[Simenon has an] extraordinary gift for making one yearn to be in whatever place he is writing about … No one observes the tics and mores of modern France with greater meticulousness or can more adroitly transform even the palest landscape into a place of lyrical beauty. Clouds, wet pavements, and oppressive temperatures, both hot and cold, are practically characters in their own right in his stories. But the relish with which he describes the atmosphere of the little worlds he writes about distinguishes him most from his European contemporaries, and will make him remembered, I think, long after writers of far greater ambition have been forgotten….

Most writers of mysteries assume that they must elicit at least a passing interest in the deceased for form's sake. Not Simenon. The passions and plots of the living are his subject. One rarely is permitted to see or sympathize with his...