L'art d'être grand-père

About This Audiobook

*L’Art d’être grand-père* isn’t the Hugo you expect—no barricades, no cosmic monologues about destiny. Instead, this is the poet at 75, disarmed by grief and rediscovering wonder through the sticky fingers of his grandchildren, Jeanne and Georges. The verses here are less about thunderous proclamation than quiet collusion: Hugo writes as if crouched on the floor, building castles from crumbs, his genius now measured in giggles and half-finished fairy tales. The audiobook’s magic lies in this intimacy—Michaël Lonsdale’s narration doesn’t *perform* so much as *confide*, his voice a cracked leather armchair, warm with the weight of lived years but still capable of childlike lift on a rhyme.

What makes this recording distinctive is its refusal to sentimentalize. Lonsdale’s pacing mirrors Hugo’s own contradictions: the lines about loss land like stones dropped in a well, while the playful stanzas (a mouse’s wedding! a child’s first lie!) trip along with the breathless energy of a grandparent mid-story, racing to finish before nap time. The production is spare—no music, no frills—just the raw alchemy of an old man’s words and an older actor’s understanding. It’s a masterclass in how poetry can be both monument and lullaby."

"review": "I’ll admit: I approached this skeptical. Hugo’s *Les Misérables* is a cathedral; could his grandpa poems possibly hold up? Then Michaël Lonsdale started speaking, and within minutes, I was undone. His reading of *‘À Jeanne’*—where Hugo compares his granddaughter to a ‘little star’—isn’t saccharine but *earned*, his voice rough with the texture of someone who’s buried children yet still finds the energy to kneel and tie a shoelace. The audiobook’s pacing is deliberate, almost stubborn. Lonsdale lingers on the short lines like a man savoring the last sips of tea, and the effect is hypnotic… until it isn’t. The abrupt shifts from whimsy to despair (see: *‘La Pente de la rêverie’*) can feel jarring, as if Hugo—and by extension, Lonsdale—can’t decide whether to weep or wink. That unevenness, though, is the point. This isn’t a polished performance; it’s a conversation across centuries, complete with awkward pauses and emotional whiplash.

My only real critique? The production’s minimalism occasionally works *too* well. There’s no audio cue when Hugo pivots from a nursery rhyme to a meditation on mortality, and more than once, I found myself rewinding, convinced I’d missed a track change. And while Lonsdale’s gravelly timbre suits the gravitas, his delivery of the sillier poems (*‘Le Rat de ville et le Rat des champs’* parody) lacks the playful bounce they demand. Still, these are quibbles. By the final poem, when Hugo whispers to his grandchildren that love is the only ‘art’ that grows stronger with age, I defy you not to pause and call your own grandparents—or cry because you can’t. This audiobook isn’t just literature; it’s a time machine, and Lonsdale is your guide, pointing out the scenery with a trembling hand."

"tags": [
"19th-century poetic memoir