If you wan't to read this book I suggest you to skip this post..Of course,I'm not going to tell you the whole story..But some sort of scantiness is making me write this..
Usually what does you readers expect from a detective story or a thriller mystery ? You would be unable to sleep till you read the last line of the book..right ? You feel like you deserve to know every little truth of the story..But you know what,this author,very graciously snatches away your right..You couldn't even blame him,for he assures you with beauty in the untold story itself...At the end,we poor readers will remain thinking that "What would have happened to her !!!"..The book Missing Person was written by the Noble Prize winner of the year 2014, Parick Modiano..Earlier version of this book was written in French and later it was translated in to English by Daniel Weissbort..
|Image from Google|
|Patrick Modiano - Courtesy Google|
Here are few lines from the book,
Strange people. The kind that leave the merest blur behind them, soon vanished. Hutte and I often used to talk about these traceless beings. They spring up out of nothing one fine day and return there, having sparkled a little. Beauty queens. Gigolos. Butterflies. Most of them, even when alive, had no more substance than steam which will never condense. Hutte, for instance, used to quote the case of a fellow he called "the beach man." This man had spent forty years of his life on beaches or by the sides of swimming pools, chatting pleasantly with summer visitors and rich idlers. He is to be seen,in his bathing costume, in the corners and backgrounds of thousands of holiday snaps, among groups of happy people, but no one knew his name and why he was there. And no one noticed when one day he vanished from the photographs. I did not dare tell Hutte, but I felt that "the beach man" was myself.
Though it would not have surprised him if I had confessed it. Hutte was always saying that, in the end, we were all "beach men" and that "the sand" - I am quoting his own words - "keeps the traces of our footsteps only a few moments."
There, under the embankment trees, I had the unpleasant sensation that I was dreaming. I had already lived my life and was just a ghost hovering in the tepid air of a Saturday evening. Why try to renew ties which had been broken and look for paths that had been blocked off long ago? And this plump, moustachioed little man, walking beside me, hardly seemed real.
Howard de Luz. Yes, the sound of it stirred something in me, something as fleeting as moonlight passing over some object. If I was this Howard de Luz, I had shown a certain originality in my life style, since, among so many more reputable and absorbing professions, I had chosen that of being John Gilbert's confidant.
Inwardly I repeated this name I'd been given at birth.This name by which I had been called through out a section of my like and which,for number of people,had conjured up my face.'Pedro'.