Sunday, October 10, 2010
Constance Meyer: secret love of Gainsbourg
They say the best writing is done by hungry writers and, as I've skipped lunch, I thought I would take pen in hand and put some stick about. Whether it is harder to love than be loved is a question for the ages. Hollywood says one thing but the divorce rate says quite another. What I do know is that if the cost of being loved is having a book written about you, the price might be too high by half. If every fille sympa who ever slipped a note under my door took to advertising the follow-up, I might be obliged to change my hotel room if not my hotel. With four pianos, Serge had a tougher time of it.
I have had the privilege d'être côtoyé on more than a few occasions and I can tell you that I have remained the soul of discretion (if we don't count that episode with Désespérée) not that I expect such decorum on my part to immunize me against whomsoever writing whatsoever. It could be said that waiting twenty-five years to let the cat out of the bag was a public service but some among us feel she should have heeded the words of one Sidney Falco when he observed that, "The cat's in the bag and the bag's in the river" before inflicting her book-- La jeune fille et Gainsbourg--upon the world. Alas, we live in different times and woe is us.
I was going to dine downstairs but, on second thought, I think I'll head over to Les Deux Magots and drop in afterward at La Hune to see if they have her book.