Piano in the Grass

I don't remember when I started liking what Sagan wrote. In the years of my growth as a reader, she was already "a star from dad's time." Her novels seemed sentimental to me, slightly banal and hard to distinguish from one another. Nevertheless – never boring. However, I wondered what was scandalous about "Bonjour Tristesse"; what I learned about Sagan's own life seemed more interesting to me. Drugs, gambling, accidents, provocative relationships with men and women, heated arguments at the Cannes Film Festival when she was chair of the jury... In the few photos of hers that appeared in our press, an aging woman with an uncertain gaze was increasingly visible, reminding one of a tired bird... Gradually, I began to discover how much courage Sagan had as a writer. She speaks of love with the simplicity and unexpectedness that the feeling itself brings. Of sex – without pretense, but also without excess; of partings – without tears, but with a ruthless "overview" of wounds. The most glorious seasons of her literary fame may have passed, but Sagan remains among the authors who will be close when we face our own wounds. Before the cooling summer and the loneliness that follow them. I don't remember when I started liking what Sagan wrote, but I know why. Because of the ability to lead us into the art of greeting sadness. And with a smile. Almost. Yury Dachev