Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard, by Georges Simenon

 

Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard, by Georges Simenon

 

Georges Simenon (Georg –ah See-me-non) (1903 – 1989) was a Belgian author who wrote a startling number of books, including seventy-seven featuring his most famous detective, Inspector Maigret (me-gray), with all of the Maigret books set in Paris.  It’s said (I see different figures in different articles), that besides the Maigret series, Simenon wrote another 325 books. Yes, the man put other writers to shame.  He wrote an astounding sixty to eighty pages a day!  In fact, he wrote so fast that when the famous film director, Alfred Hickok telephoned and was told by Simenon’s secretary the author couldn’t be disturbed because he was beginning a new novel, Hickok said:  That’s alright, I’ll wait.

 

But, the big question about a book is always:  Is it worth reading?  Lots of ways to answer that, depending on why you’re reading.  Medical books, legal tomes?  No thanks.  Not for me.  But, mysteries and thrillers?  Bring ‘em on, but even then I may have reservations and I’m not above getting to page fifty or even page one hundred and tossing the book aside.  Plot, character, and style all have to blend in order to hold my attention, when I could be sipping a Martini, or tuning in reruns of the Beverly Hillbillies, or watching lizards gobble flies, which shows I’m not as particular about other things as I am about books. 

 

Simenon’s first Maigret novels were published in 1931….eleven of them that year.  He wrote through the 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s, and 70s.  All and all, besides being a fascinating author, he was a fascinating man, with several mistresses, a speaker of both French and English (or more languages I don’t know about) and living all over Europe, as well as Canada and the U.S.  You might say he sucked the marrow out of the bones of life.

 

But, let’s get back to the book, Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard.  It was first published in French, of course, but in serialized form in Le Figaro, in 1953, as Maigret et l’Homme du Banc.  In America the title was changed to Maigret and the Man on the Boulevard and published in 1975.  

 

 Here’s a thumbnail:  A man is stabbed on the street, a man who seemed to have no enemies, was by all accounts a devoted husband and a hard worker.  And, he wasn’t robbed.  Maigret is the kind of real detective who takes his time, exploring every avenue and back alley to survey the territory, interview people, and allow the investigation to uncoil like a lazy snake.

 

I realize that tastes change and it’s a true about books as it is about music and films. You discover the truth of that when you find your sons and daughter splitting their sides when some idiot on TV pats his head three times and jumps up and down with a goofy look on his face, while you sit there as silent and unmoved as an overcooked pot roast.  And music?  We shant go there. In so many cases, TV detectives find the culprit in 30 minutes, or the slow ones in an hour.  Along the way, there are only three possible villains, all usually introduced in the first ten minutes.

 

I call these fast food mysteries.  And lord knows we Americans are addicted to fast food.  But, with Inspector Maigret, you must be willing to sit down to dine, as one course follows another, then take a postprandial walk through the streets and back alleys of the Paris that largely disappeared decades ago.  If that’s your type of book, then lick your lips, sip your wine, and sit down to a feast.  Maigret is on the case.