Pass me the sleeping pills

I’m sick of posting obits to the point where if any more writers die this week, I’m going to have to kill myself. (It’s hard when your template doesn’t support black borders.) Anyway, as most of you know and many of you pointed out I refused to acknowledge, Francoise Sagan died this week. I was not a fan, though I’m old enough to remember a stage when everyone who aspired to chic angst read her; some graduated to Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying, others started wearing floppy scarves and never have been heard of since.

There was, however, one thing I loved about Sagan–she was a sports car fan.

“Whoever has not thrilled to speed has not thrilled to life,” she wrote in “With Fondest Regards” (1985). “However madly and hopelessly in love you may be, at 120 miles an hour you are less so. Your blood no longer congeals around your heart; your blood throbs to the extremities of your body, to your fingertips, your toes and your eyelids, now the fateful and tireless guardians of your own life.”

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