“When you fall for a boy, you try to pin him down too soon. After three days, he wants to kick his way free and get as far away as he can.”
“Oh, yeah? So let’s see who can pick up a decent boy first. Any boy. Even a fat slob like you.”
“That shows how dumb you are. You’re great physically but once they get to know you, they run a mile. They run before even getting to know you!”
“I’m just too young. They’d be scared to sleep with me.”
“But you reek of loose morals.”
“I don’t sleep around.”
“That’s the only thing you don’t do. You have a weird notion of what ‘not sleeping around’ means.”
“That’s what matters, you know.”
“I don’t think so. If I meet a man I love, I’d want to be broken in. He won’t think my first time counts. The first time should be with nobody. I don’t want a guy bragging he had me first. Guys are all sick.”
Catherine Breillat’s obsession with the dialectical nature of love and violence could not be better articulated than in the haunting last words echoed by Anaïs:
Police officer: She was in the woods. She says he didn’t rape her.
Anaïs: Don’t believe me if you don’t want to.