“Me, it’s the crushed dogs. Those who drool over it. I write their rage, and it sells. But the ink dries up and we forget. We tell ourselves it’s over. That they are gone… But no. They are elsewhere. Me too. »Ex-journalist assigned to various facts, criminal cases and investigations at the Journal of Montreal, Serge Labrosse knows how to create atmospheres, sketch portraits and heal his fall with a remarkable economy of words. In The ink dries up and we forget, his first collection of short stories, he writes about twenty short, well-crafted stories, some of which fit on a page, in which he depicts the night world, the underworld and the universe of the marginalized and the abandoned. Between cynicism and tenderness, between sordid and hope, each little moment of life that he concocts stages troubled souls and troubled beings whom fate ends up catching up according to an implacable logic. Any resemblance to real cases may not always be coincidental.
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