to read all
of his books at once. And I discovered that, in the end, they were all too
similar. And that really upset me. I haven’t read one in 3 years now, and I
have the feeling that I still need some time to completely detox and to go back
to loving Maigret the way he deserves to be loved.
No comments:
Post a Comment