In the past the idea of sadness always appealed to me, now I am almost ashamed of its complete egoism. Here is the famous opening:Ī strange melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sadness. Cecile, who narrates the story, was utterly self-absorbed, which was very affirming. As I read it again I can see that the father was amoral and his behaviour to his daughter plainly unhealthy. I was, of course very naïve, very impressionable and very self-absorbed when I read it. ‘A vulgar, sad little book’ said the Spectator, noting that it was written by a precocious 18-year old. Such were the effects of Bonjour Tristesse. I think I believed that this was how my ideal life would be, divided between sophisticated and cultured Paris and the charms of the summer spent in a villa on the French Mediterranean Sea. And it featured some very adult themes about a father with very modern ideas bout his relationships with women and about a young girl just coming into womanhood. It was about being very cool on the Mediterranean coast. But however young it made a BIG impression on me. Oh this book! I can’t have been very old when I read it, perhaps in my late teens.
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