The Penguin 60s introduced me to many new writers and were wonderfully painless to buy. Now Bloomsbury, to celebrate its first decade, has launched a similar range, the Bloomsbury Quids (though shouldn't the cover price have been 10p and not 100p?). Among them is this short story, first published in 1976 and only available in paper back now. It may be the translations, but I always find Suskind's prose cold. However, here it is well suited his tale of 18th century Paris. The starting point is a throwaway remark in Rousseau's Confessions, from which Suskind weaves his story of one man's obsessive search for the scientific truth behind a horrible discovery among the rose beds. Where do the shells in limestone come from? Why are they everywhere? Does M. Mussard have a heart of stone?
And what is to become of us? An enjoyable enough short story, especially Suskind fans - but I'd have enjoyed it more at 60p.