Fiction Based on Walking (Teju Cole):Revised

It’s a Sunday morning. Nine o’clock. I forgot to shut my shades last night, the sun intruding, invading and reminding me to go enjoy the day. Seize it. 

I need to go to the market. Buy some breakfast. Something light-an apple. No, I had that last weekend. A plum, its been awhile since I’ve had a plum. 

I stretch. I’m up now, peeling off my sheets. The warmth and security of the blanket fades—alone again: just me and the world. No safety net. No comfy blanket. 

I’ve never been one of those people who wakes up and rolls around; one of those people who stays in bed until twelve only to spend the next six hours complaining of how they wasted the day. It’s not worth the guilt; the guilt of knowing I’m not taking full advantage of time; life. 

Time slips away quickly, catching the errands of life along with it, collecting whatever I produce that day. 

Producing is the ultimatum of everyday. Me vs. what I produce. Me vs. how much I can produce. At least if I produce something I have something to show; something concrete. ‘Future Me’ will thank ‘Past Me’…or at least remember her. 

No matter what I’m doing there’s always something else to be done. Slipping in and fading out, the possibilities of the day stay conscious of their ability to occupy; to fill a space of aimless thought. It’s probably better anyways that that space is filled than left to its own devices, circling down a spiral I’ve become familiar enough with to know it warrants fear. 

Jacket, bag, keys. I check my watch: 9:40. I would’ve liked to have left already. If I go straight to one stand I can make it back by twelve and start my homework. 

One-thirty to two-oclock. Cool. 

Then I’ll watch one episode of Friday Night Lights. It’ll be 4. Fuck, that’s at least six hours until bed. 

Hm…

I’ll go for a run. Talk to the roommates. Maybe I’ll stop at Tania’s for some coffee or something after. Head back around nine. Shower. Bed at ten. 

Perfect. 

I have too much spare time. Adults persistently tell me how they miss having free time and I guess I can see that. But it just kind of feels like I’m trying to fill my time; fill the hours. Going for a run kills an hour. Watching a movie kills two hours; killing time until bedtime. Sleep: the ultimate time killer. Then I wake up, starting the next day all over again. Killing time until inevitably, I don’t know, I get to do the stuff I’m fully engaged in. The things where I don’t think about what else there is. The activities where time isn’t a constraint, but rather something to keep an eye on-a responsibility I should keep in mind.

The metro makes me sad. Maybe sad is too broad a word…indifferent. Everyone seems so alone. Just another face; all emotionless; expressionless. In reality, they’re not really sad of course. They’re just doing their own thing. Why does solidarity always come off as so dreary? Probably because all the books, movies, music all portray it that way. But that’s just because writing and selling an eighty-paged script with only one star is way harder than dropping two hot-shot actors into a structured rom-com. 

The woman to my right lets a small smirk sneak through her ‘too cool for emotions’ persona; a persona I must admit I’m immediately intrigued by. The whole ‘I only wear black because who has time to enjoy things like color’ persona. It’s cool I guess. Maybe not fun…but definitely cool.  

Presumably a song came on she likes, or maybe she remembered something nice. It’s nice to see her capability of emotion. It’s a reminder that we’re not living in some formulated world; a world so easily calculated as when the next train will arrive or how many stops you have left on the metro. Not everything is so systematic and reliable. Life isn’t really linear; emotion isn’t linear. This woman lets the smirk stain her for a few moments. A smirk that seems to pacify her, put her to ease. It’s taking her out of her reality for that moment, or maybe putting her back into it.

Her moment’s quickly ruined though. Sitting across from me is a man. His face is white. Notebook paper white. His nails are overgrown and his hair runs into his face. He’s tall and thin. Too thin and his face is attentive, his eyes dashing from passenger to passenger. I know it’s going to happen. I know what’s about to come. 

He begins chirping like a bird. Not one of those fancy birds either; the ones people look up to wide-eyed as the bird soars masculinely and authoritatively; as though it knows better. No, this man sounds like one who’s small…and helpless…and gray. Maybe even dying. 

He’s mentally ill. He has some sort of something terrible. Too terrible for him to be conscious of why he’s drawing attention to himself. He chirps like a bird for a few more moments. It’s more of a squawk really. Like he’s being chased down and knows that he’s done for. A squawk of merely trying to give one thing back to the world; influence the world in some way within its last moments of life. 

The cart goes completely silent. Suddenly everyone is reading or browsing their phones, assuming the somehow known protocol for situations such as these. The man nervously twitches his neck from side to side. On one side he is a bird. The other side he just repeats ‘Satan’ in his bird-squawk tone. I look down into my book. I’m not reading, of course, just trying to blend in. I’m emotionless; expressionless; trying my hardest to be ‘too cool.’ 

I get off the metro, the excitement of Bastille allowing me to get out of myself. I take a deep breath, shaking off the bird man. I hope he’s okay but I have to take care of myself first, right?

The vendors yell at me, pushing their orange and watermelon slices into the air. Their eagerness to get rid of the fruit turns me off to it. If they’re that eager to get rid of it, it doesn’t seem as valuable. I keep walking. I hear my feet on the pavement-a second of clarity, composure, steadiness.

He’s young. His skin is slightly tanned-the type of tan that is too familiar with its occupier; the lingering tan; the clingy tan. He’s rearranging his fruit, his face showing full concentration on the task. It’s just him and the fruit, within Bastille; not Bastille and the market allowing for his occupancy. I want the fruit he’s arranging. I walk over and buy two plums. He smiles at me, looking down to the fruit as I walk away. 

I keep walking, noticing a florist. Waves of familiarity settle: my old job. My old ‘playing grounds.’ There’s a florist right across from my apartment, but I never have the time to stop in. 

Anemones: my favorite. They’re classic, classic in a way that doesn’t ask to be classic. Classic in a way that’s still modern; a class that modernity looks up to. I become the woman I was when I first saw this flower. I feel a smile before I even acknowledge that I’m smiling—a natural response. A response triggered by something way more complex than I am. 

I kneel down, my knees brushing on the cement. The anemone looks up at me, not asking for anything. It knows it’s worth being bought. It doesn’t need to advertise itself. It commands appreciation; commands it without me even noticing: confidence to its core.

I reach in, taking the petal gently, tenderly, its silky surface brushing off on my fingers, wrinkled and stiff from the cold. The smoothness continues, the flower leaning against my hand. I support its head, the anemone’s black core holding itself together. It doesn’t really need me or my support. Even as I look down at this flower, fully capable of destroying it, it still has the control. This flower has done it-become a complete entity; a finished product. 

The middle of the head is made up of a bunch of small prickles. They’re purple—a deep eggplant-y purple. I’ve never seen a purple anemone before, only black ones. There are multiple prickles, each growing separately, but becoming apart of one complete flower. I pick it up, hand the woman a two piece and walk away. 

My feet hit the cement heavily, producing a crunchy noise like the crunch of biting in to a perfectly crisp apple; the apples we used to pick in the beginning of fall. Looking up, the sun warms my face, marking me with its color; giving me that little gift of a tan. A little gift of something I didn’t even know I needed. 

Jumping onto the metro, a man sits next to me. His scarf matches his shoes. His face is marked-marked by life. His eyes droop, but earnestly. He smiles at the woman across from him, the wrinkles fitting perfectly into place. He has smiled enough times for his body to remember-to create proof of an emotion; proof of his experience. Proof that he’s lived. 

It’s morning, my body, intrinsically knowing what to do-knowing what’s best for it-forces a long stretch. A stretch that allows the comforting warmth of the night to be replaced by the comfort of my own blood; the comfort of my own skin.

I take a long inhale, filling myself with what I need: oxygen. With that inhale comes a confidence; a confidence stemming from merely knowing my body has what it needs. 

Empowered, the sun hits my skin. Creeping in through the window, past the anemone, it warms my legs, touching them tenderly, almost motherly. They rub against each other; each leg welcoming the other to the day; giving each other a little tenderness. A little reminder that even though they spend the whole day separated, they’re not alone. The sun continues to peep into my room, looking out for me-an universal mom. 

I stretch and pull off the sheets, cool air brushing off the sleep of the night. 

I have all day.

I take a deep breath, breathing in a new perspective; breathing in familiarity. The relief flows slowly, taking its time, easily flushing out the agenda of the day…making room. 

I remember it’s my birthday. Another year older and I feel it this time. As though something was fitted into my armor overnight, forcing me to stand a bit taller and giving me the confidence to smile, my mouth creating creases that will one day stick. 

My hands pull the covers back over me, not ready to get out of bed yet. They’re more slender now, resembling my mother’s own hands slightly more. I move my fingers, seeing my tendons pop out on cue. It’s a machine. 

My body has supported me throughout my entire life. Throughout every stage of my life. From when I thought I was the next flower child to when I felt like a mysterious woman of the night. It’s with me now in Paris, supporting me, and it’ll be with me when I’m old and know it all; when I have it all figured out. When I’ve accepted that everything isn’t separate, but instead creating one huge stain; a stain that evolves and changes everyday. A stain that accumulates.

A Disguised Clique in Paris

A Moveable Feast emphasizes Hemingway’s Paris, shedding light on a community that few were able to truly be apart of. 

This community is the one of the writers at this time. They worked off of each other, consulting and encouraging one another to pursue his art. Hemingway speaks of Pound and how he, “Helped poets, painters, sculptors and prose writers that he believed in and he would help anyone whether he believed in them or not if they were in trouble.”

This community helped each other out when in need. Hemingway highlights this primarily through Ezra Pound, putting emphasis on the Bel Esprit and later again speaking to how the “Lovers of poetry that Ezra had organized rallied to Dunning’s aid again eventually.” Even through Bel Esprit we see this sense of community and support: “The idea of Bel Esprit was that we would all contribute a part of whatever we earned to provide a fund to get Mr. Eliot out of the bank so he would have money to write poetry.”

Of course this community only worked as the writer’s respected each other. Hemingway speaks of Pound as, “Lik(ing) the works of his friends, which is beautiful as loyalty but can be disastrous as judgement.” Hemingway continues on Pound, “His own writing when he would hit it right, was so perfect, and he was so sincere in his mistakes and so enamored of his errors, and so kind to people that I always though of him as sort of a saint.” Clearly some admiration between writers occurred and this led to a nurturing environment, Hemingway recalling that while boxing he was, “Embarrassed at having him (Ezra) work in front of anyone he knew, and I tried to make him look as good as possible.”

It seems as though Hemingway feels most intimidated throughout A Moveable Feast; as though he is gaining the most from this community. Hemingway admits, “We (Hemingway and Ezra) never argued about these things because I kept my mouth shut about things I did not like.” Further on, Hemingway recalls, “Asking Ezra once when we had walked home from playing tennis out on the Boulevard Arago, and he had asked me into his studio for a drink, what he really thought about Dostoevsky.” Ezra responded, “To tell you the truth, Hem, I’ve never read the Rooshians.” Hemingway is disappointed at this: “Here was the man I liked and trusted the most as a critic then.” Hemingway went to Ezra for perspective; an outlet; a resource. After this conversation Ezra advises Hemingway to keep reading the French. And so Hemingway does. 

Stein advices Hemingway in this same manner, expanding his horizons, introducing him to new people, art, and perspectives on writing. But through Stein we again see Hemingway as the beneficiary of this knowledge, but not necessarily giving it back. This is shown when Stein says that Hemingway is part of a ‘lost generation.’ Stein here is portrayed as older; an older woman looking on the younger generation poorly, as though they have something to figure out; something to learn. 

Regardless of whom were able to influence whom the most, we do see that this community of writers had credibility; knew what they were talking about. We see this through Pound’s own writing stating, “M. Jules Romains is perhaps the most commanding figure among les jeunes.” Then further, “Most of the younger men would seem to be descended from these authors.” Here we get a sense that Pound had clear and concise opinions to share, but we also see the modest man that Hemingway portrays through comparing the man to a ‘saint.’ Pound uses words such as ‘perhaps’ and ‘seem.' He's open to another possibility, but also clearly stating his own view. This modesty and open-mindedness is not something that we're shown through Stein’s character. Stein is portrayed as far more stubborn and authoritative in her ways literally at one point in A Moveable Feast, “Instructing me (Hemingway) about sex.” 

The one constant throughout this community is interest. All these authors are extremely interested in writing, literature and art. Whether their interest is genuine or stems, rather, from some hidden agenda is another story. But regardless, we see this inherent interest, even outside of A Moveable Feast. For example Pound in a writing for POETRY: A Magazine of Verse lists books he himself finds interesting for those who ‘may care.’ Pound continues stating, “It is undeniable that the graces of rhetoric have flourished abundantly in other eras, and that ornamentation has undergone various changes, sometimes with very felicitous consequence.” Clearly Pound has a clear and thorough understanding of literature throughout time and in the present, giving him credibility and enhancing the value to this community of writers. 

Clearly this community aspect was valued by these writers. If one threatened the integrity or general comfort of it, he was 'outcasted.' This is shown through Stein, Hemingway shedding light on the fact that, “Finally she even quarreled with the new friends but none of us followed it anymore.” It seems as though to truly be apart of this community that Hemingway demonstrates, each writer had to be respected by the others. 

Hemingway, for example, had a profound level of respect for Ezra Pound. Hemingway states, “I missed Ezra and wished he were there. He could not afford marennes either.” In this sentence, Hemingway is admiring Ezra for being poor. Hemingway himself demonstrates a certain comfort in being poor; a certain romanticization of it for fear of being apart of/selling out for ‘the rich.’ We’re presented with this conflict between selling out for ‘the rich’ and staying true to oneself and his writing through John Dos Passos (or presumably John Dos Passos). Comparing Passos to a ‘pilot fish,’ Hemingway states, “The rich have a sort of pilot fish who goes ahead of them, sometimes a little deaf, sometimes a little blind, but always smelling affable and hesitant ahead of them.” Hemingway doesn’t want to be like this ‘pilot fish’; is maybe even afraid of becoming like this. So for him, Pound's lack of money is admirable. He sees Pound as staying ‘true to himself.’ Hemingway, at the end of A Moveable Feast even states, “But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy.” Clearly part of Hemingway’s admiration for Pound came from the fact that he was poor, unlike Stein or Passos. 

And coincidentally, Pound notes the same sense of indulgence in Paris as Hemingway experiences. This community, in many ways, formed a Paris of their own. Pound states, “These Parisians, more serious in experiment and more thorough than other people.” Pound’s Paris is filled with experimentation and thoroughness; indulgence. 

Throughout A Moveable Feast, we see Hemingway indulge and experiment; letting himself go even stating, “The whole thing turned out badly for me morally, as so many things have, because the money that I had earmarked for getting the Major out of the bank I took out to Enghien and bet on jumping horses that raced under the influence of stimulants.”

As the book progresses, Hemingway does seem to give back more to this community, gaining confidence and perspective, telling Fitzgerald, “It is not basically a question of the size in repose. It is the size that it becomes.” Here we see Hemingway directly stating opinions of art, later counseling Fitzgerald very directly stating, “Just have the confidence and do what the girl wants. Zelda just wants to destroy you.” This community of writers in Paris most definitely provided Hemingway with the comfort and support he needed grow into a more confidant and articulate man; a man who would go on to write The Old Man and the Sea and The Garden of Eden. 

Ultimately through A Moveable Feast, we gain insight into a community within Paris that few were truly apart of. This community of writers was able to support, inspire, and broaden itself. This community worked off of itself to create new styles and perspectives on writing and the world (Paris) surrounding it. It created its own form of a clique; the 'cool kids' who talked about literature. 

Fiction: Teju Cole

It’s a Sunday morning. Nine o’clock. I forgot to shut my shades last night, the sun intruding, invading and reminding me to go enjoy the day. Seize it. I need to go to the market. Buy some breakfast. Something light. An apple maybe. No, I had that last weekend. A plum, its been awhile since I’ve had a plum. I stretch. I’m up now, peeling my sheets off. The warmth and security of the blanket fades—alone again. Just me and the world. No safety net. No comfy blanket to cover me.

I’ve never been one of those people who wakes up and rolls around; one of those people who stays in bed until twelve only to spend the next six hours complaining of how they wasted the day. It’s not worth the guilt; the guilt of knowing I’m not taking full advantage of time; life. Time slips away quickly, catching the errands of life along with it, collecting whatever I produce that day. 

Producing is the ultimatum of everyday. Me vs. what I produce. Me vs. how much I can produce. At least if I produce something I have something to show; something concrete. ‘Future Me’ will thank ‘Past Me.’

No matter what I’m doing there’s always something else to be done. Slipping in and fading out, the possibilities of the day stay conscious of their ability to occupy; to fill a space of aimless thought. It’s probably better anyways actually that that space is filled than left to its own devices.

Jacket, bag, keys. I check my watch: 9:40. I would’ve liked to have left already. If I go straight to one stand I can make it back by twelve and start my homework. One-thirty to two-oclock. Cool. Then I’ll watch one episode of Friday Night Lights. It’ll be 4. Fuck, that’s at least six hours until bed. I’ll go for a run. Talk to the roommates. Maybe I’ll stop at Tania’s for some coffee or something after. Head back around nine. Shower. Bed at ten. Perfect. 

I have too much spare time. Adults persistently tell me how they miss having free time and I guess I can see that. But it just kind of feels like I’m trying to fill my time; fill the hours. Going for a run kills an hour. Watching a movie kills two hours; killing time until bedtime. Sleep: the ultimate time killer. Then I wake up, starting the next day all over again, killing time. Killing time until inevitably, I don’t know, I get to do the stuff I’m fully engaged in. The activities where time isn’t a constraint, but rather something to keep an eye on-a responsibility I should keep in mind.

I get off the metro, the excitement of Bastille allowing me to get out of myself. The vendors yell at me, pushing their orange and watermelon slices into the air. Their eagerness to get rid of the fruit turns me off to it. If they’re that eager to get rid of it, it just doesn’t seem as valuable. I keep walking. I hear my feet on the pavement-a second of clarity, composure, steadiness.

He’s young. His skin is slightly tanned-the type of tan that is too familiar with its occupier; the lingering tan; the clingy tan. He’s rearranging his fruit. His face shows full concentration on this task. It’s just him and the fruit, within Bastille; not Bastille and the market allowing for his occupancy. I want the fruit he’s arranging. I walk over and buy two plums. He smiles at me, looking down to the fruit as I walk away. 

I keep walking, noticing a florist. Waves of familiarity settle onto me. My old job. My old ‘playing grounds.’ 

Anemones: my favorite. They’re classic, classic in a way that doesn’t ask to be classic. Classic in a way that’s still modern; a class that modernity looks up to. I become the woman I was when I first saw this flower. I feel a smile before I even acknowledge that I’m smiling—a natural response. A response triggered by something way more complex than I am. 

I kneel down, my knees brushing on the cement. The anemone looks up at me, not asking for anything. It knows it’s worth being bought. It doesn’t need to advertise itself. It commands appreciation; commands it without me even noticing: confidence to its core.

I reach in, taking the petal gently, tenderly, its silky surface brushing off on my fingers, wrinkled and stiff from the cold. The smoothness continues, the flower leaning against my hand. I support its head, the anemone’s black core holding itself together. It doesn’t really need me or my support. Even as I look down at this flower, fully capable of destroying it, it still has the control. This flower has done it-become a complete entity; a finished product. 

The middle of the head is made up of a bunch of small prickles. They’re purple—a deep eggplant-y purple. I’ve never seen a purple anemone before, only black ones. There are multiple prickles, each growing separately, but becoming apart of one complete flower. I pick it up, hand the woman a two piece and walk away. 

My feet hit the cement heavily, producing a crunchy noise like the crunch of biting in to a perfectly crisp apple; the apples we used to pick in the beginning of fall. Looking up, the sun warms my face, marking me with its color; giving me that little gift of a tan. A little gift of something I didn’t even know I needed. 

Jumping onto the metro, a man sits next to me. His scarf matches his shoes. His face is marked, marked by life. His eyes droop, but earnestly. He smiles at the woman across from him, the wrinkles fitting perfectly into place. He has smiled enough times for his body to remember-to create proof of his emotion; proof of his experience. Proof that he’s lived. 

It’s morning, my body, intrinsically knowing what to do; knowing what’s best for it, forces a long stretch. A stretch that allows the comforting warmth of the night to be replaced by the comfort of my own blood; the comfort of my own skin.

I take a long inhale, filling myself with what I need-oxygen. With that inhale comes a confidence; a confidence stemming from merely knowing my body has what it needs. 

Empowered, the sun hits my skin. Creeping in through the window, past the anemone, it warms my legs, touching them tenderly, almost motherly. They rub against each other; each leg welcoming the other to the day; giving each other a little tenderness. A little reminder that even though they spend the whole day separated, they’re not alone. The sun continues to peep into my room, looking out for me-an universal mom. 

I stretch and pull off the sheets, cool air brushing off the sleep of the night. I have all day to enjoy. 

I take a deep breath, breathing in a new perspective; breathing in familiarity. The relief flows slowly, taking its time, easily flushing out the agenda of the day…making room. 

Henry Miller: The 'Real' Paris

It was Anais Nin who originally led me to Henry Miller. I always like the idea of this manly man persona; the man who holds nothing back; the man who’s honest with himself and his surroundings. Authors like Bukowski for example, and undeniably Henry Miller. 

It was no surprise to me that Miller portrays a different side of Paris in this excerpt. At this same time, even though he’s shedding a different light on Paris than maybe the romanticized notion of the city, he still shows Paris as something of a dream. Miller does something which few, if any, other authors are able to successfully pull off: he shows the reality of Paris, the darker side of it and then romanticizes that side. 

Miller uses phrases such as, “The fat worms are sucking the shit out of the cesspools.” He continues, “Every night, as I head toward La Fourche, I run the gauntlet. Every night I’m scalped and tomahawked.” Again we see this darker imagery, “Like the gnarled stump of an old redwood, solitary and majestic she stands there in the broad plane of the Seine.” Showing this darker side to Paris portrays the frustration experienced by many of these expatriate writers. 

They (Miller included) experience a certain ‘liberation of the imagination’ while in Paris-a place that was more open and accepting of sexuality. Paris provided, “Sexual openness and freedom.” This sense of liberation acted as a portal of sorts towards self-discovery and awareness. With this new sense of self, came a frustration for these writers; a frustration of yearning; yearning for spirituality, understanding of self, and creativity. Miller portrays this darker side of Paris, highlighting this sense of frustration, while also shedding light on the new perspectives Paris has given him-a new world in a sense. 

All these ex-pats include this theme of a romanticized sense of Paris. The Paris, as Miller states, “I have always been searching for.” And Miller acknowledges that it exists, however he also sheds light on “A man lying on the sidewalk.” Miller describes the man as, “Lying flat on his back with arms outstretched—as if he had just been taken down from the cross. Not a soul approached him, not one, to see if he were dead or not.” Miller portrays Paris as real-not merely a place of romance and free time-but through this still includes a certain amount of romance to the city. He still gets lost in it; loses himself in it. 

With this being said, it’s interesting to see how Miller views his past: America. Miller states, “Everything American coming up in a rush. And with every name a thousand intimate details of my life are connected.” I wrote about this before, being constantly reminded of the past parts of what has made you, well you, and further of finding comfort in these moments. 

Miller discusses the sense of self-awareness Paris (or any city for that matter) gives him. “Each city I walked through has killed me—so vast the misery, so endless the unremitting toil. From one city to another I walk, leaving behind me a grand procession of dead and clanking selves.” Paris, but even further traveling, allows Miller a certain amount of self-discovery. He is not the same person he came to Paris as, and this adds to this image of Paris as a place for exploration; a place for one to be free and explore. This is a theme found within most expats in Paris, such as Hemingway. 

Within the excerpt from Miller is a lot of embryo imagery, insinuating that Miller is being reborn in Paris; is ‘finding himself,’ as cliche as that may sound. He states, “Fetus under a dead sun.” He again discusses birth: “Born while sitting in a cafe, born while lying over a whore.” We can observe a sense that through the activities that Paris allows for Miller finds a new side to himself. Pizer sees the Paris cafe as “The site of this joining of sexuality and creativity in artistic expression.” Clearly the places/environment of Paris allowed for a certain expression and awareness that other locations, such as America didn’t necessarily provide for these writers. 

Miller continues, “[It] tears the living embryo from the womb and puts it in the incubator. Paris is the cradle of artificial births.” Here we see Miller again shedding light on the idea of Paris as a place for one to grow and develop. At this same time he shows the ‘reality’ of this by referring to this birth as ‘artificial.’ It may not be real. It may just be an over-romanticization, for no birth is really true except from the womb. Miller continues, “The born man living unborn, the unborn man dying born.” We again get a sense of this sense of being reborn/awakened. The born man lives unborn because he has been awakened, and therefore has much more to learn; acknowledges that there is much more to learn, whereas the man who has not been awakened, dies as man; dies content even. For the man who has not been awakened, death is the closest to a connection with spirituality and creativity that he will see. 

Another example of Miller’s increased self-awareness in Paris is shown when he states, “I see myself bending over the book in the cafe; I see the whore alongside me reading over my shoulder.” He is literally observing himself out of body, giving him a new perspective/way of seeing himself and his situation. 

These writers came to Paris and let themselves go. With a less strict view on sexuality and a general sense of freedom, these writers fully indulged-in Miller’s case, even overindulged-in these activities. Miller states, “Walking toward Montparnasse I decided to let myself drift with the tide, to make not the least resistance to fate, no matter in what form in presented itself.” We sense a certain amount of freedom from Miller here, fitting into his philosophy of libertinism. Paris, a place with increased sexuality and a sense of freedom, feeds Miller’s libertinism perfectly, allowing him to sleep around, speak badly of God, and generally disregard authority. He states, “I go forth to fatten myself.” Miller wants to over-indulge in activities, taking full advantage of the freedoms that Paris allows for, allowing him to increase his own awareness of himself. 

We can observe Miller’s philosophy of libertinism through his writing too, as he devotes an entire page and a half to things that remind him of the ‘American scene,’ including Abe Lincoln and Standard Oil. It’s excessive, breaking the norms of writing. He isn’t concerned, presumably, that his reader will be bored of reading a laundry list of names, but rather lists them for himself-no real regard for the reader’s engagement. Sure maybe he was trying to connect with the reader, listing things that they could connect to, but Miller would have been easily able to do that by listing two or three household names. 

Pizer feels that, “A sharp break with the conventionally acceptable in belief and behavior, a break that appears to be attributable principally to the Paris scenes which they are set.” Miller encompasses this, breaking free from prior convictions to search for a new way to live; a new sense of himself. Pizer continues that Paris provided some with, “Sexual openness and freedom serv(ing) to confirm traditional beliefs, while for others it led either to a deeply iconoclastic stance or to the dramatization of modern versions of man’s tragic limitations.” For Miller we see this new awareness of ‘man’s tragic limitations’, trying to work through this newfound realization and cope with it. Miller states, “I am like a man who awakes from a long sleep to find that he is dreaming.” 

This sense of spirituality is something that many of these writers valued and many linked this spirituality to sexuality; expression. We see this in Anais Nin stating, “That last afternoon in Henry’s hotel room was for me like a white-hot furnace. Before, I had only white heat of the mind and of the imagination; now it is of the blood. Sacred completeness.” We see Nin finding a sense of wholeness through sexuality. 

Miller describes Paris as “Rubbing her belly. Paris is smacking her lips. Paris is whetting her palate for the feast to come.” By personifying Paris in this way, Miller sexualizes the city, again reinforcing this correlation between the city and sexuality, which ultimately leads to creative thought. 

Miller and many other authors of this time focused on sexual and personal awakenings, as opposed to specific personal relationships. They become more inside of themselves, trying to figure themselves out; trying to be ‘born’ again. And the freedom that they find in Paris allows them to do this, also causing great frustration, yearning and slight impatience for the day when they can say, “I’ve figured it out!”

Combined Essays: The Comfort in Universality

“No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me.”

Proust describes tasting a madeleine. How it triggers memories; causes nostalgia. Sure taste triggers this, but so do all your senses. The smell of a particular perfume, songs from a cartoon-they trigger something, reminding you of a past mindset; a past perception of the world that you’ve long outgrown. And there’s comfort in this.  

If I’m being completely honest with myself, it took me almost all of high school to form even the slightest sense of identity. But now that my identity is formed, these changing perceptions/mindsets just seem like an interference holding me back from being able to confidently say, “I’ve figured it out!” I guess that’s the point. I haven’t figured it out. But I’m too stubborn to admit that. Universality allows me to travel back to past mindsets; mindsets I have understood. It’s comfort at a point in my life when I can't always necessarily provide that to myself. 

Walking in the Parc des Buttes Chaumont, I was at first taken aback. It having just rained, the smell of spring coming replaced my initial concern for this class; my initial concern for every class. 

The smell brought back all the springs I’ve seen: the track meets, riding my bike around the cul-de-sac, waiting for the ice cream truck. I was transported, and not through my own will, but rather through some exterior force-a force that knows (better than I) my life. Memory works like that-your subconscious coming out of the woodworks. This is this comfort in memory-reverting to a past mindset-a mindset you fully understand and recognize. 

Spring triggering the mindset of my childhood: the angst-y teenage years, the innocent blinded ones; I’m transported to a past version of myself. For a mere second I stop being so conscious to how I’m perceiving everything and just see it the way I did back then-‘living in the moment.’ It comes so naturally, allowing me to forget, for a split second, all the bullshit I’ve seen/heard/learned and revert to a simpler state. Everything is still the same in this state-grass, trees, whatever. For that moment my environment is the same, but I’m not; I’m transported to this past version of myself, seeing the world for a mere couple of seconds the way I saw it back then. Back from whenever this memory was from. 

My mom always said she’s glad she’s not judged on who she was in her past. I never understood this. Isn’t whoever you are in your past still you? Your perception of the world changes as you change sure, but does that mean that it isn’t still apart of you? I hate using that word-change. It never seems like anyone is in control when they’re changing…like it just happens overnight or something. 

I’m at this point where I’m trying to force a consistent mindset. I mean, that’s step 2 in becoming a ‘real’ person, right? I know who I am, but the way I see everything changes on a daily basis. Or maybe that’s just what different moods really are: your perceptions changing.

Regardless, constantly reminded of this goal, I spend a substantial amount of energy trying to determine how I’m seeing and perceiving everything. Its come to a point where I spend so much energy on this that I’m not really seeing anything for what it is, but rather for how I choose to calculate it.

This momentary state of nostalgia-momentary comfort of a past spring-ended abruptly as I heard my heels clank against the concrete. Maybe this is why Thoreau was bothered by the sound of his ‘own steps, the grit of gravel; and therefore never willingly walking in the road, but in the grass, on the mountains and in the woods.’ Thoreau just wanted to escape himself; escape this consistent consciousness to our perception. I looked to see if there was any grass to walk on, but fences stood in my way-man telling me which way to walk, giving me order. In front of the fences sat a variety of greens; greens that looked beautiful, but that left to their own devices would have never grown next to each other. 

I keep walking, running into the pond-perfectly shaped. Looking out over the pond, I see the buildings of Paris. Buildings filled with people working, studying, paying bills. Suddenly I remember that I still have to pay my tuition for this semester-my own duty to society. 

How can walking be a means of escape; an opportunity for one to go back to his primitive, natural core, when there are reminders of society everywhere? Thoreau believed that, “If you have paid your debts, and made your will, and settled all your affairs, and are a free man, then you are ready for a walk.” But you can’t be a free man when the thing enslaving you is still towering over you.

Considering that parks, essentially order, are what civilization has to offer nature, Muir sees nature as best when left alone; best when left to its expanses. Nature in the urban context limits its expanse, turning nature into just another thing that we can look over; say we’ve conquered. Using this as an example, I should probably just let myself perceive my surroundings the way they’ll naturally come. I mean things are always best when untouched my man, right? That’s a saying. People totally say that. 

But now that I’ve become aware that I can be in control of this, I owe it to myself to choose a mindset by which to filter the world by, right?

Conquering nature limits the awe of it; the beauty of it. But it also eliminates the unknown. The mystery of where we’ll end up; where we are; the realization of how small we are in comparison to this greater thing. Ultimately the order we put to nature to make it fit into an urban context rids it of most factors that connect one with his spirituality. Parks create nature that is understood, but spirituality stems from the unknown. 

There’s beauty in the unknown; beauty in ignorance. Thought puts so much order to life, which is natural I guess. We’ve ordered our entire world from the economy to the institution of marriage. Everything is put into nice little boxes, definitions-a perceived understanding. The unknown scares us. The concrete is something we can rely on. A solid perspective; a sense of understanding; a sense of belonging; a sense of comfort. I envy childhood a little: the days before you even knew you could have a different perception or be a different person. 

Getting back to the city streets, I walk through the Marais. The streets run on seemingly endlessly and so do the small space invaders; connecting the Marais, connecting Paris, but also connecting me with home. A friend’s favorite artist is Invader; every critter carrying a wave of comfort. A wave of familiarity, tenderness, followed by a sharp pang for something-someone-I don’t have. The streets are filled with his memory-more his presence. It’s comforting to be constantly reminded of someone who made you happy in a way you didn’t even know you were capable of; who filled in that last bit that’s missing. That last little something: a person to share the happiness with. That’s why love works so well. It makes you happy and gives you an outlet for that happiness. 

Going through an alley there’s an assortment of street art. Each piece carries its own message. Each piece screaming to be heard, ends up merely masked by its competitors. Street art: competitors who aren’t even trying to compete. The causes, messages, overlap and overwhelm, turning into one huge mass of ‘angsty' rebellion.

A storm trooper sits on the entrance of the ally. My brother loves these guys and suddenly I miss him. The thought of missing people is worse than the actual process-self-pitying remorse. With time being the controlling factor, there’s nothing to be done; no coping mechanism for this form of pain. Taking a picture and sending it to him is all to be done. 

My brother loves storm troopers in Jersey, and he’ll love them in Paris. Nature is beautiful in the wild, and in parks. I know what to expect from these elements. This sense of universality brings me comfort, understanding; a sense of consistency within a world that changes on a daily basis. 

Seeing everything for what it is is difficult when there’s so much you can connect it to-memories, your past. There are universal elements everywhere in every park, every city. Consistency is necessary. There has to be a sense of a universal world; a source pool to reach into and pull comfort out of when you don’t have any. We’re all just trying to find comfort, which is frustrating because let’s be real, nothing is going to beat the comfort we had in the bubble of childhood; the bubble of the womb. This universality gives you a way to understand your surroundings when you don’t know them. Otherwise they’ll overwhelm you, suffocate you.

I keep walking towards the Seine, looking up, searching for more art. In a window, two men look back at me. Mere paintings, they carry with them a truth that gives them a misleading reality. Typical French: striped shirt, small hat, and a mustache-these men know what they’re doing. They’re confidant. They’re smooth. The subtlety of them is something owned by street art. It adds to the coolness of it; that it’s not asking to be appreciated, but is instead there for the sake of being there-for the sake of being public.  

There’s something freeing about this art. Since it’s not really made for anyone, it ends up being made for everyone. Using known figures like storm troopers and President Sarkozy, everyone can relate to street art in a way that a gallery (or the law) doesn’t really allow. There’s a constant within the art.

It fills all of Paris: another message. This one slightly overpowering the others due to its simplicity and the fact that it’s everywhere: Je suis Charlie. Nous sommes Charlie. All it takes is gluing up a poster to make it seem like a whole city supports a cause. Maybe they do. Maybe it’s just another distraction. Distraction from the fact that you’re uncomfortable; distraction from the fact that the strongest comfort you’ll find is from memories of the known. I guess that’s okay. 

C.S. Lewis believed, “If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end.” Maybe comfort is truth because comfort stems from memory; stems from the understood. 

Lewis continues, “If you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth only soft soap and wishful thinking to begin, and in the end, despair.” This is because comfort comes to you when you least expect it. Through a smell, a taste, a comic book hero. It transports you to a time that you now have the ability to reflect on, and ultimately understand. It transports you to a mindset you once knew; a time when your bubble allowed you only one perception of your surroundings-false understanding, but still something concrete. Finding universality in elements provides this sense of concreteness; a sense of the familiar. Comfort. One day my mindset now will probably bring me comfort, but for now I don’t really understand it. It’s new, so I’m not yet fully comfortable with it. I haven’t ‘figured it out’ yet. Maybe one day…probably not. 

Ford Madox Ford: Narration

In The Good Soldier, John Dowell recalls the story of his wife’s affair. Contrary to what most would presume, Dowell doesn’t angrily depict this situation, but rather tells his story in a very matter-of-fact manner, ultimately forcing the reader to be suspicious of the narrator’s mindset.

Since the story is told in this very casual and natural manner, Dowell is able to digress, painting a picture of how he sees the situation at hand, but also presumably over-exaggerating and understating in the process.

This natural style is established by conveying the story out of order instead of chronologically. This presents the main character as chaotic, possibly even neurotic-not stable, or ordered. At this same time, this style replicates life and natural thought. 

Ultimately this brings to light how one-sided the story we are getting really is, making the reader somewhat hesitant about trusting such a chaotic narrator. We learn here to be weary of the narrator and everything he’s saying. Due to this portrayed sporadicalness, we’re reminded that we shouldn’t unquestioningly accept his portrayal of the situation. 

It’s like this in life too-people have your trust until they prove themselves otherwise. My grandma always used to say, “You teach people how to treat you” and in this case, the narrator is teaching us to be hesitant of him through his method of storytelling. We learn to be cautious of how he’s portraying the situation, people, etc. 

In addition to this, since we are given no solid way to credit the narrator’s judgment, we take everything the main character says with a grain of salt, fully acknowledging the fact that it’s covered in his bias. 

We question Dowell’s judgement further through his portrayal of adultery. Normally, readers will see adultery as negative. However the narrator never explicitly conveys it as such, staying pretty detached from the situation. Due to this, we are again forced to question the narrator and his judgement. In this respect, every reader will see the narrator differently, as more or less reliable based on their own morals.  

For example, while reading this I initially saw Dowell as irrational for being so calm about the situation, but then I remembered how I sometimes shut off completely if something is really painful or especially bad; choosing to shut off all emotion instead of process it. The way Dowell explains his adulterer and the situation at hand reminded me of this and made me, personally, feel sympathy for Dowell in this moment. Regardless, however, most readers would question Dowell’s judgement here, not understanding the rationale behind his passiveness. 

Further, it doesn’t help Dowell build the reader’s trust when he changes his own mind repeatedly, providing the reader with no solid or concrete perspective. Dowell states, “I do not think that there is much excuse for Florence.” But previously he had stated, “She excused herself on the score of an overmastering passion. Well, I always say that an overmastering passion is a good excuse for feelings.” Due to this change in opinion, the reader is unable to create a vivid picture of the narrator, and is therefore unable to understand and ultimately trust him. 

In this same sense, there is a consistent language of not knowing, Dowell repeatedly using language such as perhaps, etc. The narrator states, “So I guess Florence had not found getting married to me a very stimulating process.” This is one example, but we get a sense of unease from the narrator-a sense that he is in a lack of control within his own world; uncertain of his own world. And if the narrator is uncertain of his world, the reader will be too. Later Dowell even admits to misleading the reader stating, “I have unintentionally misled you when I said that Florence was never out of my sight. Yet that was the impression that I really had until just now. When I come to think of it she was out of my sight most of the time.”

We see this again through the character of Edward. Dowell originally introduces Edward as a good man, but later sheds a different light on him. Dowell even admits that he was blind-sided stating, “But think of the fool that I was.” We trusted the narrator and he told the story in such an order/way that misled us, losing our trust before he even gained it. 

Further, Dowell states, “I don’t care. If Florence has robbed a bank I am going to marry her and take her to Europe.” From early on we’re introduced to Dowell as lacking a certain degree of rationale; letting passion rule over him. Again this adds to this feel of not being able to trust him. This passion leads him to a disordered frame of mind, conveyed through the form of the text. 

Ultimately it is up to the reader how much he chooses to trust the narrator’s portrayal of these characters and the situation. In the same way that the reader must make his own image of the narrator, one must make his own image of Paris. Ford believed that, “You must invent a Paris of your own.” One makes Paris his own in the same way he makes the narrator his own; reflecting his own values, morals, and past experiences onto the character or place. 

Both Hemingway and Ford wrote about Paris and if we are to use Hemingway and Ford as a face for Americans and the British, the British are significantly more straightforward than Americans. We see this again in The Good Soldier, Dowell's wife not directly telling him that she doesn't wish to sleep with him, but rather lying about an illness. Americans are portrayed as less straightforward than the British in both these readings. Further, Ford seems to ‘tell it like it is.’ He’s impatient and in a hurry. Hemingway is more relaxed, laid-back, taking Ford’s drink, for example, after the waiter brought the wrong one. 

Hemingway is extremely polite, apologizing to Sylvia Beach after discussing his trouble selling his writing. Conversely we see Ford very blatantly tell Hemingway, “You’re very glum.” There’s a clear difference in the direct manner of their language and to a certain degree their manners. 

Hemingway is also far less honest than Ford, although that too may stem from politeness. Hemingway states, “My stomach would turn over and I would say, ‘I’m going home for lunch now.’”

On this same note, the two authors view Paris in very different lights as well. Ford looks at Paris in a much broader light than Hemingway. Ford focuses on the bigger picture, including a variety of historical components, while Hemingway focuses more on his immediate relationship/experience with the city. 

Ford states, “She has survived because the imaginations of her poets in ink, colors, sounds or stones, have given to her visions an unrivaled clarity, a frigid rectitude, an almost unthinkable resilience.”

We’re introduced to Paris as this city for artists and opportunity conveyed through both writers-a romanticization of a city that we can all relate to; a city that we can all project ourselves onto. 

Art Nouveau: The 'New' Nature

Thoreau’s Nature 

Thoreau took great issue with the ‘taming’ of nature, seeing “man’s improvements, so called, as the building of houses and the cutting down of the forest and of all large trees, simply deform(ing) the landscape, and mak(ing) it more and more tame and cheap.” 

This taming of nature is the focus of Art Nouveau, putting nature in a form which man has created. “Art Nouveau invents a new modern architectural style, the elements of which suggest a metamorphosis on inert, architectural form into living, growing plant form.” By taking nature and including it in this ‘form’ we lose an element of freedom that nature offers. We’re making nature a slave to man by trying to re-create it through architecture. This is similar to the way in which we make animals our slaves, Thoreau stating, “I rejoice that horses and steers have to be broken before they can be slaves of men.”

Some 'broken' horses in the park

Thoreau emphasizes being “absolutely free from all worldly engagements” in nature; being able to be one with nature. Discussing his experiences Thoreau states, “I have walked a mile into the woods bodily, without getting there in spirit.” 

This emphasis of being one with nature is something that requires full immersion, both mentally and physically. And to be able to be fully immersed in nature, one can’t be influenced or reminded, rather, of societal factors. 

Paris’ Nature

Walking in Park Monceau, observing the statues, I felt this disconnect from nature. I wasn’t able to tap into a ‘primitive’ side because I was looking at Chopin, thinking about music and laughing at the statue’s ridiculousness. In addition to this, Chopin seemed to have some sort of rubber contrapment on his face, placed there presumably by some smart-witted angst-filled teen out for ‘fast kicks’ or by some park worker, conveying the statue’s need for renovation. 

Chopin Statue

This reminder of how society-man, music, creation-it sparks too much thought for one to have the luxury of immersion. Surrounded by society all day everyday, I’m programmed to think about how it functions and the elements that make it up. It would take a long time for me to forget all these things entirely; to be able to just be. These statues further enforce this mentality, emphasizing man’s knowledge by portraying musicians, etc. Thoreau states, “A man’s ignorance sometimes is not only useful, but beautiful-while his knowledge, so called, is oftentimes worse than useless, besides being ugly.” 

Thoreau would find further issue with this park. He emphasizes full immersion, finding pleasure in the fact that “we find it difficult to choose our direction, because it does not yet exist distinctly in our idea.” This park, with clear paths marked out and statues strategically placed for one to look upon at a specific time, makes it incredibly easy for us to choose a direction. It has existed in many different people’s ‘idea.’ The element of getting lost, wandering, discovering is lost. Instead this nature is organized: clear paths marked out with statues speaking to the more intellectual. 

                               

                                             

One can tell that those organizing these statues attempted to make it blend into the nature. The first statue I come across is of a man, looking down almost bored, impatiently at a young girl. In front of this statue sits a drooping tree. Both the tree and the men possess a certain tiresomeness, almost blending into one until one is reminded that the tree is built that way-it didn’t have a choice in its lethargic demeanor. The man, however, is in full control of his demeanor, making a conscious decision to accept a lack of interest. 

Placed near a group of taller trees, is a bust of Pailleron, with a woman looking up at him. His bust being higher than the woman gives the man an authoritative feel in the same way that the tall trees possess. 

Pailleron Statue

Even though these statues replicate what the nature itself is doing, a clear and concrete separation between statue and nature exists, taking one out of the nature to appreciate the statue, preventing this element of full immersion that Thoreau repeatedly emphasizes. 

Art Nouveau AKA Man's Attempt at Making Sense of Nature

Nature, as Viollet-le-Duc believed, has the possibility to “provide a model for manmade structures.” This doesn’t mean, however that these manmade structures should be apart of nature or attempt to provide a model for nature. Nature is its own entity. We’ve already tainted it with buildings, etc, destroying a solid portion of it. The integration of nature and manmade structures exists, but it doesn’t allow for one to ‘lose himself’ and be fully immersed. One can’t wander in the sense that Thoreau speaks. Instead one follows a path that has been designed for walking, usually with a preconceived destination in mind. 

Bridge leading the walker

I traveled to Barcelona a few weekends ago and saw the church that Gaudi designed, and although it replicated nature to some degree, I was still in a city-consumed and reminded of all and any societal expectations present there. The issue with Art Nouveau is that it can’t relay this spiritual experience that many have found in nature because it’s focused around an urban setting; a setting that was designed by man to function with societal influences.

Church designed by Gaudi (Notice the renovations taking place...)

Oscar Wilde believed that, “Nor in its primary aspect has painting any more spiritual message for us than a blue tile.” This is the primary difference between Thoreau’s view of nature and art: nature offers us something in a way that art, or anything manmade really, fails to do. 

The main theoretical issue with Art Nouveau, from Thoreau’s assumed perspective, is that it tries to fit nature into a city setting. The city setting is structured, however, around man’s influence, including sidewalks guiding the walker where to go and buildings strategically designed and placed. The city doesn’t allow man to forget himself-go out of himself. If Art Nouveau was intertwined in nature itself, blending into it and working to enhance the general aesthetic as opposed to trying to make a building that has a natural aesthetic, it might be able to convey this spiritual experience Thoreau was able to find in nature.

Wilde continues, believing that painting, “Affects us by no suggestion stolen from philosophy, no pathos pilfered from literature, no feeling filched from a poet, but by its own incommunicable artistic essence.” Wilde makes the argument here that paintings, in their own way, evoke the same spiritual experience as Thoreau finds in nature. Although this may be true of some art for some people, in a larger scale, art is often picked apart for references to other philosophies, literature, etc. In many cases artists even reach out to these elements for inspiration. And in the case of the sculptures at Park Monceau, many of actual artists themselves, a clear ‘suggestion’ stolen from these more intellectual influences is found. 

Statue containing the 'box' quality often found in Art Nouveau 

It’s the fact that there are traces of these elements of man’s knowledge in this art that disrupts the park, taking one, once again, out of the nature and into himself; his own thoughts. 

               

The focus Art Nouveau places on nature demonstrates man’s want to get out of himself, and nature’s allure, warranting it a certain level of respect. “Victor Horta, a pioneer of Art Nouveau architecture, demonstrated that structural iron could be fashioned into plant forms with no sense of forcing the argument, and in the process created a fluidity and harmony between vegetative forms and buildings.” This focus on trying to mesh nature and buildings (manmade elements) into one demonstrates a want to be closer to nature; to try and understand it. There’s an unspoken respect for the ‘genius in nature’ and so man has tried to include it in his art. But man picks apart his art; dissects it for its meaning; the knowledge behind it. Art nouveau, for example was soon seen as holding “amorality and decadence.” In its own way it was created with a purpose; not for one to wander around in, but rather look through and come to a conclusion about. Art is created with a destination that wandering through nature doesn’t possess, Thoreau believing, “It [nature] will never become quite familiar to you.”

Thoreau discusses architecture in his essay stating, “I appreciate the beauty and the glory of architecture, which itself never turns in, but forever stands out and erect, keeping watch over the slumberers.” Discussing architecture, Thoreau emphasizes its clear differentiation from its surroundings-something that ‘stands out.’ It is calling to be noticed, and although conducive in a city setting, it belittles nature, overpowering it with its design;purpose. 

It’s only natural that we would try to merge nature-something we don’t truly understand-into our art. For, a main purpose of art itself is to attempt to express what we don’t know or can’t understand. The spirituality man finds in nature is just this-something we don’t understand. And maybe that’s why we’re so drawn to it. But as of now, nature remains something we can merely only attempt to replicate through form. 

Some more of 'Paris' Nature':