Before you read on, listen to Eva Cassidy singing ‘Autumn Leaves’. Put it on continuous play while you pour a whisky. Then open the novel ‘Bonjour tristesse’ by Francoise Sagan. Page 1. A strange melancholy pervades me which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sadness. Wish I could come up with an opening line for ‘Melanie Alone’ as fab as that.
Because autumn is about dying. Because my novel has failed to be born. Because life’s a bitch. Because…
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