Published in 1964 and reissued in 2009, "Toxic" is, as its title suggests, the journal kept by Francoise Sagan at a rehab.
In 1957, writer then aged 22 was on a roll. His first two novels, "Bonjour Tristesse" and "A certain smile," a resounding success. But a tragic event
just blacken this pretty picture. Suffered a serious car accident and forced to remain bedridden for several months, Françoise Sagan uses the palfium 875, a derivative of morphine administered by doctors to reduce pain. The product
addiction is such that the writer is transferred to a rehab clinic where she will stay a week, the time of writing this paper.
Sagan was only 22 years old when she wrote this journal. Knew it already, at this point, his addiction to the drug would continue throughout his life?
One thing is sure, the woman holding the newspaper is afraid. Fear itself, fear of not being able to cope, fear of loneliness.
" But it seems to me that now my only happy relations with myself, apart from other beings and the few moments of elation or well-being that nature provides, may not be as literary.
So the writers fall into the same trap as accountants, industrial and other morons working.
To meet later in the grip of what solitude inactive: it makes us shudder.
I understand that Mr and others persist in stuttering in the reviews of tourism.
After all, when you have no one to kiss, and that loneliness is equivalent to a job that no longer ask you, life must be sad. "
For one week, she wanders the corridors of the clinical picture of a caged animal, regretting his past freedom.
She knows that the Parisian nights, alcohol, drugs, speeding it as necessary as dangerous. Did she need to feel closer to death, to put in constant danger in order to enjoy life?
To escape boredom as this prégnant feeling of suffocation, she reads Apollinaire, Celine, Chateaubriand, Rimbaud, Proust, Michelet. In
prey to insomnia as a lack of concentration induced by the lack, it details the nature, other patients and is seen through them.
"I spying on me: I am a beast who watches another beast inside me. "
"Toxic" is not really what one might call a comprehensive book on throes of addiction but It appears mainly as a testimony to better understand the personality tortured Sagan and tumultuous universe within which both his life and his work.
Both fragile unreasonable but extremely lucid, Sagan does not in place. If every thought is meant concise, flying rapidly giving way to another, illustrations by Bernard Buffet characterized by a pencil pressed hard and shapes add to the distress of this woman faces herself.
Well, that's fine. is what interests me. I'll write a new one. The trouble is that the very idea of "enterprise" my heart is contracting. It's raining. "Ah, life is slow and that hope is violent." Ah Apollinaire is beautiful. Ah I'm bored. Run away? Maybe.
I just catch myself lying half on my chair, arms behind his head, pensively smoking in offhand position of the writer healthy reflective ( to) (on) the last lines.
First position "at ease" probably since I'm in this room where all my attitudes are leaking, or on my bed shelter.
Other opinions: Clara - Mango - Globe reader - In Cold Blog
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