Another review I'm finding hard to write - it's so much easier to rave about a book I loved or tear apart a book I hated than it is to review one that inspired no strong emotions. It seems only meet and proper that I run into books I absolutely love comparatively rarely, and ones about which I become truly evangelical on average, about once a year. (Cloud Atlas was the book that knocked me on my ass last year, and My Name is Asher Lev absolutely destroyed me the year before.)
So, yeah, Bonjour Tristesse. I didn't hate it. I didn't love it. It was a short and easy read, which is totally damning with faint praise. I do get frustrated with books that ask me to be sympathetic to the hard-done-by-ness of rich kids, although I'm not sure that's what this book is trying to do. The narrator is obviously regretful as she looks back at herself as a teenager, reproaches herself for what she did, and if not directly the life she and her father lived, certainly the aftereffects of fighting for it.
Bonjour Tristesse does have an elegiac quality to it, and the device of writing it as a memory is effective, in that it overlays the entire summer at the beach with a note of tension.
That's all I have to say about this one, I guess.