Bonjour tristesse, naturally
"Sur ce sentiment inconnu dont l'ennui, la douceur m'obsèdent, j'hésite à apposer le nom, le beau nom grave de tristesse. C'est un sentiment si complet, si égoïste que j'en ai presque honte alors que la tristesse m'a toujours paru honorable. Je ne la connaissais pas, elle, mais l'ennui, le regret, plus rarement le remords. Aujourd'hui, quelque chose se replie sur moi comme une soie, énervante et douce, et me sépare des autres."
Françoise Sagan died last Saturday .
She had almost died so many times before, after a life of extremes for the sake of stylishness: smoking, gambling, driving fast cars, writing like she drove. The myth claims that her passion for gambling was so intense that she asked the Ministry of the Interior to ban her from casinos; that her drug abuse landed her in court on several occasions and led to a demand from the Right-wing politician Le Pen that she be guillotined. She infuriated many people; I enjoyed her novels and her interviews, and always saw her as a witty, articulate, infinitely bright, yet modest, gifted writer.
"I always believe things are going to work out. Every time I see a film about Joan of Arc I'm convinced she'll get away with it. It's the only way to get through life."