One of the hallmarks of French author Patrick Modiano’s writing is a singular ability to revisit particular motifs and episodes, infusing each telling with new detail and emotional nuance. In this evocative novel the internationally acclaimed author takes up one of his most compelling themes: a l...
WINNER OF THE 2014 NOBEL PRIZE IN LITERATURE! Winner of the Prix Goncourt In this strange, elegant novel, winner of France's premier literary prize, Patrick Modiano portrays a man in pursuit of the identity he lost in the murky days of the Paris Occupation, the black hole of French memory. For...
I write “Jewish” without really knowing what the word meant to my father, and because at the time it was what appeared on the identity papers. Periods of great turbulence often lead to rash encounters, with the result that I’ve never felt like a legitimate son, much less an heir. My mother was bo...
Murraille is leaning towards him as if whispering something. Marcheret stands in the background with a half-smile, puffing out his chest a little, his hands gripping the lapels of his jacket. It’s difficult to tell the colour of their clothes or their hair. It looks as though Marcheret is wearing...
The Khedive looked up. ‘So you played mah-jongg while you waited for us?’ And he scatters the ivory tiles across the desk. ‘Alone?’ asks Monsieur Philibert. ‘Have you been waiting for us long, my boy?’ Their voices are punctuated by whispers and grave inflections. Monsieur Philibert smiles and gi...
From the Dodds, at the Porte Dorée, I had thought of moving to the Fieve Hotel, in the Avenue Simon-Bolivar. I had intended to leave this evening, but I haven't asked for my bill. I, who have travelled so many kilometres over the various continents, I was scared at the thought of taking the métro...
LIKE AN INSECT BITE THAT INITIALLY strikes you as very slight. At least that is what you tell yourself in a low voice so as to reassure yourself. The telephone had rung at about four o’clock in the afternoon at Jean Daragane’s home, in the room that he called the “study”. He was dozing on the sof...
When I was seventeen years old, in order to get rid of me, my father called the police one afternoon, and a police van was waiting for us in front of the apartment block. He handed me over to the superintendent, saying that I was a ‘thug’. I would rather forget this experience but, in my dream la...
The Khedive looked up. ‘So you played mah-jongg while you waited for us?’ And he scatters the ivory tiles across the desk. ‘Alone?’ asks Monsieur Philibert. ‘Have you been waiting for us long, my boy?’ Their voices are punctuated by whispers and grave inflections. Monsieur Philibert smiles and gi...
You can hear them open the closet door. They're probably going to hide there. It sounds as if they're creeping around the desk. The floor's creaking. Someone's bumping into a piece of furniture. Someone else's profile is silhouetted against the window. Screams of laughter. Sighs. Frantic gestures...
She always followed the same route and, with some effort of memory, I was able to reconstruct it. We took the western highway and drove through the Saint-Cloud tunnel. We crossed a bridge over the Seine, then went along the river through Boulogne and Neuilly. I remember large houses near the bank...
Sometimes I catch myself saying those words in the street, as if hearing someone else’s voice. A toneless voice. Names come back to me, certain faces, certain details. No one left to talk with about it. One or two witnesses must still be alive. But they’ve probably forgotten the whole thing. And ...
AUTUMN HAD COME. ON 2 OCTOBER, THE PARIS NEWSPAPERS published the decree obliging all Jews to register at police stations for a census. A declaration by the head of the family sufficed for all. To avoid long lines, those affected were asked to attend in alphabetical order, on the dates indicated ...
I’m not exactly sure what the difference is between the two. The street was lined with single-storey houses, garages and even stables. Indeed, it was called Rue du Quartier-de-Cavalerie. In the middle, on the right-hand side, a large dark-brick apartment block stood out. Night had fallen by the t...
She spoke to us first. A dark-haired girl, our age, long hair, high cheekbones and slightly slanted blue eyes. She asked what region of France we were from. She spoke slowly, as if she were hesitating over every word, so it was easy to have a conversation with her in English. She seemed surprised...
What was I doing, at the age of eighteen, on the shore of that lake, in that fashionable spa resort? Nothing. I was living in a boardinghouse, the Lindens, on Boulevard Carabacel. I could have opted for a room in town, but I preferred to be on the high ground, steps away from the Windsor, the Her...