Le Mépris, 1963
You like all of me? My mouth? My eyes? My nose? And my ears?
Yes, all of you.
Then you love me... totally?
Yes. Totally... tenderly... tragically.
Confession: wove in and out of the plot with this one, lost in the stunning visuals of the Italian coast and the vixen that is Brigitte Bardot. Wicked winged liner, a French iron bed frame to die for, the luxury of reading novels in a bathtub, an endless stairway to ascend into an endless blue, and to run away from tortured souls. Every girl should own a Vivre sa Vie-esque black 60's wig, which she wears to meet strangers and do the most mundane of chores in.
p.s Though I've never spent a sun-drenched afternoon soaking in a bathtub, novel in one hand, cigarette in other, if Anne Fadiman's husband in Ex Libris (a collection of essays on the art and joy of reading and book-lovers) reads in a sauna, "where heat-fissioned pages drop like petals in a storm", I can only imagine the sadly dampened state of a long novel read in the haze of a luke-warm, sleepy bathtub...