It’s a grave at the end of the cemetery over there. A black slab, with an inscription: ” Frédéric Dard dit San-Antonio, 1921-2000 “. Nothing else. The gaze is on the mountain opposite, and the clouds tear gently over the Dent du Chat. A few flowers, in a pot, finish tilting the head, and, sometimes, messages are left, to thank the author for the pleasure he has so generously given. A few meters away, a row of burials laden with cherubs, porcelain virgins, ceramic roses, granite hearts, serpentine candlesticks: the family of Saint-Chef zingaros has invested in the afterlife. Not Frédéric Dard. He, aside, contemplates an eternity to which the 175 novels of San Antonio and his 250 million books sold have given him the right. Listening, in the concert of angels, do you hear him murmur: ” I’m going to play them pouet-pouet » ?
In Saint-Chef, at the beginning of June, photos of Frédéric Dard are hung throughout the village for the centenary of the child of the country. Here with the actress Françoise Seigner.
Giant of literature or sick of writing? Stakhanovist writer or son of Rabelais grafted by the Black River? Frédéric Dard, for half a century, wrote at least four pages – sometimes ten or twenty – a day and published a San-Antonio every two months – not to mention the books under pseudonyms, by whole wagons. His work, constantly reissued, is measured in cubic meters or cubitai
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