All these memories, rather than pulling together coherently into a pleasantly vague unity that she had once so gaily called "my life", now remained just a scattered and troubling jumble of images, in her new and less happy state. Antoine was quite right, after all, to ask: What was going to become of them? Where were they headed, what was their destination? And this small bed, which once had been the most magical boat in all of Paris, was now turning into an endlessly drifting raft, and this small room, once so familiar to her, was turning into a remote and abstract background. By forcing her attention onto the specter of the future, he had, it seemed to her, closed the door to any future between them.
Francoise Sagan, La Chamade
