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Il vit à Londres, au 221B Baker Street, à la fin du dix-neuvième siècle. Il a des idées un peu bizarres... Il se passionne pour certaines branches de la science. Il est assez calé en anatomie, est un chimiste de premier ordre qui, malgré des études très décousues et excentriques, a ammassé des tas de connaissances peu ordinaires. Il n'est pas aisé de le faire parler, bien qu'il puisse être assez expansif quand l'envie lui en prend. Il joue du violon. Il a un métier : dénouer les énigmes étranges auxquelles il est le seul à pouvoir apporter une solution. Il a un défaut : il affectionne les drogues. Il a un ami : le docteur Watson, témoin et narrateur de ses aventures. Son créateur, Arthur Conan Doyle, a inventé le roman policier moderne. Il s'appelle Sherlock Holmes.
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This dark romance forces a woman in a fatal rendez-vous of crude sexual intimacy with a total stranger. Love is the issue of this raw story where life stumbles in chaotic New York City at the turn of the Twentieth Century.
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We Were Invincible
Denis Morisset, Claude Coulombe
- Les Éditions JCL
- Testimony
- 11 Novembre 2011
- 9782894317990
Nobody really knows who these men are- men in black dropped off by a helicopter on the outskirts of a small Afghan village; wading through swamps in Croatia, intent on killing a war criminal; who ensure the protection of a Canadian General in Rwanda; who subdue hostage takers in Peru; and who prove, on-site, the Serbian disarmament lies told by President Milosevic.
DENIS MORISSET was part of the initial sixteen-member Joint Task Force 2 (JTF 2) unit from 1993-2001. His extensive and rigorous training and hardships will make more than one reader realize that his being alive today is nothing short of a miracle. Seven members of his unit have not lived to tell the tale.
Canada, for good reason, will never render justice to these anonymous combatants whose only medals of bravery are the numerous scars still visible on their bullet-proof vests.
Unlike the British SAS and the United States' Delta Force, this special Canadian intervention unit was, according to David Rudd of the Canadian Institute of Strategic Studies, trained "to infiltrate into dangerous areas behind enemy lines, look for key targets and take them out. They don't go out to arrest people. They don't go out there to hand out food parcels. They go out to kill targets." -
The Epiphany, 1916.
On an unforgivingly cold winter's night in Val-Jalbert, Lac-Saint-Jean, a twelve month-old child, wrapped in furs, is discovered by a nun from the convent school. The discovery of this abandoned girl, possibly afflicted by the dreaded chicken pox, deeply upsets the nuns from Notre-Dame-Bon-Conseil who have just taken on their teaching duties. Val-Jalbert, a small factory-town built at the foot of the Ouiatchouan River, is run by the pulp and paper company. The villagers are hard-working and have everything they need. Life in Val Jalbert flows in an orderly fashion, morally irreproachable.
The child of the night increasingly disrupts the nuns and their neighbors, the Marois family, who eventually take her in. But where does Marie-Hermine, with eyes so blue, come from? Why did her parents drop her off like a heavy burden on the steps of the convent school? Over the years, the orphan girl will become affectionately known as ``the Winter Nightingale'' because of her extroardinary voice, and she will become the pride of the factory village which is later abandoned, doomed after the closure of the industry in 1927. Homes are now empty, gardens left unattended, and the nuns leave the barren village. During these unfortunate incidents, Marie-Hermine's past resurfaces and jealousies erupt, such as the love of a young metis named Toshan, encountered during a trip to Lac-Saint-Jean. -
Extrait
Bureau du commandant de police Fourrier. Vendredi 30 septembre, 9h15.
— Hé, Al ! Tu veux un café tant que je suis debout ?
— Comment tu m’as appelé, là, Jean-Jacques ?
— Ben quoi, t’aimes pas ? Al, ça fait américain, Al Capone, tout ça, ça en jette, non ?
— Sans vouloir t’offenser, mon JJ, on n’a pas grand chose à voir avec l’inspecteur Harry ou l’Arme Fatale, tous les deux. On est juste deux pauvres losers dans un commissariat de banlieue pas franchement glamour.
— Justement, mon Alex, justement. Le glamour, il faut savoir le créer. Surtout là où il n’y en a pas. Si on se contente d’être Alex Fourrier et Jean-Jacques Aubert, officiers de police judiciaire, on va finir par se pendre comme à France Télécom.
Police Commander Fourrier’s office. Friday 30 September, 9:15 a.m. “Hey, Al! Want some coffee while I’m still up?”
“How did you just call me, Jean-Jacques?”
“What, don’t you like it? ‘Al’, that sounds American. Al Capone and all that, you know. It’s cool stuff, don’t you think?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings, my JJ, but we don’t have much in common with Dirty Harry or Lethal Weapon. We’re just two poor losers in a glamourless suburban police station.”
“Precisely, my Alex, precisely. You’ve got to create glamour. Especially where there is none. If we’re satisfied with being Alex Fourrier and Jean-Jacques Aubert, judicial police officers, we’ll end up hanging ourselves the way they do at France Télécom.” -
Extrait
Joseph, le commissaire divisionnaire, aimait bien Guy Dutour, le médecin légiste, homme discret et efficace que son métier avait amené à collectionner les macchabées, comme d’autres les papillons. La fréquentation des morts et des assassinés, la contemplation des crânes défoncés, l’étude des entrailles éparpillées, avaient poli les aspérités de son caractère et il portait sur le monde un regard amusé et désabusé. Éternelle cravate ficelle en cuir sur un col blanc, grosses chaussures, pantalon d’étoffe souple, il avait conservé dans l’allure quelque chose du jeune carabin qui se risque pour la première fois dans la salle de dissection. Le bon docteur n’était jamais à court d’un sourire ou d’une plaisanterie, souvent pour planquer une émotion prête à s’épanouir, comme une fleur de sel. D’ailleurs, il ne rata pas l’occasion :
— Le suicide ne fait aucun doute…
Joseph ne sourcilla pas et attendit la suite qui s’annonça très vite :
— Quand on mange des hamburgers et qu’on boit du coca, c’est qu’on n’aime pas la vie, ou qu’on en est dégoûté.
Il se pencha sur les cadavres carbonisés.
Superintendent Joseph was quite fond of Guy Dutour, the medical examiner, a quiet, efficient man whose job had led him to collect stiffs like other people collect butterflies. Close encounters with the merely dead and the murdered, the contemplation of fractured skulls, the study of scattered innards had smoothed the sharp edges of his personality, and he observed the world with an amused and disenchanted gaze.With his eternal narrow leather tie, white shirt, heavy-soled shoes and trousers of light-weight fabric, he still looked like a young med student sidling reluctantly into the dissection room for the first time. The good doctor always had a smile or a joke ready to hand, often as a means to hide an emotion lying just beneath the surface and ready to unfold, like a crystal forming. As expected, he didn't let the opportunity pass.
“It's a suicide. No doubt about it.”
Joseph didn't even blink an eye and waited for the punch line, which wasn't long in coming.
“When you eat hamburgers and drink Coke, itmeans that you don't want to go on living, that you're tired of life.”
He bent over the charred corpses.