![]() Berest describes how her own life has gotten in the way of the assignment she accepted at the behest of Sagan’s son-he wants his mother not to be forgotten sixty years after the publication of her first book. Sometimes her prose seemed simplistic (translation choices?) and sometimes repetitive for such a short book. (Here, she sounds defiant later, her tone will be more apologetic.) From the beginning Berest is crystal-clear she’s “appropriating for myself, just as a portrait painter imposes his own profile on the portrait of the sitter.” (I had issues with several of Berest’s metaphors.) As to including herself in the story, Berest says if this wasn’t wanted, she shouldn’t have been asked. The book had its impetus in the stated title but it’s not really about Sagan in Paris in 1954, though those elements run through it.Ī given nowadays about creative nonfiction is that you may write of things not strictly true if they are in the spirit of truth, but you need to be clear about what you’re doing. ![]() Beyond knowing her name, I knew almost nothing about Francoise Sagan before starting this book. ![]()
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