Chic lit at its very best which is unsurprising as it would seem the French during certain period could not do anything without having at least a hint of depth. This is a subtle and somewhat understated novella, not a masterpiece by any standards but an admirable effort for Sagan who was only eighteen at the time. In the introduction by Diane Johnson she postulates the thought that much of the insight within the novel is incidental in which Sagan herself might not have been first aware, if at all. The unnaturally hot weather of when I read this book complemented the simple summer-set storyline, following the sometimes amusing other times wrenched antics of Cecile as she comes to the realisation of her own culpability to her maturing as a woman: she may be passively molded into respectability, become a sensational and sensual woman yet whom would be entirely dependable on the likes of men, or actively reject it entirely. One is left at the end to make their own decision as to which path she chooses, I’d like to imagine that she’d go for the latter. ...................................................................................
“Whatever irrelevance one may at first find between the cause and the effects, and although a rule of guidance towards an assertion concerning the root of things may be far distant, it is always in a contract with the generative force of life that one is able to extract the power to love humanity” quoting Bergson.
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