Word: simonizing
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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Finishing up its first season in the Greater Boston Rifle League, the Crimson marksmen placed fifth in a six-school tournament held Saturday. Ron Simon took aggregate scoring honors for the weekend with 856 out of a possible 900 points...
...morality tale told by French Novelist Simon is harsh and gloomy. The story of Montés' futile wanderings is told through the recollections of derisive and uncomprehending French villagers, resifted by the man who collected the gossip, and who was the gaunt man's only close acquaintance. Antoine Montés came to the savagely provincial winegrowing town to claim an inheritance, the narrator recalls, his memory distorted by a sense of tragedy lurking in his background. The newcomer's father was once a prosperous winegrower. His mother surprised her husband making love to a maid...
...Than Matter. In the course of the story, Montés touches three people-a broad-hipped mare of a peasant woman, with whom he sits for one evening and talks; and her two little girls, who follow him about for the gumdrops he hands out. But fate, Novelist Simon seems to be saying with irony, cooperates enthusiastically in making martyrs of saints; the woman is murdered, and the two children are taken away. "Man," writes the author, "is doubtless something more than matter; perhaps not much more, but all the same a little something more, just enough...
Taste of Sorrow. Author Simon's harsh, hard-blowing prose suggests, in the oblique way of poetry, the wind he writes of. A member of France's school of New Realists (TIME. Aug. 4; Oct. 13), he sprawls 1,000-word sentences, nested with concentric sets of parenthetical statements and restatements, across four-page expanses of type. The flow of words, like the wind, halts for a moment, then rushes on, engulfing a stabbing or a casual conversation with the same intensity. Simon rewrites without editing (a mouth is "closed again immediately afterwards, or rather pursed again...
...though, Simon's poeticizing betrays him. His final gust tastes too much of sorrow spooned with a sophomore's relish: "Soon [the wind] would blow up great storms across the plain, tear the last red leaves from the vines, strip the trees bent beneath it, its strength unimpeded, purposeless, doomed to exhaust itself endlessly, without hope of an end, wailing its long nightly complaint as if it were sorry for itself, envying the sleeping men, transitory and perishable creatures, envying them their possibility of forgetfulness, of peace: the privilege of dying...