Crime Of Sylvestre Bonnard Me

Unlike some other reproductions of classic texts (1) We have not used OCR(Optical Character Recognition), as this leads to bad quality books with introduced typos. (2) In books where there are images such as portraits, maps, sketches etc We have endeavoured to keep the quality of these images, so they represent accurately the original artefact. Although occasionally there may be certain imperfections with these old texts, we feel they deserve to be made available for future generations to enjoy.

Sylvestre Bonnard, an esteemed ageing scholar of history and philology, finds himself on a trans-European adventure to track down an important manuscript. Whilst on his travels he meets the granddaughter of his lost love, a young woman named Jeanne. Impassioned to rescue her from the abusive life she is stuck in, Bonnard is forced to commit a crime of love to protect Jeanne. France’s tender exploration of the relationship between male rescuers and damsels-in-distress is interesting, and acts as a precursor to some of the more explosive films to explore this theme such as Martin Scorcese’s ‘Taxi Driver’ and Lynne Ramsay’s ‘You Were Never Really Here’. A profound, moving, and award-winning tale, ‘The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard’ is a must-read for fans of France who wish to connect with the author’s origins or anyone who wishes to take their first foray into his compelling body of work. François-Anatole Thibault (1844 – 1924), better known as Anatole France, was a French journalist, poet, novelist, and Nobel laureate for literature. Spending much of his early life in his father’s bookshop, France quickly rose to prominence as a respected author of over 25 works. A French Classicist writer with a style reminiscent of Voltaire and Fénélon, France’s work has a strong preoccupation with scepticism and hedonism. He is best remembered for his classic French novels ‘La Rôtisserie de la Reine Pédauque’ (1893) and ‘Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard’ (1881). France’s works have had a historic legacy, and he is recognised today as one of France’s most prominent authors.

The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard By Anatole France "Alas!" I said to him, "if you want to make me remember the rules of bezique, give me back my old friend Bignan, with whom I used to play cards every evening before the Five Academies solemnly escorted him to the cemetery; or else bring down to the frivolous level of human amusements the grave intelligence of Hamilcar, whom you see on that cushion, for he is the sole companion of my evenings." We are delighted to publish this classic book as part of our extensive Classic Library collection. Many of the books in our collection have been out of print for decades, and therefore have not been accessible to the general public. The aim of our publishing program is to facilitate rapid access to this vast reservoir of literature, and our view is that this is a significant literary work, which deserves to be brought back into print after many decades. The contents of the vast majority of titles in the Classic Library have been scanned from the original works. To ensure a high quality product, each title has been meticulously hand curated by our staff. Our philosophy has been guided by a desire to provide the reader with a book that is as close as possible to ownership of the original work. We hope that you will enjoy this wonderful classic work, and that for you it becomes an enriching experience.

Excerpt from The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard I put on my slippers and my dressing-gown, and brushed away a tear which the north wind, blowing across the quay, had brought into my eyes. A bright fire was burning on the hearth in my study. Ice-crystals, in the form of fern-leaves, frosted the window-panes, hiding from me the Seine, its bridges, and the Louvre des Valois. Drawing my arm-chair and writing-table before the fire, I took the place that Hamilcar deigned to leave me. Hamilcar, his nose between his paws, lay curled up on a feather cushion in front of the andirons. His thick, soft fur rose and fell with his regular breathing. As I approached, he gently Opened his dark eyes from between their half closed lids, but almost instantly shut them again, as if saying to himself, It is nothing; only my friend. About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.

December 24, 1849. I had put on my slippers and my dressing-gown. I wiped away a tear with which the north wind blowing over the quay had obscured my vision. A bright fire was leaping in the chimney of my study. Ice-crystals, shaped like fern-leaves, were sprouting over the windowpanes and concealed from me the Seine with its bridges and the Louvre of the Valois. I drew up my easy-chair to the hearth, and my table-volante, and took up so much of my place by the fire as Hamilcar deigned to allow me. Hamilcar was lying in front of the andirons, curled up on a cushion, with his nose between his paws. His think find fur rose and fell with his regular breathing. At my coming, he slowly slipped a glance of his agate eyes at me from between his half-opened lids, which he closed again almost at once, thinking to himself, "It is nothing; it is only my friend." "Hamilcar," I said to him, as I stretched my legs—"Hamilcar, somnolent Prince of the City of Books—thou guardian nocturnal! Like that Divine Cat who combated the impious in Heliopolis—in the night of the great combat—thou dost defend from vile nibblers those books which the old savant acquired at the cost of his slender savings and indefatigable zeal. Sleep, Hamilcar, softly as a sultana, in this library, that shelters thy military virtues; for verily in thy person are united the formidable aspect of a Tatar warrior and the slumbrous grace of a woman of the Orient. Sleep, thou heroic and voluptuous Hamilcar, while awaiting the moonlight hour in which the mice will come forth to dance before the Acta Sanctorum of the learned Bolandists!" The beginning of this discourse pleased Hamilcar, who accompanied it with a throat-sound like the song of a kettle on the fire. But as my voice waxed louder, Hamilcar notified me by lowering his ears and by wrinkling the striped skin of his brow that it was bad taste on my part so to declaim. "This old-book man," evidently thought Hamilcar, "talks to no purpose at all while our housekeeper never utters a word which is not full of good sense, full of significance—containing either the announcement of a meal or the promise of a whipping. One knows what she says. But this old man puts together a lot of sounds signifying nothing."

Unlike some other reproductions of classic texts (1) We have not used OCR(Optical Character Recognition), as this leads to bad quality books with introduced typos. (2) In books where there are images such as portraits, maps, sketches etc We have endeavoured to keep the quality of these images, so they represent accurately the original artefact. Although occasionally there may be certain imperfections with these old texts, we feel they deserve to be made available for future generations to enjoy.

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