In her introduction to this new New York Review Books edition, Anita Brookner nails the Simenon “formula”:
The formula is simple but subtle. A life will go wrong, usually because of an element in the protagonist’s make-up which impels him to self-destruct, to willfully seek disgrace, exclusion, ruin in his search for a fulfillment and a fatal freedom which take on an aura of destiny.
Red Lights is a perfect example of this. It takes place—ironically enough, given the date of this posting—over Labor Day weekend, when a reasonably successful couple are driving from New York to Maine to pick their kids up from summer camp. Meeting at a bar before they take off, Steve starts to “enter the tunnel,” his internal terminology for “going on a bender.”
As they start their drive, Steve keeps getting off the road for a drink. And another. And a double. Finally, after a bit of typical marital quibbling, Steve hits the bar and Nancy decides to take a bus up to Maine.
Then bad things happen, because in Simenon’s books, bad things always happen. Steve meets Sid—a convict recently escaped from Sing Sing—and tries to help Sid elude the law before getting too drunk to be of any good whatsoever. The plot revolves around a few coincidences that are a bit of a stretch, but definitely worth the suspension of disbelief, because it is through these coincidences and their recourse that we come to understand Steve.
Simenon’s ability to create a text that completely unifies language, characterization, and plot is quite remarkable. His language is scaled-down, direct, and precisely matches the dark, foreboding atmosphere of his novels.
One of the motifs running through the first few chapters of the novel is the idea of how dangerous the outside world is. It’s Labor Day weekend, thousands are on the road, and it’s inevitable that some of them are going to die. And that some will inevitably put themselves in harms way.
How many dead had the experts predicted for the weekend? Four hundred and thirty-five. He remembered the exact figure. Therefore he wasn’t drunk. The proof was that he had driven at seventy miles an hour without the least mishap.
Content and style are matched so perfectly in this book, as is the balance between dialogue and internal thought. The complexities of character build perfectly as Steve’s psyche is fleshed out in all its drunken rage and delusion.
“What? Do you have to know what I think? God almighty, it might at least help you to try and understand other people and make life a bit more pleasant for them. For me, in particular. Only I doubt if you care.”
“Wouldn’t you let me drive?”
“No, I wouldn’t. Just for the sake of argument, suppose instead of always thinking of yourself and being so damned sure you’re right, you took a good look at yourself in the mirror and asked yourself . . . “
He was laboriously struggling to express something he felt, which he was convinced he had felt every day of his life throughout the eleven years they had been married. It was not the first time it had happened, but now he was sure he had made a discovery that would enable him to explain everything. She would have to understand sometime, wouldn’t she? And the day she understood, maybe she’d try and treat him like a grown man.
This novel about a man’s desperate groping for freedom in light of his destructive tendencies is very compelling, well-drawn, and quite worth reading. Maybe not on Labor Day weekend though.
by Georges Simenon
Translated from the French by Norman Denny
New York Review Books
154 pp., $14.00 (pb)
“Rambling Jack—what’s that?”
“A novel. Novella, I guess.”
“Yeah, it looks short. What is it, a hundred pages?”
“Sorta. It’s a duel language book, so really, only about… 50 pages total.”
“And this—what. . .
Many authors are compared to Roberto Bolaño. However, very few authors have the privilege of having a Roberto Bolaño quote on the cover of their work; and at that, one which states, “Good readers will find something that can be. . .
In Josep Maria de Sagarra’s Private Life, a man harangues his friend about literature while walking through Barcelona at night:
When a novel states a fact that ties into another fact and another and another, as the chain goes on. . .
César Aira dishes up an imaginative parable on how identity shapes our sense of belonging with Dinner, his latest release in English. Aira’s narrator (who, appropriately, remains nameless) is a self-pitying, bitter man—in his late fifties, living again with. . .
Originally published in French in 2007, We’re Not Here to Disappear (On n’est pas là pour disparaître) won the Prix Wepler-Fondation La Poste and the Prix Pierre Simon Ethique et Réflexion. The work has been recently translated by Béatrice Mousli. . .
Even though the latest from Jean Echenoz is only a thin volume containing seven of what he calls “little literary objects,” it is packed with surprises. In these pieces, things happen below the surface, sometimes both literally and figuratively. As. . .
Who is this woman? This is the question that opens Xiao Bai’s French Concession, a novel of colonial-era Shanghai’s spies and revolutionaries, police and smugglers, who scoot between doorways, walk nonchalantly down avenues, smoke cigars in police bureaus, and lounge. . .