My second Michon book devoured in one month. A completely different style to his biographical work, possibly because this Novel, made out of a series of vignettes on the small and insignificant lives of past acquaintances, was stranded together through autobiographical details on the authors love life and his encounters with drink and barbiturates.
Some of the vignette are quite funny, especially the story of the drunken womanising village priest, who spends his time falling off his mobylette after having a few too many in the café.
I felt it was a shame that one of Michon’s loves, the young woman called Marianne, who suffered his addictions was not entitled to a full vignette. Whereas other short lived love affair, such as with Claudette, ends up described in 54 pages of self-indulgent ruminations.
A Novel which was a pleasure to read, with some striking use of French style, but mixed with a few longueurs.