Georges Simenon citations

Georges Simenon foto
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Georges Simenon

Date de naissance:13. février 1903
Date de décès:4. septembre 1989

Georges Simenon est un écrivain belge francophone né à Liège en Belgique, officiellement, le 12 février 1903 et mort à Lausanne en Suisse le 4 septembre 1989.

L'abondance et le succès de ses romans policiers - dont les Maigret - éclipsent en partie le reste de son œuvre très riche: cent quatre-vingt-treize romans, cent cinquante-huit nouvelles, plusieurs œuvres autobiographiques et de nombreux articles et reportages publiés sous son propre nom, ainsi que cent soixante-seize romans, des dizaines de nouvelles, contes galants et articles parus sous vingt-sept pseudonymes. Il est l'auteur belge le plus lu dans le monde. Les tirages cumulés de ses livres atteignent 550 millions d’exemplaires. Georges Simenon est, selon l'Index Translationum de l'UNESCO de 2013, le dix-septième auteur toutes nationalités confondues, le troisième auteur de langue française après Jules Verne et Alexandre Dumas, et l'auteur belge le plus traduit dans le monde

André Gide, André Thérive et Robert Brasillach sont parmi les premiers hommes de lettres à le reconnaître comme un grand écrivain. André Gide, fasciné par la créativité de Georges Simenon qu'il avait souhaité rencontrer dès son succès policier, le questionna à maintes reprises, échangea une correspondance quasi hebdomadaire pour poursuivre les méandres créatifs de cet écrivain populaire et prit la surprenante manie d'annoter en marge tous ses romans, pour conclure en 1941 :

« Simenon est un romancier de génie et le plus vraiment romancier que nous ayons dans notre littérature d'aujourd'hui. »

Menant une enquête encore plus intense, mais plus courte en convoquant l'auteur à Darmstadt pour trois jours et nuits de questions ininterrompues, le philosophe allemand Hermann von Keyserling déclarait :

« C'est un imbécile de génie. »

Citations Georges Simenon

„The street sprinkler went past and, as its rasping rotary broom spread water over the tarmac, half the pavement looked as if it had been painted with a dark stain. A big yellow dog had mounted a tiny white bitch who stood quite still.

In the fashion of colonials the old gentleman wore a light jacket, almost white, and a straw hat.

Everything held its position in space as if prepared for an apotheosis. In the sky the towers of Notre-Dame gathered about themselves a nimbus of heat, and the sparrows – minor actors almost invisible from the street – made themselves at home high up among the gargoyles. A string of barges drawn by a tug with a white and red pennant had crossed the breadth of Paris and the tug lowered its funnel, either in salute or to pass under the Pont Saint-Louis.

Sunlight poured down rich and luxuriant, fluid and gilded as oil, picking out highlights on the Seine, on the pavement dampened by the sprinkler, on a dormer window, and on a tile roof on the Île Saint-Louis. A mute, overbrimming life flowed from each inanimate thing, shadows were violet as in impressionist canvases, taxis redder on the white bridge, buses greener.

A faint breeze set the leaves of a chestnut tree trembling, and all down the length of the quai there rose a palpitation which drew voluptuously nearer and nearer to become a refreshing breath fluttering the engravings pinned to the booksellers’ stalls.

People had come from far away, from the four corners of the earth, to live that one moment. Sightseeing cars were lined up on the parvis of Notre-Dame, and an agitated little man was talking through a megaphone.

Nearer to the old gentleman, to the bookseller dressed in black, an American student contemplated the universe through the view-finder of his Leica.

Paris was immense and calm, almost silent, with her sheaves of light, her expanses of shadow in just the right places, her sounds which penetrated the silence at just the right moment.

The old gentleman with the light-coloured jacket had opened a portfolio filled with coloured prints and, the better to look at them, propped up the portfolio on the stone parapet.

The American student wore a red checked shirt and was coatless.

The bookseller on her folding chair moved her lips without looking at her customer, to whom she was speaking in a tireless stream. That was all doubtless part of the symphony. She was knitting. Red wool slipped through her fingers.

The white bitch’s spine sagged beneath the weight of the big male, whose tongue was hanging out.

And then when everything was in its place, when the perfection of that particular morning reached an almost frightening point, the old gentleman died without saying a word, without a cry, without a contortion while he was looking at his coloured prints, listening to the voice of the bookseller as it ran on and on, to the cheeping of the sparrows, the occasional horns of taxis.

He must have died standing up, one elbow on the stone ledge, a total lack of astonishment in his blue eyes. He swayed and fell to the pavement, dragging along with him the portfolio with all its prints scattered about him.

The male dog wasn’t at all frightened, never stopped. The woman let her ball of wool fall from her lap and stood up suddenly, crying out:

‘Monsieur Bouvet!“

— Georges Simenon

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