Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

This was Queneau's last novel. Mostly written in dialogue, it would make a wonderful play - a project which various people have considered - but so far not realised.... The Calder blurb says that it is "set in the Paris of 1896. Icarus escapes from the pages of a novel which is being written by a pompous author, Hubert Lubert. As he has only just begun the novel, its creator is anxious to recapture his chief character, and he employs a somewhat slow-witted and literal-minded detective to find him..."

     On the papers no sign of Icarus: between them - ditto.
     He looks under the furniture, he opens the cupboards, he goes and looks in the privy: no Icarus.
     So he takes his hat and stick, he's in the street, he hails a
fly.
     "Cabman, drive to number 47 rue Bochart de Saron, and don't spare the horses!"
     The fly flies, in no time at all they're at number 47 rue Bochart de Saron. The fare gets out, says "wait for me", dashes into the house, climbs up four floors, the door opens.
     SURGET My dear fellow! What a pleasant surprise!
     HUBERT None of your eburnean courtesies! After what you've done to me!
     SURGET I? What?
     HUBERT I have a bone to pick with you. Follow me.
He leads Surget into his own study, sits down in his place and rakes through the papers on the table. 
     SURGET Careful! Don't make hay of my forthcoming novel!
     HUBERT Come onl Admit it! Admit that he's here.
     SURGET He? Who's he?
     HUBERT (reading) Etienne was secretly in love with Victorine... blah blah blah.. her hair was as yellow as ripe corn... blah blah blah... Georges, her fiance, was a graduate of the Ecole Polytechnique... blah blah blah...
     SURGET Nosey!
     HUBERT (thoughtfully) He doesn't seem to be here.
     SURGET He? Who's he?
     HUBERT You remember, the other day, I read you the first few pages of my new book...
     SURGET No reason to come and turn mine upside down!
     HUBERT you were good enough to think highly of my chief character, although I had only barely begun to outline him. You complimented me on him.
     SURGET Perhaps.
     HUBERT He was called Icarus.
     SURGET I remember.
     HUBERT Well - he's disappeared.
     SURGET He can't havel What a joke!
     HUBERT It's no laughing matter. It would be an irreparable loss for me if I couldn't find him.
     SURGET Yes, but you don't really think...
     HUBERT It isn't a question of thinking, but of knowing. Where is he?
     SURGET I've no idea.
     HUBERT Swear it!
     SURGET Yes, but you're not really going to suspect me of having stolen him from you, are you?
     HUBERT That was precisely my unspoken thought.
     SURGET But... zounds! You insult me: you offend me!
     HUBERT Swear!
     SURGET You can see for yourself... Etienne... Victorine... Georges... they've nothing in common with your Icarus. And then there are a Durand, a Duval and a Dupont... and a concierge whom I call - and I must say, rather drolly, I think - Pipelet.
     HUBERT You could have given him a pseudonym.
     SURGET I detest that. I only recognise real names.
     HUBERT And what if he were to adopt one, without your knowledge?
     SURGET The identity of my characters is no mystery to me.