It would almost always tried to "belittle" Michel Audiard dialogue Vachard his theatrics and his hair. Cinematically installed in the pantheon of the guys would be calling it willingly, and heart, in the evenings to do well watered story laughing his world, the man proves no less a writer. A true. Deep. Mysterious. Revenge. Mangy. Observer. Funny. It must be said, then, what a rich idea of Denoël republish "The night ..." yet published in 1978. After somewhat unnoticed at the time, the book nevertheless deserves much more than a detour distracted.
In 1978, Michel Audiard is a man on his knees. He lost a son in a car accident. Difficult not to see there, in his autobiographical novel, the plot secret of this man who then turns to his past, his youth and died in a Paris very busy with the war. It is in the capital that the author grew up, clearing a path to live appropriately, alongside friends, always true, women, lovers, mistresses, whores, cemeteries, bistros and some soldiers German. Audiard and is ruthless, his memory is subjective, then it most often refers back to back professional collaborators and resistant sur le tard. On est parfois limite dans cette errance du type revenu de tout, xénophobe et malheureux. Mais comme toujours avec lui, il y a la manière. Cette faconde transportante et jouissive, ce style portant à bout de bras les déboires du monde vers le cataclysme ultime, tel Céline à qui il fait immanquablement penser. Car il faut en finir, suggère-t-il au fil des pages. En bon anarchiste de droite, il faut que tout pète, surtout avec la Bombe, la grande... Et que plus rien ne reste pour ne même plus recommencer en plus mal et en plus moche.
On est parfois nauséeux à lire ses personnages et sa Vérité. Mais j'ai paradoxalement aimé ses images, ses métaphores et ses portraits glaviotés the bottom of its steamy nights. I liked his disobedience and his provocations. Readers journey through the land of letters tucked well as their author steals the souls Loved latte in the balls. Bluntly. To see. (Back) felt. S'éberluer to the world that has so long passed for human carnage street. There is a morbidly horrified witness to breathe again while we, in these pages, we suffocate. There was also surprised to see these people gravitate in the 50s, oblivious of another era, where the general principle was to save his skin particularly, whatever the cost. No regrets, no remorse. Another time. In this period makeup and feints, Michel Audiard has not forgotten his turnovers, cowardice, filth, these women shaved at the Liberation by the very people who had benefited from their largesse mouth. Period disorder heroes plastic. To find peace, Audiard will drop some flowers at the cemetery. He talks to her dead because the living are not worth the trouble. In the late 70s, Audiard is a man alone with his sentence, which tracks the memories down on paper and survive. Instead of puking.
In 1978, Michel Audiard is a man on his knees. He lost a son in a car accident. Difficult not to see there, in his autobiographical novel, the plot secret of this man who then turns to his past, his youth and died in a Paris very busy with the war. It is in the capital that the author grew up, clearing a path to live appropriately, alongside friends, always true, women, lovers, mistresses, whores, cemeteries, bistros and some soldiers German. Audiard and is ruthless, his memory is subjective, then it most often refers back to back professional collaborators and resistant sur le tard. On est parfois limite dans cette errance du type revenu de tout, xénophobe et malheureux. Mais comme toujours avec lui, il y a la manière. Cette faconde transportante et jouissive, ce style portant à bout de bras les déboires du monde vers le cataclysme ultime, tel Céline à qui il fait immanquablement penser. Car il faut en finir, suggère-t-il au fil des pages. En bon anarchiste de droite, il faut que tout pète, surtout avec la Bombe, la grande... Et que plus rien ne reste pour ne même plus recommencer en plus mal et en plus moche.
On est parfois nauséeux à lire ses personnages et sa Vérité. Mais j'ai paradoxalement aimé ses images, ses métaphores et ses portraits glaviotés the bottom of its steamy nights. I liked his disobedience and his provocations. Readers journey through the land of letters tucked well as their author steals the souls Loved latte in the balls. Bluntly. To see. (Back) felt. S'éberluer to the world that has so long passed for human carnage street. There is a morbidly horrified witness to breathe again while we, in these pages, we suffocate. There was also surprised to see these people gravitate in the 50s, oblivious of another era, where the general principle was to save his skin particularly, whatever the cost. No regrets, no remorse. Another time. In this period makeup and feints, Michel Audiard has not forgotten his turnovers, cowardice, filth, these women shaved at the Liberation by the very people who had benefited from their largesse mouth. Period disorder heroes plastic. To find peace, Audiard will drop some flowers at the cemetery. He talks to her dead because the living are not worth the trouble. In the late 70s, Audiard is a man alone with his sentence, which tracks the memories down on paper and survive. Instead of puking.
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