When the name of Antoine Blondin is mentioned, legends inevitably arise, as solid as that of King Arthur.
There is the gesture of the Hussars, there is
A Monkey in Winter
(although it owes a lot to the cinema).
Finally, the rich hours of the Tour de France.
This mythology is not false, only magnified by time.
And when you know the pitiless ax that falls on the posterity of a writer, it's not bad.
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Antoine Blondin, the brawling hussar
We find Blondin as in himself in a volume he composed late and which confirms that he was one of the most gifted prose writers of the post-war period.
My life between lines
is a nice way, very in its own way, lapidary and witty, to announce a truant biography where the author delivers himself at the bend of a sentence.
It seems that Blondin was, throughout his life, borrowed from himself, from his frame and from his time.
Writing was therefore an escape.
He was writing to the sky.
It is only to open the book to a page, at random: a flexible, ample prose...
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