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Genre: Teenlit, Metropop, novel remaja, terjemahan, lengkap, pdf. Perahu kertas .. Autumn in Paris – download – (click here). Spring in. Autumn in Paris by. Ilana Tan. avg rating — 10, ratings. score: 4,, and 46 people voted Loading trans. Want to Read saving. "The Paris Wife," by Paula McLain, is the story of Hadley Richardson and Ernest Hemingway during the SZ Digital 14 Tage gratis. Testen Sie die digitale SÃ¼ddeutsche Zeitung als App, im Browser und als PDF. selected writings of william segal Garrisons creed titan book 2 Autumn leaves a collection of.
He wanted her to sense the boundless possibilities offered by books. They would always be enough. They would never stop loving their readers. They were a fixed point in an otherwise unpredictable world. In life. In love. After death. I think I learned all my feelings from books.
In them I loved and laughed and found out more than in my whole nonreading life. View all 55 comments. Aug 19, Megan rated it did not like it Shelves: Absolutely perfect premise and storyline - I was hooked by that blurb. Unfortunately this book was not at all what I was expecting. I was hoping for a Parisian Mr. Penumbra's Hour Bookstore but with a twist - an eccentric old gentleman selling books as medicine to those who are missing a certain something in their lives.
As someone who's found solace and company in books ever since I was an awkward little girl, this appealed to me. Unfortunately, that's not what I got, and that book blurb ab Absolutely perfect premise and storyline - I was hooked by that blurb. The majority of this book is a sappy romance if you can even call this a romance.
It's more a glorification of infidelity and one man's inability to get over a tryst with a married woman that happened 20 years ago. It's chapter upon chapter of him moaning and groaning about how amazing this Manon woman was, without ever actually showing the reader even a shred of decency or charisma in her entire character. I wrote so many little angry notes as I read and then increasingly skimmed this book.
All of the high reviews absolutely boggle my mind because all I can feel is hoodwinked. There was some beautiful descriptive language, especially in reference to the Parisian landscapes and environment, but something was lost in translation.
Halting dialogue and awkward phrasing made an already uncomfortable read even worse. Occasionally the author would just throw in the word "cock" abruptly and awkwardly, I suppose to convey a sense of romance and erotica to particular situations.
Instead, this only caused reading to become suddenly jilted and tainted with a bunch of "cock"s in a spectacularly worded description of Paris. It's like the equivalent of a panoramic view of a gorgeous Paris landscape with an old man in a trench coat suddenly jumping out and flashing his junk at you, hollering "hoogalie boogalie!
The only good that came out of me reading this drivel is that I inadvertently learned about book villages throughout Europe and the world they cruise the book barge through one in Cuisery, France. So now I want to go visit some European book villages. Other authors, a call to arms or pens!
Please write the book I was expecting to read from this deceptive blurb: Except, you know, make it about the books and their readers and not about some flighty, selfish chick the apothecary banged twenty years ago. View all 68 comments. Christina Lanouette This review is spot on. Apr 13, Sep 14, Elyse Walters rated it it was amazing Shelves: There even remedies --I mean books --that were written for only one person A book is both medic and medicine at once.
It makes a diagnosis as well as offering therapy". Nina George's lyrical tribute to love, literature, people, living, dying, and all things French I hope I'm not the the only 1 person this book was written for -- but just in case: My first memo "There are books that are suitable for a million people, others for only hundred.
My first memory of falling 'crazy-insane' over a book about books Is still one of my most favorite books - ever - being deeply personal! There have been others since Will Schwalbe's book Fikry", by Gabrielle Zevin, "Mr. Penumbra's Hour Bookstore", by Robin Sloan, etc. What they all have in common - is that these books speak to us - speak to a readers soul! Books do heal. Books do bring us joy We grow, we transform We become better human beings. There are literally dozens upon dozens of quotes in "The Little Paris Bookshop" that are ruthlessly honest Inspiring and promising!
This book is worth reading if for no other reason than to discover all those fabulous quotes!! Who have a special heart for Paris How cool is that? Its also a novel for people who love good storytelling. There is a wonderful-bitter sweet- emotional story -- from start to finish! This is a wonderful gift. I'm grateful to have been given this chance to read it. I would have hated to pass it by. I plan to download copies to give to my daughters- and my aunt.
There are people you just want to share specific books with - people close to your heart. This is one of those books! View all 74 comments. Sadly I didn't love this one like I was expecting. I loved the bookishness - from the Literary Apothecary to Perdu's ability - and the setting, plus there were some great quotes.
However I struggled with the story and I lacked a connection to the characters. In theory, this book is perfect for me but I just feel like it was missing something - maybe just for me personally. View all 28 comments. May 02, Gail rated it it was ok. I have just finished this book and am astonished at the 5 star reviews; it seems I was reading a different book from the majority of reviewers.
I had such high hopes for this. I had just finished reading a very dark and disturbing thriller and needed a lovely book to make me feel warm and fuzzy; this seemed the perfect antidote, so I settled down with my faithful site and began reading. The premise of the story was just utter magic to me - a bookseller hands out books like medicine to people w I have just finished this book and am astonished at the 5 star reviews; it seems I was reading a different book from the majority of reviewers.
The premise of the story was just utter magic to me - a bookseller hands out books like medicine to people who need them; it sounded perfect, lovely and magical and so I commenced. The first few paragraphs were quite enchanting and I was hooked. I wanted to know more about the lovely and insightful Monsieur Jean Perdu and his floating Literary Apothecary and his tragic love affair which took place some 20 years before.
He lives in a wonderful apartment block with some great characters, especially the author, Max Jordan, who takes Jean under his wing. The story then sank pun intended without trace for me, sadly, as I felt it became a tale of a group of males who travel the waterways of France, each learning a little of each other along the way.
Nothing about books to heal people by this time.
I felt disappointed and, dare I say it, a little duped as I hadn't expected the story to go off kilter from the absolute foundation of the story. By the time I reached the finishing post I couldn't have cared less about Jean, Catherine or Max and I literally breathed a sigh of relief that it was finally over. I don't often give up on books, as I didn't with this, but quite honestly I should have deleted the book when Jean took to the rivers.
I'm desperately sorry this book didn't 'do it' for me. I really, really wanted to like it. View all 46 comments. Dec 27, Chris rated it really liked it Shelves: Every conceivable space is packed with books.
Does it have the selection of the big chain store or of site? You can walk into that bookstore and find four books tha Disclaimer: You can walk in there wanting a book but not knowing what and leave with the perfect thing. It is the small bookstores, be they independent bookstores or used bookstores, that offer such things as well as interesting conversations about all things.
There is much good to be said for the chain stores and site, in particular when you live in the middle of no-where, but the worse is those people who never discover that amazing independent bookstore — either because the reader refuses to leave the computer store or because the independent store closes due to lack of sales. Many readers have something of this in them — a tendency to get other people to read and to match people with books. A true bookseller does this, seemingly, without much thought but does it perfectly.
At the start of this novel, that is the point. Perdu an important last name for those who know French sells books from his barge, which is currently moored in Paris. He has the art of matching person to book. Perdu is lost in more ways than one, though to him, it is because of his lost love. Eventually, he begins a journey that is as healing for him as the books he carries with him and travels though.
In part, the novel is about the discovery of self, of learning to live in the world; in another way, the novel is about the power of books and how they affect readers. To this end, at the close of the novel there is not only recipes for the food mentioned, but also a list of books and their possible cures Terry Pratchett is mentioned! In some ways, the dual purpose lets the book down because the novel is strongest when dealing with books. It is somewhat like A Novel Bookstore, though the tone is at once more interior and lighter.
Though how the novel would work without it, I cannot see. If the canal section at time feels a little out of place, at times it feels totally in sync and powerful. One of the companions that Perdu gains are a cook and books are linked thereafter with food and good wine as they always should be. These are words that any true reader will understand. She embraces books and reading, using a definition of literature, if she is using one at all, to include books. View all 13 comments. Jul 11, Barbara Hale rated it did not like it Shelves: The reviews are so misleading.
What a disappointment! Only one person in our book club liked it. The rest of us just plowed through, hoping it would be over. It was certainly not my cup of tea.
The story could have been told in 50 pages, and the rest of the story was just meandering emotion. View all 11 comments. One word review: There's a excellent little romantic gem of a story hidden somewhere in the text of Nina George's bestseller. After all, the sales tell their own story and are proof that most of the readers were able to see past the wooden dialogue and the saccharine sentimentality into the true heart of the story, about coping with loss of innocence, aging, death, starting your life over.
There's also a lot to be said about the power of books to inspire and renew a reader's interest i One word review: There's also a lot to be said about the power of books to inspire and renew a reader's interest in living, his belief in love in particular. The author may have 'borrowed' the idea of the books as medicine for the soul I thinks she gives credit to German author Erich Kastner for the theme of the floating library peniche , but she deserves recognition for turning this basic principle into a wild, fanciful journey from the quais of the Seine through the navigable canals of Central France, all the way down to sunny Provence and the beaches of the Cote d'Azur.
Our guide, or pharmacist, is Jean Perdu, a 50 year old man who has built an impregnable armour around his heart after losing the love of his life some twenty years ago.
It's a world apart from our world. Jean takes his barge, his books, his two stray cats and an unexpected stowaway in the person of Max, a succesful young author struggling with writer's block, on a trip to the south of France.
Additional themes deal with the syymbolism of the tango, with writers hiding under a pseudonym, with fellow travellers searching for lost loves an Italian handyman , and food as an expression of love. Flashbacks to the past come in the form of journal entries from Manon, the one who got away two decades ago. I am usually a sucker for this kind of story see the end of my review for some examples , plus I love Paris and the Provence where I spent many a memorable vacation.
So what went wrong with the story of Jean Perdu? It might be the case of an unfortunate translation, but right from the start I was bothered by Jean's speech patterns, by his sermonizing on the subject of books and love and by the frequency of quotable maxims that seem handpicked from the relationship column of a fashion magazine and shoehorned into the text whether they fit or not the action. The secondary characters are no better when it comes to bashing the reader with a metaphoric sledgehammer on the importance of getting in touch with your emotions.
I'm not hard to please when it comes to romance, but I also believe a little moderation goes a long way to make a character come alive. Jean and his companions never let me forget for a moment that I am here to listen to their sermons. A quick internet research proved me true, as Nina George has made quite a name for herself by writing articles and advice columns for Cosmopolitan and its like, and by writing several popular books on modern sexuality under a pseudonym.
An early example of what I am talking about is the whole concept of transperception, a made-up term for explaining Jean Perdu's success rate with his book recommendations.
Apparently, he is able to read the personality and the inner life of a customer just by looking at him or her and asking a few flash quizzes about his or her likes and dislikes.
I know most romance novels are the modern equivalent of classic fairytales, but not everything is improved by a touch of the supernatural. Two more examples illustrate what I mean about either a poor translation or a poor understanding of metaphor.
In describing the people of Provence, Manon goes like this: They are woody and malleable, stony and strong, they speak from deep within their strata and boil over as fast as a pan of water on the stove.
I wanted to shout: Please pick one or the other, but not both at the same time - either strong or flexible, either deep or shallow. And did you actually counted the minutes it takes to bring water to a boil? It's not that quick So three-sided spheres do exist. At the most you can argue for two sides: The Platonic myth was not about threesomes. I sould stop with my grumbling: My own experience was more like facepalms, groaning and looking every five minutes or so to see how many pages I have left in the chapter or how many pages left until I can reach the end.
I am a compulsive finisher of all the books I start, and an incurrable optimist, so I hated the idea of giving up on Jean Perdu too soon. It's also true that I liked many of the basic principles presented here how we deal with loss, how important are music, food, friendship, dancing, reading to the process of healing. I honestly believe this could have been a great book in the hands of a more subtle writer, one less focused on scoring high on 'bon-mots' and more interested in credible characters.
As a peace offering, I have two 'bon-mots' that I really liked: Nobody would ever wise up if they hadn't at some stage been young and stupid. There's a couple of nice Easter Eggs at the end of the book, also for sharing with friends: I think it would be fun for each of us to try to put together such a list of the stories that shaped our life in a significant way.
Some of the titles may even overlap with those of Jean Perdu. They all deal in some way with the subject of the grumpy old man who secretly loves life and books and carries a torch for a long lost love: View all 7 comments. Bittersweet Gallic Romance This is a very French book. Kind of mournful, but also hopeful.
Novel ilana tan autumn in paris pdf
Very, very emotional. This is ironic, as the author, Nina George, is actually German, although she now lives in France which doesn't surprise me, as her soul is French. And yes, it's yet another homage to the vanishing independent bookseller, but it's much more than that. It's a reflection on love and death and other deep subjects. It's also a love letter to France. He owns a book barge on the Seine where he is a "book apothecary", reading people's souls and "prescribing" books for what ails them.
But Perdu is hurting more than anyone around him, although he shares this with no one. Physician heal thyself Twenty years ago, a woman he adored, Manon, left him without a word. She left a letter, which he's refused to read. There is a room in his Paris apartment which he never enters, a room associated with her. He lives like a monk. He's locked away the hurt from that love deep inside him and he's never gotten over it.
He doesn't go out with women or really live anymore. He sells books and goes home to 27 Rue Montagnard at night. His whole life is about to change, although he doesn't know that yet. I won't say more to avoid spoilers. The author describes the whole unusual story in lovely, limpid prose.
The book is very emotional and very moving. Not many books move me this much. View all 8 comments. Os livros protegem-nos Da tristeza. Da falsidade.
Elevam a auto-estima. Descobrimos quem somos. Quem queremos ser. Amamos, odiamos, sofremos, rejubilamos.
Livros ou Se antes os amava, agora adoro-os! Porque os Livros View all 22 comments. We carry them all inside us, all our dead and shattered loves.
Only they make us whole. Jean Perdu is fifty years old. He advises one: Soon after, the contents of a hitherto unopened letter are the impetus for great changes: Perdu abruptly unmoors his barge and sets off, completely unprepared, down the Seine towards Provence, to face what he has been denying for such a long time. He is accompanied by a publicity-shy novelist, two cats Kafka and Lindgren and later a lovelorn Italian and an impulsive book guild chairwoman.
In this best-selling novel, George touches on love and heartbreak, grief and denial, and the importance of friends. She wraps her heart-warming and uplifting tale in some truly gorgeous descriptive prose: Her characters are appealing, her plot takes a few twists and there are even small mysteries and tiny moments of suspense. Readers who enjoyed The Collected Works of A. Fikry are very likely to find this novel equally delightful.
Funny, moving and uplifting. With thanks to The Reading Room and Hachette for this copy to read and review. As a pause amid the hum of his thoughts, as a blank in the picture of the past, as a dark spot amid his feelings. Do their looks disguise their character so well that nobody notices how open their soul, their being and their principles are to love and kindness?
View all 5 comments. Feb 28, Jennifer rated it it was ok Shelves: Fikry or The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry - both charming, nice novels with interesting premises and some endearing secondary characters.
ARC e-pub edition provided by the publisher, via NetGalley edited to add: The book started out with possibilities: There was monsieur Perdu: Jean Albert Victor Perdu. Albert after my paternal grandfather, Victor after my maternal grandfather.
My mother is a professor, and her father, Victor Bernier, was a toxicologist, a socialist and mayor. I loved one. She left me. There was his literary apothecary: It makes a diagnoses as well as offering therapy.
The wrong novel can be like giving a woman a dentist when she needs a gynecologist. And some … well, some are pink candy floss that tingles in your brain for three seconds and leaves a blissful void. Like a short, torrid love affair. I feed stray cats. I arrange my groceries in alphabetical order. I sometimes take sleeping tablets.
I take a dose of Rilke to wake up. I gradually turn to stone. I carry on. The same every day. But other than that, no, I do nothing. Fifty-year-old Perdu shared his life with equally eccentric characters in the apartment block, such as the two generals of number 24, Rue Montagnard - Madame Bernard, the owner and Madame Rosalette, the concierge. Che could sense whether a room had been loved or lived or argued in. They lived the French way. We visited Paris whenever we could, as often as we could.
We weren't Francophiles because we didn't know any-thing about France, and still don't. We were just crazy about Paris. When our son, Luke Auden, was born, in September , we knew that we would have to go to Paris soon, or we wouldn't go at all. In five years, everybody told us, he would no longer be "portable.
We also saw all the aspects of a New York childhood that looked less delightful. You would see the five-year-olds at a friend's house already lost in the American media, simultane-ously listening to a Walkman, playing with a Game Boy, and watching a video on the VCR.
Perhaps, we thought-however foolishly, however "unrealistically"-we could protect him from some of that if he spent his first five years in Paris. We thought we might stay for good, but we knew that we would certainly stay for the last five years of the century; "We'll stay till the millennium," we could say grandly, and mean it cautiously.
Movie Screenplays A through M
The New Yorker, where I worked, was ready to hear what I had to say about Parisian scenes and, more important, was willing to keep sending non-Parisian subjects, from Groucho Marx to the Starr Report, my way too, which let us pay Parisian rates. Martha, for her part, had become a filmmaker, and she had the great portable occupa-tion of the late twentieth century, a screenplay to write and rewrite and rewrite again.
So we went.
The New Yorker has had lots of good writers in place in Paris, but it was James Thurber, whose blind eyes in a photograph on my desk stare at me every morning, whose writing moved me most. Thurber, though he hardly spoke a word of French, wrote once that the surface of manners in France seemed to him the most beautiful in the world, and he was right.
The romance of Paris was my subject, and if it is a moony or even a loony one, it is at least the one I get, a little. This was a hard romance to sustain in most of the last five years, when almost everybody else thought that Paris was going straight to hell. When we first started dreaming of coming to Paris, around , long-termist, infrastructure-building Eu-rope, many people said, owned the future. One only had to com- 11 pare JFK and Charles de Gaulle airports, the one named after the vital young internationalist and the other after the old reac-tionary, to catch the irony JFK was decrepit, dangerous, and al-most unpoliced; you stumbled off your plane into, of all bizarre things, a linoleum staircase, with a sign above warning you of il-legal livery drivers whose complexions, delicately, had been made neither black nor white but swarthy, like Barbary Coast pirates.
You took a taxi over roads so potholed that the infra-structure was visibly rusted out, ruined. At Charles de Gaulle Airport, on the other hand, you came to a breathtakingly modern terminal, full of odd glass corridors and long, radiating, covered walkways, and exited onto a highway so up-to-date that regular announcements of upcoming traffic were posted along with the waiting time for a reservation at the Brasserie Lipp.
No one will believe this now, but that is how it seemed then. Popular mem-ory may be short, but it is nothing compared with the amnesia of experts. By all that had changed, and Paris and France seemed left out of the new all-American dispensation. London, of all places, had become the town where people went to see new art and taste new cooking. For the first time in modern history it was actually possible to live in Paris for comfort and bourgeois secu-rity and travel to London for food and sex.
My cousin Philippe had, like so many ambitious Frenchmen of his generation, actu-ally fled Paris for London, where he had made a small fortune in banking and was about to finance his own restaurant. The failure of the French model and the triumph of the Anglo-American one is by now a sorry, often repeated fact. For five years hardly anyone wrote about Paris and the French except in a tone of diagnosis: how sick they were, when they got so sick, why they denied that they were sick, and if there was any chance that they would ever get better.
Many journalistic tours d'horizons have been written in the last few years-"Whither France? When we are on the crest, we believe that we have climbed a mountain through our own virtuous ef-forts, and when we are in the trough, we believe that we have fallen into a pit through our own vice.
Whatever else might be true, though, in the last five years of the century, as the world became, by popular report, more "glob-alized" than it had ever been before, France became more differ-ent. For most of two centuries, after all, what had been so different about France was how central and cosmopolitan it was.
Ameri-cans had been going to Paris for a couple of centuries to learn a universal diplomatic language and the central artistic culture and even the most influential manner of cooking. Yet in the time we were there Paris seemed to pass from the place where you learned how to do it to the place where you learned how not to do it-how not to do it in the ordinary American imperial way, the place where you learned how to do it, as the French like to say, autrement, otherly.
From the kind of sympathy that labor unions get from their public to the length of time you take to eat lunch, the way it's done in Paris now is not the way it's done in Adelaide or Toronto or Los Angeles or Tempe or Hong Kong or any of the studs on the broad belt of the English-speaking imperium that now encircles the world, with New York as its buckle.
Americans still learn about differences in Paris, but now we learn about them not because we are so much closer to the center of things but because we are so much farther away.
The light of Paris still shows Americans things as they are if not as they really are by showing us how things can look different in a different light, but the light it shows them with now is more mys-terious and singular, a kind of moral moonlight, a little bit harder to see by.
Princesses died and prime ministers fell and intellectuals argued, gravely, about genuinely grave questions, and I wrote about all these things, but I have left most of that writing out of this book. They are important things, but the things that interested me most, in a time of plenty, were the minute variations, what a professor would call the significant absences, between living a family life in one place and living the same kind of life somewhere else.
This is a story of the private life of a lucky American family living in Paris in the last five years of the century, less a tour of any horizon than just a walk around the park. To the personal essays about life in Paris, I have added some private journals I wrote every Christmas. These journals, I see in rereading them, are more pensive and even pessimistic in tone than the stories, perhaps because they are notes sent inward rather than letters sent out.
I have also included a long report on the trial of Maurice Papon because it is about the occupation and collaboration, still the great, unignorable black hole at the center of French life, still sucking in the light even of everyday pleasure. Family life is by its nature cocooned, and expatriate family life doubly so. We had many friends and a few intimate ones, but it is in the nature of family rhythm-up too early, asleep too soon-to place you on a margin, and to the essential joy-just the three of us!
What I find is left, after the politics have been re-moved, are mostly stories about raising a kid in foreign parts. Yet since raising a kid is the one nearly universal thing people do, and since doing it in foreign parts is the one time when you get to see most clearly all the bits of doing it that aren't universal- that are inflected and shaped by the local geography and mood and playground equipment-it is in its way, I hope, still a not en-tirely interior subject.
These stories are also, willy-nilly, about bringing up a kid in 14 foreign parts in a funny time. What made the time funny was that there was as much peace and prosperity in the world as there has ever been and at the same time a lot of resentment di-rected at the United States, the country where the peace and prosperity, like the kid, came from, or which at least was taking credit for it. Paris, which in the first five years of the century seemed the capital of modern life, spent the last five years on the sidelines, brooding on what had happened.
Our son's first five years, and the modern century's last five, five years to the end of the millennium and five to grade one in New York, a small sub-ject and a large one, juxtaposed: These stories take one stretch of time and, as they used to demand in exam papers, contrast and compare.
The stories are mostly about the life spent at home and in-clude a lot-some will think too much-about the trinity of late-century bourgeois obsessions: children and cooking and spectator sports, including the spectator sport of shopping.
Yet life is mostly lived by timid bodies at home, and since we see life as deeply in our pleasures as in our pains, we see the differences in lives as deeply there too.
The real differences among people shine most brightly in two bedrooms and one building, with a clock ticking, five years to find out how and why. Not just how and why and in what way Paris is different from New York, but how a North American liberal, with the normal "universalist," antinationalist reflexes of the kind, might end up feeling about the idea of dif-ference itself-about the existence of minute variations among peoples: which ones really matter and which ones really don't.
By the end of the decade, a new image of Paris, as a multicul-tural metropolis with a thriving entrepreneurial culture, was coming into place. This existed-it always had-but it seemed a little too easily pleasing to Americans, perhaps because it was so familiar, not so different after all, and looked to America for in-spiration.
The young soccer players on the champion French na-tional team carefully imitated Sammy Sosa's finger-kissing when 15 they scored their goals, and French rap, striking though it was, seemed more distinctive from its American sources than really different from them, in the same way that American impression-ism in the nineteenth century was distinctive rather than differ-ent from its models.
Anyway, while I greatly enjoyed the Sosa finger-kissing, as I enjoyed French rap, I admired even more the way that the great Zinedine Zidane, when asked about a perfect free kick he had taken, calmly said, "I am at the summit of my art. If there is a fault in re-porting, after all, it is not that it is too ephemeral but that it is not ephemeral enough, too quickly concerned with what seems big at the time to see what is small and more likely to linger. It is, I think, the journalists' vice to believe that all history can instantly be reduced to experience: "Pierre, an out-of-work pipe fitter in the suburb of Boulougne, is typical of the new class of ch6meurs What then, the journalist and scholar ask tetchily, what then is exactly the vice of the comic-sentimental essayist?
It is of course to believe that all experience and history can be reduced to him, or his near relations, and the only apology I can make is that for him in this case experience and history and life were not so much reduced as all mixed up, and scrambled together, they at least become a subject. The essayist dreams of being a prism, through which other light passes, and fears ending up merely as a mirror, showing the same old face.
He has only his Self to show and only himself to blame if it doesn't show up well. Even if experience shows no more than itself, it is still worth showing. Experience and history, I think, are actually like the 16 two trains in that Keaton movie where Buster struggles to keep up with the big engine by pumping furiously on a handcar on the adjoining track. It looks as if the little handcar of experience and the big train of history are headed for the same place at the same speed; but in fact the big train is going where it is headed, and those of us in the handcar keep up only by working very hard, for a little while.
There are two kinds of travelers. There is the kind who goes to see what there is to see and sees it, and the kind who has an image in his head and goes out to accomplish it. The first visitor has an easier time, but I think the second visitor sees more. He is constantly comparing what he sees to what he wants, so he sees with his mind, and maybe even with his heart, or tries to.
If his peripheral vision gets diminished-so that he quite literally sometimes can't see what's coming at him from the suburbs of the place he looks at-his struggle to adjust the country he looks at to the country he has inside him at least keeps him looking. It sometimes blurs, and sometimes sharpens, his eye. My head was filled with pictures of Paris, mostly black and white, and I wanted to be in them.
I am aware that my Paris, which began as a cardboard con-struction wearing a cape and a kepi, in many respects remains one, an invention, a Bizzaro New York, abstract where New York is specific, intricate where New York is short, though not perhaps more soulful, and that my writing about Paris is very much like my writing about New York in the first five years I lived there. In fact it would have been a lunchtime's work for my old friend Eugenio Donato, who haunts this book as he haunts my memories of Paris, to insist that this book about Paris is actually about New York.
A lunchtime's worth of work yet not perhaps a dinner's worth of truth. The images contain their little truth too, which I grasped even in remnant form in West Philadelphia. We all see our Paris as true, because it is.
It is not an old or anti-quated Paris that we love, but the persistent, modern material 17 Paris carrying on in a time of postmodern immateriality, when everything seems about to dissolve into pixels. We love Paris not out of "nostalgia" but because we love the look of light on things, as opposed to the look of light from things, the world reduced to images radiating from screens.
Paris was the site of the most beautiful commonplace civilization there has ever been: cafes, brasseries, parks, lemons on trays, dappled light on bourgeois boulevards, department stores with skylights, and windows like doors everywhere you look.
If it is not so much wounded-all civilizations are that, since history wounds us all-as chastened, and overloud in its own defense, it nonetheless goes on. The per-sistence of this civilization in the sideshow of postmodern cul-ture is my subject, and the life it continues to have my consolation. I don't go on a bus in Paris without still expecting my balloon to be barred and the authority figure who oversees it is still a cardboard policeman in a cape.
I see the moon these days from Paris because I once saw Paris from the moon. Cyril Gonnolly once achieved an unearned poetic effect by reciting the names in wartime of hotels on the Left Bank. I can some-times achieve a similar one, even more unearned, though not less felt, by reciting to myself the names of restaurants where we ate lunch while Luke slept or, occasionally, where we wished we 18 could sleep, while Luke ate : Le Souffle, Le Basilic, Chez Andre, Le Petit St.
Benoit, Laduree. I believe in Le Souffle, on a Satur-day afternoon in December, in the back room, with Luke sleep-ing in his poussette, and the old couple across the neighboring banquette, who had been coming for forty years, there with their small blind dog.
The waiters in white coats, the owner in a blue sports jacket, and the smell aroma is too fancy a word of min-gled cigarettes and orange liqueurs. I am aware that this is what is called sentimental, but then we went to Paris for a sentimen-tal reeducation-I did anyway-even though the sentiments we were instructed in were not the ones we were expecting to learn, which I believe is why they call it an education. This book is theirs, and I ask them only to share a place at the dedication table with Henry Finder, my first and most patient reader, who had to take what it tasted like on trust.
Private Domain A bomb went off under my bed the other morning. It was early on a gray Tuesday when I heard a flock of ambulances some-where near my Left Bank street, making that forlorn, politely in-sistent two-note bleating all Paris ambulances make.
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Amamos, odiamos, sofremos, rejubilamos.
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