'Il faut excuser les solitaires; ce qu'ils crivent ressemble aux lettres d'amour qui se sont tromps d'adresse.'
- Jacques Rivette, 'Lettre sur Rossellini'
My international adventures in Paris continue. On Friday night I met up with the Polish-German couple out of North Carolina that I met at a recent conference and who are ending their Parisian sjour just as I am beginning mine. I went round for dinner to their tiny seventh-floor apartment, from where, if you stand on tip-toe, you can just about see the top of the Sacr Coeur and, if you lean precariously out over the precipitous seven-storey drop from the balcony, you can glimpse the Eiffel Tower. They are, needless to say, dismayed to be leaving. Ernest Hemingway said it simply and said it best: 'One's an ass to leave Paris.'
Then, last night, K and I met his Dutch friend Ad at Porte d'Orlans, Ad, with family in tow, de passage in Paris, on his way back to Utrecht from the Mediterranean coast. Now I don't like dogs or children, but Ad's 15-month old daughter charms everyone who comes under her radar with her enormous eyes and her boundless trust of strangers, while their German shepherd, Bendit (as in, like Beckham, wha?) is a faithful, docile and reassuring presence. Together we take a leisurely stroll around the Cit Universitaire, where students from all around the world are picnicking and canoodling on the lawns under the half-moon light.
Afterwards, K and I meet his girlfriend and a guy called James in the Canadian Moose Bar where we sink a couple of pints before heading somewhere else where an obstreperous blonde offers me breath mints. As an insult or as a come-on, by this stage I was too far gone to decide, and finished the evening sitting on the curb with my head between my knees.
Having woken, then, at midday, and with a hangover spreading its filthy tentacles to all corners of my universe, my intention to begin work on The Novel today has been set back une fois de plus. This is Bad (et meme very bad), and tends to confirm my suspicion that if I really think I'm going to write a novel on Sundays, I'm going to have to be a lot more careful about my intake of alcohol on Saturday nights. You may think I am being unnecessarily hard on myself again, but it comes down to this: my life is ebbing slowly away and I need to decide what it is I really want to be: an artist or just a piss artist.
- Jacques Rivette, 'Lettre sur Rossellini'
My international adventures in Paris continue. On Friday night I met up with the Polish-German couple out of North Carolina that I met at a recent conference and who are ending their Parisian sjour just as I am beginning mine. I went round for dinner to their tiny seventh-floor apartment, from where, if you stand on tip-toe, you can just about see the top of the Sacr Coeur and, if you lean precariously out over the precipitous seven-storey drop from the balcony, you can glimpse the Eiffel Tower. They are, needless to say, dismayed to be leaving. Ernest Hemingway said it simply and said it best: 'One's an ass to leave Paris.'
Then, last night, K and I met his Dutch friend Ad at Porte d'Orlans, Ad, with family in tow, de passage in Paris, on his way back to Utrecht from the Mediterranean coast. Now I don't like dogs or children, but Ad's 15-month old daughter charms everyone who comes under her radar with her enormous eyes and her boundless trust of strangers, while their German shepherd, Bendit (as in, like Beckham, wha?) is a faithful, docile and reassuring presence. Together we take a leisurely stroll around the Cit Universitaire, where students from all around the world are picnicking and canoodling on the lawns under the half-moon light.
Afterwards, K and I meet his girlfriend and a guy called James in the Canadian Moose Bar where we sink a couple of pints before heading somewhere else where an obstreperous blonde offers me breath mints. As an insult or as a come-on, by this stage I was too far gone to decide, and finished the evening sitting on the curb with my head between my knees.
Having woken, then, at midday, and with a hangover spreading its filthy tentacles to all corners of my universe, my intention to begin work on The Novel today has been set back une fois de plus. This is Bad (et meme very bad), and tends to confirm my suspicion that if I really think I'm going to write a novel on Sundays, I'm going to have to be a lot more careful about my intake of alcohol on Saturday nights. You may think I am being unnecessarily hard on myself again, but it comes down to this: my life is ebbing slowly away and I need to decide what it is I really want to be: an artist or just a piss artist.
VIEW 9 of 9 COMMENTS
(Sigh) I missed your cutriverness. You are still my number one muthafucking crush. And I am waiting for your hands, Delicious.
Keep Having Fun.
s
I am glad to hear you are having a lovely time in Paris, and no worries. I know when I head to Costa Rica, my conversations will probably almost come to a complete halt with random updates. I shudder to think how much of everyone I am going to miss out on.
~cheers