By Penelope Rowlands
ISBN-10: 1616200367
ISBN-13: 9781616200367
Paris is “the international capital of reminiscence and desire,” concludes one of many writers during this intimate and insightful number of memoirs of the town. dwelling in Paris replaced those writers endlessly.
In thirty-two own essays—more than half that are right here released for the 1st time—the writers describe how they have been seduced by way of Paris after which started to see issues in a different way. They got here to put in writing, to prepare dinner, to discover love, to check, to elevate youngsters, to flee, or to stay the best way it’s performed in French video clips; they got here from the U.S., Canada, and England; from Iran, Iraq, and Cuba; and—a few—from different components of France. and so they stayed, no longer as travelers, yet for a very long time; a few are nonetheless residing there. They have been outsiders who turned insiders, who the following proportion their observations and revelations. a few are famous writers: Diane Johnson, David Sedaris, Judith Thurman, Joe Queenan, and Edmund White. Others should be lesser identified yet aren't any much less passionate at the topic.
jointly, their reflections upload as much as an surprisingly perceptive and multifaceted portrait of a urban that's entrancing, every now and then exasperating, yet continually attention-grabbing. They remind us that Paris belongs to every body it has touched, and to every another way.
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17510$ $CH1 09-16-09 10:24:15 PS PAGE 27 XX And you who wander, don’t proceed quickly, pay court to rest, time is fixed in the track, stop there, look closely at the wrinkles of the relief, straighten your sleeves, listen to the sharp cry, knead the silt that fashions bodies, how I would like to set foot, in that which happens to thought, but the foot does not follow, scold the voice, the singing exercise is corrupted, if it doesn’t inspire song, change direction, turn to the right, on the banks of the valley, you will find her again, in silence, in dialogue, in rupture, in return to silence, around a people, who await nothing, engraved in the heart of misery, would I be a stranger, among the goitrous, led astray on the red soil, from such a high valley, where water streams, among the green shocks of hair, at the boundary of earthen castles, with eagle niches, alone in the country of mules, in search of the unknown woman, who spells my name, on the threshold of departures?
46 ................. 17510$ $CH1 09-16-09 10:24:22 PS PAGE 46 XXXV The hoopoe sways, on the tree beyond the world, the voice sighs, and cries, spirits separate from bodies, the breath extinguishes, I drink in ecstasy, my passion is in the unveiling, I leave the darkness, where I was prisoner, I bear witness, prostrate myself, the voice is a noise, in the city, glass quivers, autumn scorches, fire devours. 47 ................. 17510$ $CH1 09-16-09 10:24:22 PS PAGE 47 XXXVI Black, in black eyes, clouds cover the peaks, the grotto is a sleeping dragon, the seconds are shadows, that tremble, in black eyes, son of the epic, I hurtle down the paths, at the speed of lightning, I cross the guarded estate, I desecrate the village, I carry away the beloved, I enter the black, of her black eyes.
30 ................. 17510$ $CH1 09-16-09 10:24:17 PS PAGE 30 XXII I listen to her, who has no voice, in search of the rest, the seasons pass, the houses go to ruin, I was in a good mood, before scowling, the vast plain narrowed, between the columns, things grew, without my knowing, I was not the guard, I would have hunted them down, between the celebration and the business deal, I spat, I sat down on the rugs, which hide the cracks in the floor, our shadows are engulfed, in empty homes, peacocks open the day, bodies flit about, next to souls, between brightness and clouds, the vaults do demivolts, at the cry of the lovers, desire stirs, between the white tombs, banners laid down, on the hill.
Paris Was Ours by Penelope Rowlands
by Mark
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