That frustration is rough and heavy when we traveled the last lines of the novel posthumously and unfinished Thierry Jonquet , Vampires. A flood of words interrupted by the death of their father and only wanted to run even on paper. Thierry Jonquet, the author of Mygale and a few other nuggets, took off toward the cemetery, taking with him the secrets of his plot.
The story begins to never end. There is an exciting start, just a medium, and the fantasy of an end that is six feet underground. It is sad and infuriating to be cut in the middle of the narrative, as if a small-time thief snatched the romance of your hands. We then wanted to shake the book as we frantically wake the dead to bring down the words on pages that do not exist. But if the frustration is great, fun remains intact. No fewer than 184 beautiful pages for what could become the masterpiece of its author. The writing is subtle and dark humor borders on the sordid story in which a family of vampires has taken up residence in the heart of Belleville, where cosmopolitan living Thierry Jonquet. The author displays an approach here (finally) fine on the original vampire myth, recuisiné too many times with the same sauce. The vampires are Jonquet touching and moving away from old photographs of their models.
Author hired former Trotskyite, the author gives us, through the vampire myth, an allegory of social marginalization, exclusion and differences. The novel begins in fact as a wink with the description of a miserable slum on the outskirts of the Romanian capital.
Jonquet juggles ironically with the ills of our society and switches codes. We love the idea of the Vampire excluded, banned, yet sophisticated and educated, who loves dining at La Tour d'Argent and drink bottles of grand cru from a dead aristocrat More than a century, damn him to get better with age ...
Ironically troubling that an author dealing with death in his latest book, but casting off too soon.
If vampires are (almost) forever, Jonquet is also a literary heritage which will come no doubt in posterity ...
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