The 941 Book CL-B: Georges Simenon’s Dirty Snow
November 21st, 2008 by Cooper Levey-Baker in Arts, Books, Editor's Desk
Author Georges Simenon (1903-89) basically defined “prodigious.” The Belgian-born scribe crafted nearly 200 novels during his lifetime, 75 of them dedicated to the police work of the fictional Commissaire Maigret. The vast majority of that massive oeuvre remained off-limits to the English-speaking world for decades, but — thanks to the ambitious folks over at The New York Review of Books Classics — some of Simenon’s titles are now seeing the light of day here Stateside.
How do you pick the perfect volume to acquaint yourself with an author, when the selection is so massive? Yep, you trust the jacket copy: “Dirty Snow is his masterpiece.” Why would they lie on the back of something they’re trying to sell me?
I am in no position to judge whether that back-flap claim is bullshit or not, but I was indeed mightily impressed by the novel I ended up with. Dirty Snow is not one of Simenon’s books which feature Commissaire Maigret; rather, the story is set in the dead, ice-cold winter of a nation crushed under the heel of a forever unnamed foreign nation. (Simenon did live in France during the German occupation during World War II, so that helps us place the novel’s setting somewhat.)
Through this dreary, lifeless void struts Frank Friedmaier, an amoral 18-year-old who kills for no reason. (This is no spoiler: The act comes up on page one.) What’s more, he feels no remorse.
Despite the crime-drenched story, the plot contains very little of the typical detective novel plot points: There is no cat-and-mouse game, no delicate interplay between investigator and criminal. Nope, Simenon presents a world where murder is routinely overlooked, and the authorities only react when it affects their interests directly. The novel’s got more in common with Albert Camus’ The Stranger than with any piece of detective fiction I’ve read.
Altogether, highly recommended, if only for nightmarish passages like this one: “There was still the dirty snow, piles of it that looked like they were rotting, stained black, peppered with garbage. The white powder that loosed itself from the sky in small handfuls, like plaster falling from a ceiling, never managed to cover up the filth.”
Although I’ve only read one of the author’s books, it’s easy to tell Simenon’s prose is a paragon of filth-stained beauty.
Upcoming entries in The 941 Book CL-B:
Send to a friend:
Leave a Reply