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384 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1972
This avenue, which seems majestic from afar, is one of the vilest sections of Paris. Claridge, Fouquet, Hungaria, Lido, Embassy, Butterfly… at every stop I meet new faces: Costachesco, the Baron de Lussatz, Odicharvi, Hayakawa, Lionel de Zieff, Pols de Helder… Flashy foreigners, abortionists, swindlers, hack journalists, shyster lawyers and crooked accountants who orbited the Khedive and Monsieur Philibert. Added to their number was a whole battalion of women of easy virtue, erotic dancers, morphine addicts… Frau Sultana, Simone Bouquereau, Baroness Lydia Stahl, Violette Morris, Magda d'Andurian…" [the ellipses are the author's own].It is tempting to dismiss all these as fantasy, or rather as the exotic pseudonyms adopted by low-lifes trying to fly under the radar by sailing so flamboyantly above it. But Violette Morris at least is real: she was a celebrated athlete, the transvestite Amazon who appears in the famous Brassaï photo that inspired Francine Prose's recent novel, Lovers at the Chameleon Club. And S. Lillian Kremer's encyclopedia Holocaust Literature identifies five of the leading characters in Ring Roads as known collaborators, editors, and journalists of the time with only the most transparent changes to their names. For Frenchmen reading while memories were still sore, these early books of Modiano's must have touched a nerve, dropping hints of scandal before darting for cover among the thickets of fantasy. For American or English readers today, they have few such associations.
In the Sentier, that exotic principality formed by the Place du Caire, the Rue du Nil, the Passage Ben-Aiad and the Rue d'Aboukir, I thought about my poor father. The first four arrondissements sub-divide into a tangled multitude of provinces whose unseen borders I eventually came to know. Beaubourg, Greneta, le Mail, la Pointe Sainte-Eustache, les Victoires…".What's the difference, you may ask? But those who know Modiano will also know his uncanny ability to conjure a dense web of associations from the atmosphere, indeed the mere names, of places, much like his contemporary WG Sebald. Many of his later books—among them Rue des boutiques obscures, Quartier perdu, and especially his masterpiece Dora Bruder —will take us on walks into the lost quarters of Paris, conjuring an atmosphere of loneliness and loss, the archaeology of an unspeakable past. Already in passages like this, from near the end of this volume, you can hear the melancholy voice of the essential Modiano:
Remember our Sunday walks, Baron? From the centre of Paris, we drifted on a mysterious current all the way to the ring roads. Here the city unloads its refuse and silt. Soult, Massena, Davout, Kellermann. Why did they give the names of conquering heroes to these murky places? But this was ours, this was our homeland.
You try to forget the past, but your footsteps invariably lead you back to difficult crossroads.