Georges Haldas (b.
1917), a French-Swiss writer, has written more than sixty
works of fiction, poetry, and criticism in his long life. His main subject has always been Geneva,
his city (and once mine). I've read a number of his books, which are, unfortunately, unavailable in English, as far as I know. But if you can read French at all, you'll enjoy them. He brilliantly evokes
the sounds and smells of the city: Boulevard des
Philosophes; Chronique de la Rue Saint-Ours; La Légende des Cafés; etc. Here a Swiss contemporary describes Haldas's vision of his home town:
"Geneva,
for Haldas, is essentially the city of his childhood, youth, and literary
beginnings, that 'internal city that lives within us, detached from time and
space.' It is 'all the faces I've seen, blended into a human kaleidoscope in my
mind.' Geneva is the Place Neuve, that 'intimate-feeling public space,' the Place
Saint-Gervais with its tramps, its artisans, and its shopkeepers; the Paquis
and Eaux-Vives quarters with their pulsating life day and night; the fishmongers'
hall; the little cafés; the open-air market; and the street fair. It is the
murmur of the Arve river, the jostle of the gypsies' caravans, the quack of the
coots, the cathedral bells at night, the splashing of the fountains, the brisk weather
of March, and the soft sky of September, all 'these bonds that I've woven into
that indescribable yet essential unreality.'"
When I lived in Geneva I used to see Haldas at his favorite café in the Plainpalais district, wreathed in smoke, a carafe of Fendant wine at his
side, holding forth to students and admirers, a fugitive from another age.
