Oh, Paris. Even in the reluctant, it is a word that triggers images and feelings. Hurried walks along slick cobblestone streets in the rain, arm-in-arm with some nameless special bohemian someone. St. Sulpice in the falling snow, and how unbelievable it is that no one else is around. Sitting at a café for hours, trying to convince yourself that you might be sitting in the same spot as Breton, and what that means for you. Or him.
Now, of course, there is much more to Paris: both good and bad. It is, after all, a modern city that has evolved over the years.
But seeing this book made me think of the former image, even if it might be a simplistic out-dated caricature of a longing expat. And it sounds like reading the book, written in 1928 and translated by William Carlos Williams, will only reinforce it, since it deals with “the narrator’s obsession with a woman who leads him into an underworld that promises to reveal the secrets of the city itself.”
Might need to boire un verre de vin rouge and give this book a try.