Very disappointed! Alix de Saint-André had accustomed us to love its verve, its freshness, its style both impulsive and precise. But then she was not fit. Smoked too? Drank too much? She repeats her style effects, from one page to another. The first time it's fun, the second is boring. She is lost in insipid anecdotes on a Mediterranean cruise. She talks to herself about her own ability to write well or not. (It is able to judge ourselves.) The book ended up in a wastebasket in the village square where I live.
