Catacombs Walks (Fr)

J’ai pris une promenade. Une autre promenade. Les promenades avant étaient belles. Celui-ci était effrayant. Il y avait tant de crânes. Ils sont rappels de la mort. Je n’avais jamais peur de la morte. Peut-étre parce que je suis jeune. Paris est calme. Mais les catacombes ne sont pas. Les crânes vides regardent eu arriére de moi. Les gens qui ont veçu; des gens qui avaient aimé. Je vais un jour être un crâne vide. 

Les catacombes sont libres d'étudiants, alors je ai marché vers le bas dans le musée. Les touristes sont partout. Je suis un touriste également. Ils prennent des photos. Je pense que ce est un peu irrespectueux pour prendre des photos des morts. Ces personnes ne ont jamais choisi d'être mis sur l'affichage.

Il ya beaucoup d'os. Marina Al Rubaee constaté que, «l'un d'Eux Explique à touriste juin, Dans un anglais rapide et haché, au Québec« L'Endroit ABRITE six millions d'ossements sur près de deux de Kilomètres »."

Tout en marchant, je pense à chacune de ces personnes. Chacun de ces crânes. Ils étaient tous les individus. Ils avaient tous des familles. Ils étaient tous malades.

Dans l'avenir, je pense que ce sera notre nouvelle réalité. La surpopulation va causer un manque d'espace. Où vont tous les cadavres aller? Je ne sais pas. Mais les humains créés catacombes fois et ils le feront encore. Probablement.

L'aspect religieux des catacombes est aussi intéressant. Comme si ce était l'intention de Dieu. Les gens sont très confiants en Dieu.

Comme je marche je regarde autour et je remarque beaucoup d'écrits. La plupart d'entre eux sont religieux. C’est probablement parce que les gens avaient besoin d'espoir. Espérons que les choses iraient mieux.

Les os ont été extraits d'un vieux cimetière de Saint-Laurent. Aussi le cimetière de Saint-Jean et l'hôpital de la Trinité. Tout cela se produit dans les années 1800. Je me rends compte que je me promène dans l’histoire.

J’ai entendu qu'il y avait eu du vandalisme dans les catacombes. C’est très irrespectueux. Je me demande pourquoi il ne sent pas mauvais ici. Mon ami m'a dit, elle descendit dans les catacombes de nuit, illégalement. Cela semble très effrayant.

Les catacombes sont effrayants. Il est effrayant de penser que ce peut-être notre avenir. Que ce est probablement notre avenir. (Robin, j’ai essayé)

More on Hemingway

The Sun Also Rises is presented as a type of guidebook. Everywhere the narrator takes us, he has been before. By choosing this narration style, “Hemingway is giving up one of the major tactics of the classical novel—the use, as a focus of perception of a character who is taken by surprise.” But by leaving out Jake being surprised or taken severely off guard, he’s presented as jaded, possibly from the war.

The emphasis on time/itinerary is something Jake probably gained while in the war. “Hemingway’s prose adopts this pattern; the reader is made aware of the hour of day, the day of the week, etc., the chapters often begin in the early morning as if the purpose were to set down all the details of a programmed schedule, not forgetting the essential time off for meals and refreshment.” This type of mentality-one of order, structure-is similar to one that would be enforced in the military. 

Jake also doesn’t leave himself with much time left over for idleness. Atherton states, “The catalogue of places is thus a means to exhaust, to use up by correspondence, the characters’ pool of available time, and thus create the impression that the narrative eye is truing the action steadily, unwaveringly, without letup.” In addition to this, however, Jake is not left with much idle time; time to just think. And maybe this is a purposeful decision on his part, for left to his own devices he’d probably recount the horrors of the war, etc something Hemingway himself had admitted to being extremely affected by. By filling his time and creating an itinerary for life, Jake is able to obtain the ordered mentality enforced on him while he was in the military, but he is also able to escape, or distract himself rather, from memories of a past reality. This could explain the narrator’s “obsessive aversion to the iterative.” It’s obsessive because Jake needs to be obsessed; needs to create distraction from something he doesn’t want to face; from the horrors he’s trying to escape.

Even when he discusses the war, it’s very matter-of-factly. Never extremely detailed. Jake states, “I got hurt in the war.” Hemingway’s general minimalistic style also portrays something of one who is jaded. One who is jaded from, presumably a war, has seen such horrors and blocks a lot out due to this, not delving deep into emotion for that would be a dangerous and guaranteed route to sadness, madness even. 

Jake has learned to value stability and an ordered mindset/lifestyle from the war. He finds a certain sexiness in stability describing ‘a remarkably attractive woman’ as ‘fine and straight.’

But Jake doesn’t just live in his own itinerary, for that wouldn’t be enough distraction. He  talks to his friends about their schedules too, but also watches the people of his surrounding’s itineraries stating,“I watched a good-looking girl walk past the table and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched her go up the street and lost sight of her, and watched another, and then saw the first one coming back again.”

Atherton discusses that this talk of itineraries is also, at times, used as a weapon. Atherton gives the example of Frances discussing her future voyage to England. This is hard on Cohn, as it ‘precipitates his “trip”.’ Hemingway’s lack of directly introducing or giving the reader an emotion or intention, but instead merely throwing it in, imitates how natural speech is spoken and how humans interact normally: being passive aggressive, etc. The characters in The Sun Also Rises are therefore relatable as you love to hate them. Their subtleties in language are something most readers have confronted on a daily basis and therefore understand intrinsically, without description, making this book less dense and more entertaining…at least at its surface. 

We don’t really get a sense of Jake’s past-who he was before this account. Due to this lack of background, we lose “what otherwise would have been part of a biography and thus part of the fullness of character into assigned attribute and function.” Jake simply ‘knows’ and the reader puts a false trust in him due to this presented knowledge/demeanor.

He speaks to us as a ‘guide’ describing the colors of things almost presenting everything as though we were a tourist as when he describes the ballroom. And, due to a lack of background (insight) we trust him as our guide. We have no reason not to trust him.

Jake describing his surroundings to us in this manner allows us to gain insight into his own mentality and the truth is revealed that he is, in fact a tourist too-an American, an outsider, hanging out with his American ‘buddies’ in establishments taken over by Americans, as we see when Jake goes to a restaurant recently reported to be clear of Americans, to find that Americans have now raided the place. 

This is basically what Hemingway and his crew did when they came to Paris. Hemingway was mostly socializing with other Americans who had come to Paris either to escape, get away, but nonetheless who were American. Sure he lived in Paris, but he was living in a Paris in which him and his American friends created, not a Paris true to its own culture. 

Jake tries to deny the fact that he is a tourist, speaking rather demeaningly about these people, but by presenting certain colors and places in this rather ‘tourist-broucher’-y way, we again gain insight into his own perspective, which is that he is seeing everything as though he is different; everything is new; he is a tourist. Ironically, Hemingway warns us against viewing ‘fiction as life’ through the ‘unfortunate fledging novelist’ Cohn, who himself “has “read and reread” The Purple Land as a “guidebook to what life holds.” Through this, Hemingway is essentially providing us with a guidebook through The Sun Also Rises, but warns us (through Cohn’s character) not to take it too seriously.

Jake is an expat. He is out of his homeland, but he still remains in a security net (similar to Hemingway in this way). He’s surrounding himself with Americans, speaking primarily english. Atherton points out Jake's interaction with the road. When Jake travels, the road is not ‘open,’ rather there’s always a destination in sight-an “itinerary.” Atherton states, “Jake only follows a road laid out.” This itinerary acts as a barrier between Jake being a wanderer, and Jake merely being an American abroad. 

Atherton states that, “Reciting an itinerary serves here as a form of sharing.” And the characters often do share their itineraries. It’s almost a bit showy, like ‘Look what I did! Look how integrated I’m becoming in this culture.’ Again this is similar to the expats of Hemingway’s crew. They almost seem like posers-inventing their own community within Paris and then pretending like that is Paris. This theme reoccurs throughout An Immovable Feast, The Sun Also Rises, and Stein’s writing. 

Their group stuck together, working to create new styles and improve their craft. “The resistance to metaphor that the text exhibits can also be seen as a denial of the responsibility for narrating, a desire to shift it elsewhere.” Hemingway and Stein were very focused on changing styles. This is what their community in Paris was trying to do essentially: create new style; create a new world; create a new reality.

And we see a lot of elements of Hemingway and other expats in The Sun Also Rises, such as the war, but also poverty and excess. Harvey stating, “I hadn’t eaten for five days.” Then further Hemingway mentions that Cohn, “Playing for higher stakes than he could afford in some rather steep bridge games with his New York connections, he had held cards and won several hundred dollars.” We’re presented excess, Hemingway describing characters going out and drinking/dining frequently, in an almost eerily similar manner to Bateman and his friends in American Psycho. The Count states to Bret, “You’re always drinking my dear.” Poverty, the war, and excess tied these expats together. 

“There is not an inch of the novel’s terrain that has not been previously reconnoitered, so that the narrating appears as on uninterrupted recognition of sites visited before, places reseen and refitted into some preexisting scheme of things.” This is similar to the way memory works. Hemingway’s choices and essentially style leads to a very realistic mentality. Jake states, “I suppose it is some association of ideas that makes those dead places in a journey…Perhaps I had read something about it once.” The memory works in layers, building upon itself to create a person; an individual; a Jake. Hemingway’s minimalist narrative is ultimately able to re-create reality in an extremely realistic and subtle manner. 

Rousseau's Solitude

Walking to get away; walking to escape. Before taking this class I never saw walking as anything but the means to an end. I used to drive a lot in high school and this provided me with what all these writers and philosophers find through walking. While driving, I was distanced from everyone else; I was safe in my Volkswagen Beetle. I could blast whatever newest and most degrading pop song I wanted with not even the faintest thought of being judged. I could sing as loud as I wanted, as off key as I wanted. I could even dance however I wanted. 

One time while I was driving, thinking both sides of the street had a red light, I began rapping gin and juice, which (I am confidant to say) I know every word to. Not only was I rapping-painfully-but I was dancing. Not just any dance either. I was doing a disco arm sweep, but instead of one finger, I chose a thumbs up. 

Regardless I was out of reality and, finally, free from everything. Free from “the memory of company.” Even when I looked over to find that the other side of the street did not have a red light, and was in traffic; even when the guys in the car next to me were pointing, laughing and filming me, I still felt safe; separated. At that moment, nothing affected me besides myself. I was able to live “detached” from the world. 

Rousseau speaks of this detachment, but acknowledges that it took time; that originally “the memory of the company (he) kept followed (him) into solitude.” 

When walking, I’m never able to fully escape the agenda of day to day life. “My goal, everyday is to get out of myself, but something always brings me back in.” When reading this I thought of agendas: assignments, deadlines, expenses. And not the fun, gooey side to any of those things either. Not the actual interesting material of the assignments, but rather the pressure to read, process, produce; the formulas of life. 

This agenda, so deeply engraved, surfacing itself whenever it likes, conquering my consciousness and any bliss. I become a prisoner to the responsibilities and markups of day to day life. 

Once I acknowledge that I’m thinking, or stressing rather, about these things it starts a routine spiral. A spiral that brings with it stress, not about the actual assignments or deadlines, but rather stress stemming from the fact that I’m stressing. That would be fine if it was just stress. That’s easy, I can just, rationally, shake it off as stress and put it away. But when this occurs with happiness, or fulfillment, the spiral buries deep.

“As these feelings continue we worry and make ourselves unhappy. As for me, it matters little that I know I will suffer tomorrow; to be at peace, it is sufficient that I not suffer today. I am not affected by the evil I foresee, but only by the one I feel and that limits it considerably.” 

To live in the moment! To shake off the future, and focus on the present. To savor unhappiness and un-fulfillment. To appreciate it for what it is. No one really does that. No one is whole heartedly merely an observer to the world around them. They constantly have agendas on their minds. Or, maybe they’ve fooled themselves and choose distractions: romance, work, whatever, they’re still inside themselves. 

In one of my classes we read Madame Bovary and in this book the only characters who prove truly superior in the end are L’hereux and Homais, one of which distracts himself with the pursuit of money, and the other distracting himself with medicine. It’s not coincidental that the two people in this novel who are not somehow crushed at the end, have chosen distractions that don’t directly rely directly on the opinions of people. Choosing distractions that stay constant, such as flowers, dress, food seems like the safest bet; living devoid others approval. Building your identity for you and only you-a recipe to escape unhappiness. 

Maybe looking back brings a sense of romance in unhappiness. But that becomes sentimentality. Rosseau is full of it. There’s no way he could truly have been unaffected by ‘the evil (he) foresees.’ In theory this is great, but the actual practice of it is hard. 

When I was a kid I don’t remember every thinking if I was happy. I don’t remember even thinking if a day was good or bad. I just lived. Every moment was its own TV episode. If I was sad, there was always a direct reason. Something to point to; something to blame it on. And I’d feel the sadness, but then move on from it. It never lingered; never made its way into my psyche. 

Now it seems that, “half the day is passed in anguish before I have reached the refuge I am seeking.” With more education, more rational, reason, came a higher level of awareness. An awareness that my surroundings affect me, but that I can also affect my surroundings. And with that, came the pressure to affect and manipulate everything to the best of my abilities. To manipulate a world in which I could be happiest in. But even on days when I feel like I’ve done everything in my power to set myself up well-taken care of all responsibilities, resolved anything that was bothering me, anything that was still on my conscience-and I achieve this ‘refuge’ I don’t know what to do with it. It becomes empty space; space that’s content, but space nonetheless. And space needs to be filled. 

Programmed to look for productivity, this refuge scares me. And although comforting and freeing for a moment, that moment passes, my brain looking for anything within itself to occupy itself, for it knows it can rely on itself. Observing its surroundings, sure it could do that, but that’s reliant on me, and my conscious decision to avert my focus to my surroundings, simply observing a flower, “laugh at the incredible torments my persecutors constantly give themselves in vain, while I remain at peace, busied with flowers, stamens, and childish things and do not even think of them.” Filling empty space; the empty space in which happiness (at its core) resides in. 

I walked home from school for this walk. I live in the sixteenth, so I walk through basically every possible tourist attraction. But I like this, there’s something nice in seeing places where people are experiencing something, but, not really being a full tourist, not feeling the pressure to experience anything. 

As I walk, I stop, suddenly. It’s not even really my own decision, but rather something deeper, warning me to stop or I might miss something. I look over Paris. The Eiffel Tower, the ferris wheel, the Egyptian obelisk. I see it all. The sun setting behind it, calming off the frantic tourist-ensued chaos and letting the city just be. The sun carries with it this calm; a calm I suddenly feel a pressure to intake. Breathing in deeply, I hope that some of this calm will lodge itself deeply within myself and stay. I want to trap it. It’s beautiful, too beautiful for me to fully appreciate, fully comprehend; too massive for me at this moment.

Walking is never an escape for me. It’s not somewhere I can merely be with myself. It’s time to be reminded of the pressures around me. Maybe it’s that I’m usually walking in a city, maybe walking in nature would be different. But so far, walking doesn’t bring me this same detachment as it does for Rosseau. 

Being alone does. Even being on the metro provides me with some perverse pleasure, knowing that I’m separated from everyone around me. That I’m alone, free to judge or observe outfits, hairstyles, reading material.

Walking does, I guess, bring back memories sometimes. Smelling a familiar perfume or seeing a familiar wind. And this provides a momentary, “tender, touching, delightful sentiment.” A sentiment that I cherish. It’s these sentiments, as disorienting as they may be, that together build up who I’ve become; who I am. And there’s comfort in them. But more than that, there’s a comfort in knowing that I am the only one who can experience that memory and the sentiment that comes with it.

Walking as a means of solitude; using walking to remind yourself of your independence is therefore, easy. Rousseau found that, “All I am capable of in such a case is very quickly forgetting and fleeing. The disturbance in my heart disappears with the object which has caused it, and I return to calm as soon as I am alone.” Being alone is comforting. You can trust yourself, and to an extent you know what to expect from yourself. 

Rousseau states, “My ardent natural temperament irritates me; my indolent natural temperament pacifies me.” 

This goes back to Cain and Abel. Cain was the “sedentary soul.” He was “the man who works and tames nature to materially construct a new universe.” Abel was the “nomadic soul.” The “man who plays and constructs an ephemeral system of relations between nature and life.” Everyone has a Cain and an Abel. A side to himself which is ‘indolent’ and one which is ‘ardent.’ Maybe the city brings out the later. 

Regardless, Rosseau clearly found a comfortable solitude in walking, eventually collapsing and later dying on a walk. Whether he took such pride (slightly egotistical at that) in this enjoyment of solitude because he truly was that independent, or rather because he was too afraid to face humanity; too afraid to put any reliance on something so unreliable, we’ll never know. 

"Equal" in Paris

Hemingway and his ‘lost generation’ came to Paris searching for something; to escape a discomfort that accompanies wartime. In this same manner, the WW2 African American expatriates were also searching for an escape, but rather an escape from being defined and confined by their race. 

We see Baldwin discuss his coming to Paris as a type of escape stating, “And it must have seemed to me that my flight from home was the crudest trick I had ever played on myself, since it had led me here, down to a lower point than any I could ever in my life have imagined—lower, far, than anything I had seen in that Harlem which I had so hated and so loved, the escape from which had soon become the greatest direction of my life.” There’s a sense of urgency to this escape too, Hughes describing America as, “The home he had fled.” Hughes isn’t looking for an escape from reminders of the war, but an escape from a racist environment; an escape from feeling different; feeling exiled from a community. Similar to the 'diaspora' that many Africans experienced, Baldwin is also leaving his 'homeland', venturing to Paris and he feels a sense of exclusion that is natural for anyone doing this. 

Ironically, coming to Paris, Baldwin finds himself exiled as well, having “no grasp whatever of the French language.” 

These same themes are apparent amongst both ‘lost generations’ (Hemingway’s and Baldwin’s). For one, there’s an ambiguity towards Paris’ authenticity. We never truly get a sense of a ‘true’ Paris from these expats. Instead we’re introduced to Parisians as an obstacle that surrounds these expats. They don’t focus on French culture, as much as they do the simpler aspects of life, such as employment or food. These expats use Paris as a place to escape obligations; a place to search for something that’ll bring them fulfillment. For example, amongst both ‘lost generations’ there’s a great emphasis put on food. Hughes states, “It tasted very good and cost little, cheese and crisp, fresh bread and a bottle of wine.” Baldwin also brings attention to food stating, “I relinquished the thought of dinner and began to think of lunch.” This hunger (emphasized by both ‘lost generations’) represents their struggle to find something. They have a ‘hunger’ to realize or create something great, and are using Paris as this outlet; as this opportunity to focus on life itself devoid of the distractions/unease that follow war and racism.

But, again, while in Paris these expats tend to write and lean towards a side of Paris which seems far from authentic. Hughes, for example, writes about “a tall Romanian girl, with large green circles painted on her eyes.” Even Baldwin writes about his American friend, “When my American friend left his hotel to move to mine, he took with him, out of pique, a bed sheet belonging to the hotel and put it in his suitcase.” Kramer even points out that, "Baldwin found few opportunities for contact with Parisian intellectuals, and most of his friends in Paris were white or black Americans."

Hemingway too found a circle of Americans living in Paris with which his main interactions took place. Hemingway and these writers were living in Paris, but not fully engaged in the Parisian culture. Rather, Paris was acting as a place that offered less responsibility; a place to be aimless, to wander, to be free. Hughes, “Like most African-Americans who expatriated themselves in this era, was not facing a direct threat of arrest or government harassment, yet he clearly felt the need to leave the United States in order to survive as a free person and write.” 

This freedom was a freedom from the harsh racism in the US, but also a freedom from the day to day agendas-responsibilities. Freedom from a place that saw Africans as "exceedingly primitive." Although slightly ironic considering that Baldwin is arrested in Paris, his sense of freedom still remains, Baldwin eventually writing about his arrest; creating. 

Hughes states, “There was nothing to do all day long.” Paris offered this freedom to these expats, which raises the question of whether the work these writers created while in Paris was a product of their situation (spare time, etc.), or truly inspired by the culture of the city.

Hughes describes meeting a man on a walk, “He told me most of the American colored people he knew lived in Montmartre, and that they were musicians working in the theaters and night clubs.” There’s a community of Americans within Paris that these expats cling to. Hughes continues, “The next day I went everywhere where people spoke English, looking for a job—the American Library, the Embassy, the American Express, the newspaper offices.” Again we see Hughes clinging to American culture. Later, Hughes meets a man: “Rayford Logan is now a professor of history at Howard University in Washington.” This American tells Hughes about an “Opening at a pop club on the rue Pigalle.” Americans looked out for each other and formed their own community within Paris. 

Baldwin states, “I was discovered by this New Yorker and only because we found ourselves in Paris we immediately established the illusion that we had been fast friends back in the good old USA.” Here we again see Baldwin clinging to American culture; the comfortable. Even Hughes, “Left alone in the streets and cheap hotels of Paris, he found himself reconstructing his American experience and identity in ways that were disorienting as well as liberating.” 

So what Paris was really offering these expats as this escape from responsibilities, giving these writers a sense of liberation, but also of irresponsibility, many over-indulging. Hughes, for example upon coming onto some money, does not think to save it, but rather he and Sonya, “Both dressed and went to the barber shop and got our hair cut. I got a shine, and Sonya a manicure. Then we had luncheon at a cafe on the Place Pigalle. After that we went to a movie on the boulevards.” 

Hughes also describes this over-consumption stating, “I consumed rather a lot of coffee and, as evening approached, rather a lot of alcohol.” 

We see this over-consumption amongst Hemingway as well, discussing gambling and drink. 

A sense of solitude also follows these expats. This solitude is natural, considering the position they have put themselves in. Baldwin states, “That night I felt lonesome and sad.” They have exiled themselves from home; from comfort, which explains why they cling so willingly to the American presence in Paris. This also solidifies their identities as American, Baldwin stating, “For them I was American.” For Baldwin, he is no longer defined as an African American, but rather simply as an American, which he seems to find a pleasure in. 

Kramer states, “There were of course important differences in the governing regimes of the nations they fled, and yet the exiles who left Europe before WW2 and the black Americans who went to Europe after that war shared the belief that they must leave their societies in order to find creative freedom and personal safety.”

Here we see that it was more about leaving for these expats than for soaking in another culture, leaving us again with this ambiguity towards Paris, but providing them with an environment where they felt they could create safely. 

Towards the end of the excerpt, Baldwin describes laughter stating, “This laughter is the laughter of those who consider themselves to be at a safe remove from all the wretched, for whom the pain of the living is not real. I had heard it so often in my native land that I had resolved to find a place where I would never hear it any more. In some deep, black, stony, and liberating way, my life, in my own eyes, began during that first year in Paris, when it was borne in on me that this laughter is universal and never can be stilled.” 

More than anything we see this theme of universality-of finding comfort in the known amongst these expats, but also of finding that no matter where they are, they are still the same-they are still Americans: an identity weaves its way that they eventually find pride and comfort in; finally accept as apart of their "hybrid" identity.

Fiction Revised/Rough Draft

Her feet march confidently against the pavement, creating a clank: the clank of a woman. A clank that draws attention subtly, disregarding the fact that it may be disrupting a silence. Her shoes are falling apart; the soles separating from the base-they lost their tightness, their inexperience. Life has marked her shoes.

They’d been with her during her first and last kiss, through five countries, and over six years, which at nineteen, made up almost a third of her life. Her shoes were stamped and she was wildly conscious to the fact that soon, life would stamp her too. 

Soon the creases when she smiles won’t disappear. Her eyes will droop, becoming accustomed to gravity’s allure, no longer able to merely ignore it; overlook it. Her hair will surrender its color. Life will mark her, and she won’t be able to buy a new version of herself. She’ll be marked as experienced, whether she has achieved any or not. 

The rush of the station fades. An immediacy that normally consumes her, lays at rest, being overpowered by a moment. A moment not nearly as vivid in its present, but now undeniably true. 

The green of the trees, at the time a mere shade, now emerald and crisp. She never appreciates anything to its fullest until it’s gone; until she can no longer hold it as an option. Raking leaves, a pretty tedious and mundane chore-one that at the time caused an incessant resentment towards her mom, now seems romantic-a task where she engulfed nature and breathed in air far less polluted than she was now. Air that wasn’t a questionable combination of urine and shit.

The stench fills her nostrils, going deep into her and overpowering her memory. Disoriented, the present reappears, surfacing itself like a TV program. A program that’s prepared to be half-consciously watched while you half-heartedly consider the agendas of your life. 

There’s a man sitting next to her. His scarf matches his shoes. His face is marked. His eyes droop, but earnestly. He smiles at the woman across from him, the wrinkles fitting perfectly into place.

The woman lets a small smirk sneak through her ‘too cool for emotions’ persona; a persona that intrigues our woman. The whole ‘I only wear black because who has time to enjoy things like color’ persona. It’s cool. Maybe not fun…but definitely cool.  

Presumably a song came on she likes, or maybe she remembered something nice. Our woman finds comfort in her smile; 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 smile fades, her skin reverting back to its smooth façade.-is it clear that this woman isn’t the main character?

Her moment’s quickly ruined by a man, his face white-paper white-his body slender. 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. Our woman’s lips tighten, her head tilting downwards.

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. Our woman looks down into her book, blending.

She gets off the metro. Walking across the platform, the breeze sweeps under her skirt, cooling her legs. Effortlessly flowing up to a moderately modest degree, she beholds an essence of confidence. A confidence that doesn’t ask for attention or re-affirmation, but rather stews into itself, growing and growing, producing more and more independence. 

She feels the beauty and effortlessness of her skirt, standing up a little straighter. She feels the confidence of Madame Bovary after any guy showed her the remotest attention. That, at one point, had been our woman’s favorite book. When she was younger something made sense to her about Madame Bovary. She was bored. She wanted something more. She wanted love and romance. She just wanted to be loved; she turned everything (but her husband) into love. Living in a world of over-romanticizations…maybe that was the secret to it all. 

Our woman, catching a glimpse of her reflection, stops. 

She reminds herself of Patricia from Breathless. Walking down the Champs Elysees, pretending like she's Parisian; forgetting she's as American as they come. Her nails, long and red, her shirt-striped and tight. She's put together.

If only 16-year-old-her could see her now. She’d be so proud. Her entire life she'd wanted nothing more than to be Patricia. Patricia was her introduction to what being a woman could be. To be the woman who strolls nonchalantly and inhabits such a romanticized city as Paris; the woman who is the over-romanticization; the woman who effortlessly forces the most badass man in a city to be romanticized with her.

The ‘goal’ isn’t as satisfying when you’re actually in it. The past is always remembered with logic, rubbing in the fact that it’s gone and the future is exciting, tapping its foot and forcing the present moment to slip by through a lens of anticipation.

prob take this out: But the present is merely reality-a medium that’s designed to be easily digested; a moment to be distracted by advertisements or immediate goals, purchases, etc. But the past and future hold many options, possibilities and require more than just consciousness. They’re harder to digest. She stares at her reflection. She is this woman. She is the woman she has wanted to be her entire life. But she's not at home.

Our woman, tired from walking, surrenders to the metro. A small florist stands in the station, alone, without a stand. She merely holds a few bouquets, yelling excessively and entirely intrusively that her flowers are only five euros: a steal for sure.

Our woman smirks slyly. She used to be this woman, working as a florist, selling flowers, trying to convince people to buy these flowers; any flowers.

Our woman looks to the bouquets-anemones: her favorite. She finds anemones 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. Our woman feels another smile come on before she even acknowledges that she’s smiling—a natural response. A response triggered by something way more complex than she is; than she’ll ever be.

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

Our main character reaches towards the bouquet, taking the petal gently, tenderly, its silky surface brushing off on her fingers-wrinkled and stiff from the cold. The smoothness continues, the flower leaning against her hand. She supports its head, the anemone’s black core holding itself together. It doesn’t need her or her support. Even as she looks 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. She’d never seen a purple anemone before, only black ones. There are multiple prickles, each growing separately, but becoming apart of the single flower. She hands the woman a five and walks away.

transition needed?

Walking it quickly becomes night. It’s spring and the night carries with it a sense of rest. A coolness that strays from uncomfortable, instead wrapping itself and refreshing you from the day. The sun is off to somewhere else, and it’s just you and the night. 

Frustration uncontrollably zigzags through her. The night holds with it some sense of secret; a sense of belonging; a collective freedom. A sense that it knows you’re trying to rest. It knows you. It knows your day. It lets you melt into it, melt into yourself, the pressure and heat of the sun finally gone. 

The smell of spring wafts around; the intensity and pageant-y grandeur of the sun no longer overbears the sensible qualities of her surroundings. Finally she smells nature without this distraction of the sun; of sight. She smells nature fully. A smell that picks up all the restaurants, people, and action. Letting you take them all in, in the comfort of wherever you are. The air of night carries with it the excitement of life, cooling it down and blowing it towards you.

Walking, she’s reminded of going home as a kid late at night. When hanging out with friends was still referred to as ‘play dates’ and her friends were pre-determined by whose parents her mom preferred, or rather whose numbers her mom still had lying around. Nights when she was scared. Nights when the darkness crept up and engulfed her-every story of kidnapping or murder suddenly wafting across her like some eluded ghost. The nights where even though she was scared, she knew where she was going. She knew her path. Although unfamiliar at night, it was more than familiar during the day and it was this familiarity she had focused on, placing one converse in front of the other. 

She walks-head up and heels clanking. She has made it home far later than this. When the sun was peeking its head back through the night. She reached into her pocket, changing the song that was playing and breathed in deeply. Deep enough to smell the night again; smell the rest it assured, a rest it had always ensured.-is it clear this is in present?

Suddenly she stops, biting her nails and looking around. The lamp posts shed their beaming lights seemingly only onto her, the rest of the street dark and endless. She looks down, placing one foot in front of the other. A perfect line. One foot in front of the other. She breathes in, the night invading her. 

She is the past. She is an accumulation of the past. It disorients her present; taking her out of any ‘real’ perception. She jumped back onto the metro. Maybe it’s okay to be disoriented. The disorientation is apart of her reality.-prob take this out

She reaches her house, immediately looking out her window. The lights and flickers of televisions illuminate the creamy facades. One by one the lights go out. The nightly smell of Resident 101’s potatoes and onions is over-whelmed by the night. Suddenly Paris is asleep. The darkness surrounds her, coddles her as her eyes become heavier. 

Fitzgerald's Paris

The majority of writers discussed previously in this class hold a sense of freedom in Paris. Paris acts as a type of escape for them; a place that allows them to explore sexuality, over-indulgence, and art without consequence. We see this through Miller’s rather excessive involvement with prostitutes or Hemingway’s discussions of drinking, gambling, and having free time to read and explore. 

Due to this, an image of Paris as this place of freedom from responsibility emerges. Paris is a place to grow, and then leave and return to your home/responsibility as a fuller, more competent person. However, through Fitzgerald we’re introduced to Paris as a place of routine; a place of sensibility. 

The qualities of Paris that the writers we’ve previously discussed found as freeing, our expatriate here finds limiting. For example, upon first arriving to Paris again, he sees a man, “Gossiping with a chasseur by the servants’ entrance.” Here we see leisure in Paris, however instead of using this leisure to explore and be free, Charlie finds a sense of stillness surrounding it, almost a sense of boredom. The people aren’t using this leisure time to be inspired, but rather just to talk, etc; to pass the time.

Charlie has grown up, his perspective has changed. He states, “We were a sort of royalty, almost infallible with a sort of magic around us.” Maybe it isn’t so much that Paris is different, but rather that he is. Maybe this stillness and sensibility aren’t true to the city, but instead true to Charlie as he’s aged. His youth, once allowing him ‘a sort of magic’ is now replaced by the responsibility of a daughter and his perspective has undoubtedly changed with his maturity. 

Charlie is extremely sensible, not over-indulging the way Miller, for example, would in drink. Maybe his age/responsibilities don’t allow him to over-indulge in this way, or maybe Paris has really changed. Charlie states, “I take only one drink every afternoon and I’ve had it.” Later in the excerpt, Charlie states, “I’ll take my daily whiskey.” He has his routine and he sticks to it.

Charlie is attached to routine. He’s comfortable with this routine. He can be sensible in this routine and tradition, the same way Paris has a sort of tradition/culture. When asked by a waiter if he wants two vegetables with his lunch, Charlie responds, “I usually only have one at lunch.” This routine gives Charlie a certain sense of stability and order. He lives his life knowing what to expect, as opposed to living ‘on the edge,’ ‘day to day’ the way the other authors we’ve read do.

Charlie is even sensible in his manners. “In the glare of a brasserie a woman spoke to him. He bought her some eggs and coffee, and then, eluding he encouraging stare, gave her a twenty franc note and took a taxi to his hotel.” Later on, when with his daughter, Charlie states, “All right, but not up at the bar. We’ll take a table.” His daughter responds, “The perfect father.” There’s a right way to do things and Charlie is aware of these manners and abides by them, again another sign of maturity and sensibility; patience with an ordered life. 

But this sensibility holds Charlie back from experiencing emotion and ultimately holds him back from being truly engaged in his life. Charlie states, “But you won’t always like me best, honey. You’ll grow up and meet somebody your own age and go marry him and forget you ever had a daddy.” Charlie’s logic here creates a divide, to an extent, between him and his daughter. He creates a divide to prevent future heartbreak or pain; uncomfortableness, but in doing so Charlie is missing out on being as close to his daughter as he might be able to. Charlie didn’t want to love his daughter, “Too much, for he knew the injury that a father can do to a daughter or a mother to a son by attaching too closely: afterward, out in the world; the child would seek in the marriage partner the same blind tenderness and, failing probably to find it, turn against love and life.” His sensibility is acting as a shield, warding off all that is not secure, ensuring stability.

Charlie avoids emotion in the beginning of the excerpt. We never get insight into his emotional side/perspective his stability acting as a barrier between him and this. “The night I locked her out-“ and she interrupted, “I don’t feel up to going over that again.” He seems okay with everything that has occurred. It seems as though he has no issue talking about it; no emotion clearly present. Charlie’s sensibility allows him to focus on order and social responsibility/duty as opposed to emotion. His sensibility allows him to distract away from emotion and instead focus on his responsibilities. A younger Charlie, a Charlie with no responsibilities, may have been much less sensible, overindulging, etc, accepting emotion, but also having a ‘magic’ surround him that he no longer seems to have. The question becomes if Charlie is happier, or more fulfilled rather, living with the chance of pain or living in a world of direct order and a set of pre-determined rules/orders in which he should live by. 

“I don’t blame Marion, but I think she can have entire confidence in me. I had a good record up to three years ago. Of course, it’s within human possibilities I might go wrong any time. But if we wait much longer I’ll lose Honoria’s childhood and my chance for a home.” He shook his head. “I’ll simply lose her, don’t you see?” Here we see his fear/acknowledgment of losing his daughter. He doesn’t want to place emotion in her in case it ends up being ‘lost.’ But even here, Charlie doesn’t bring in emotion, not saying how much he loves his daughter, but instead sticking to the facts. He is sensible, not bluntly emotional. 

However, we see that in the past Charlie was emotional, described as turning, “The key in the lock in wild anger.” It seems that in his past, Charlie did experience the ‘Paris’ we have previously read, a friend of his stating of old Paris, “Well, the big party’s over now.” 

Even through Fitzgerald’s language, Charlie’s sensibility is expressed. Fitzgerald describes him as leaving his address with a ‘purpose.’ He is ordered and focused. 

Again, whether or not Paris changed or Charlie merely grew older, more mature, and ultimately more sensible we don’t know. But the truth remains that his Paris and the way in which he interacts with this environment has changed significantly. 

Fitzgerald describes Charlie as, “Wait(ing) for them to explain themselves.” This gives us an image of Charlie as authoritative, but also as mature and dignified. Charlie has standards that people should follow, or otherwise ‘explain’ why they haven’t. Again, Charlie has an ‘order’ to his life; an order that distances him from emotion and focuses on routine, ensuring a certain degree of stability that may not have been found in his youth. A youth where he encountered a Paris described as containing ‘magic’ and generally being a ‘party.’ 

Maybe Charlie went to this routine and order after being so hurt by emotion and the lifestyle lived previously. Maybe this sensibility is a coping mechanism of sorts; a mechanism that grows with him as he ages. 

The only time we really see Charlie become emotional is when the people around him don’t follow his order and expectations/conduct. Charlie states, “What an absolute outrage! People I haven’t seen for two years having the colossal nerve.” 

When he feels people have not acted accordingly we see Charlie become angered: “Charlie went directly to the Ritz bar with the furious idea of finding Loraine and Duncan, but they were not there.” Again we see Charlie expecting a certain conduct and it angers him when those expectations aren’t fulfilled. Maybe it makes him nervous, for he can’t control everything in his life. He can’t maintain this order he finds solace and stability in and he feels vulnerable when this isn’t maintained. 

For Charlie isn’t “young anymore.” His mindset has changed. And so has his Paris. There’s a presumed maturity in sensibility. A belief that the elderly know better. They get into less trouble, live more stable lives. Maybe they even have a more stable mindset. This might come from a better understanding of their surroundings or merely a fear of being hurt again; a fear of instability after seeing/experiencing what it can do, looking to order and stability as a coping mechanism. 

Fiction Based on Walking #3

They always talk. The talking never ends. Sometimes they talk just to cover the silence. To smother it, as though it was some drunk about to give away a deep secret.

I like silence. Walking up towards the Champs Elysees, the silence is still filled, but it’s different. The noise, tourists are comforting. I know this area better than any of them-I live here; I’ve become someone here.

They all walk past me and I walk past them. Friendships are completely situational; coincidental. If any of these people were in one of my classes or a friend of a friend I’d probably talk to them about nonsense, but they’re not. We walk by; it’s understood we’ll walk by. It’s okay that we walk by.

A man: tall and bald. He looks like a caricature of what an elderly man with his shit together looks like. His coat is perfectly fitted, a small scarf tightly wrapped into the first button. His wrinkles don’t portray weakness, but rather an assurance that he has felt enough; experienced enough to be tainted. He looks up and smiles, his mouth fitting perfectly into these lines; making a home out of them. He holds a newspaper tucked neatly, perfectly under his arm. He’s read enough newspapers to know how to handle them.

I smile: an unconscious smile. My muscles know what to do. The mind processes emotion before you even realize it. Emotion isn’t conscious. It isn’t linear. It’s not an outcome of consciousness.

Walking past this man, a wave of confidence passes through me. We are the locals. We have something in common. He doesn’t know it, but I do.

Catching a glimpse of my reflection, I stop. Look at me.

I am Patricia from Breathless. Walking down the Champs Elysees, pretending like I’m Parisian. My nails, long and red, my shirt-striped and tight. I’m put together.

If only 16-year-old-me could see me now. She’d be so proud. My entire life I’ve wanted nothing more than to be Patricia. Patricia was my introduction to what being a woman could be. To be the woman who strolls nonchalantly and inhabits such a romanticized city as Paris; the woman who is the over-romanticization; the woman who effortlessly forces the most badass man in a city to be romanticized with her.

The ‘goal’ isn’t as satisfying when you’re actually in it. The past is always remembered with logic, rubbing in the fact that it’s gone and the future is exciting, tapping its foot and forcing the present moment to slip by through a lens of anticipation.

But the present is merely reality-a medium that’s designed to be easily digested; a moment to be distracted by advertisements or immediate goals, purchases etc. But the past and future hold many options, possibilities and require more than just consciousness. They’re harder to digest. I stare at my reflection. I am this woman. I am the woman I’ve wanted to be my entire life. But I’m not at home.

Getting off of the Champs Elysees, I find myself in a new area. I’m unfamiliar with this area. I’ve never been here. I have no romanticizations. It’s beautiful, but so is all of Paris. It’s comforting seeing all the same architecture, the same colors. It’s a false sense of comfort, but it creates a homier atmosphere. An atmosphere you’re familiar and comfortable with.

I catch my reflection and walk quickly by. I don’t know how Patricia would interact in this part of the city.

A church bell rings. It’s sudden and jarring-demanding attention, forcing one out of himself and into the bell. It’s like a child demanding attention, ignorant to the responsibilities natural to consciousness and ultimately life. 

A portrait of, presumably Jesus, is planted on the mantle of the church. The man is huge, looking down knowingly, calmly. A calmness that contrasts the city-gives the city an air of ignorance and naiveness in being so consumed. 

There’s something to this man and I’m stopped in awe, as though this moment, this position is the only place of true comfort and being. I don’t wan’t to, I can’t leave. 

The sound of the bell mixed with the placement and size of our presumed Jesus gives him an air of power and integrity; an air of wisdom. True humbleness: he knows he’s in control, but doesn’t need to prove anything. The bell/picture combination forces the viewer into a state of comatose; to be stuck; to feel spirituality; to feel small, but still watched over. Is it really God, or just the setup?

Is religion calculated in the same way as advertising? A formula to attract the public-knowing exactly where to place what to make the public feel something, forcing this ‘spiritual experience.’ Is it genuine or created through the environment? I guess it doesn’t matter. 

Fruit stand. I’m not hungry, but I’m walking aimlessly and eating kills time. It’s a distraction from the un-familiarness around me. I bite into it. Green and sour. It’s comforting knowing what to expect. When I was younger I thought apples grew as one huge tree and people cut pieces off and molded them into spheres. My teacher quickly corrected that assumption. Remembering that teacher puts something at ease. I don’t know what it is, but it allows for some sort of rest. 

Making my own life, independent from my past is impossible, because the past is always with you. It layers and overlaps the present. I’m never going to wake up and suddenly be fitted into this armor of a woman only made of her current; devoid of past realities.

I’ve become a woman here, but when I leave what’ll happen? How do you just be an identity, when it’s constantly changing? Losing awareness of a varying self is a gift; a blessing-to live in the moment.

I’ve created routine and comfort in a city I have to leave. Heartbreak from a city; a city that allows for leisure. A city that’s open and clear, presenting art and romance as something that only gives. Something that’s just resting there for you to smooth over. Something for you to soak in, instead of aggressively and insincerely picking at. A city that holds trueness that stems from something unspoken. But further, a city that lets me be, that doesn’t force competition or a notion of proving myself superior to it. I don’t want to beat Paris, I want to be its friend. I want to go over its house and have it feed me; give me advice. 

I keep walking. The apple stays sour. I look down-my last bite. A new perspective hits me. A jolting hit. One of the layers to my armor comes out, putting Patricia far away. My heels slide against the pavement. I am the woman I am when I have empty space. One day my armor will be a compilation. It’s just a matter of time until-

Lights. So many lights. I’m by the Louvre. My bangs run in my eyes. I am Anna Karina. My step becomes triggered, energetic. I am childish. I am naïve. The Louvre is my playing ground. The Louvre has been a home, but is it from the movies or from Paris?

The process of finding a consistent home to fall back on sneaks up on me. To find constants to force my moods into the illusion of some level of stability. Once your moods are stable your perceptions will be stable. But then again, stability isn’t always fun. Stability is limiting.

My armor recollects itself as I reach my door. Maybe it’s okay to have layers-see everything differently all the time. The layers create a whole. 

But that whole will change. It’s a false sense of security, a false sense of reality.

I reach for my keys. Putting them in the door, I look down. My nails are bitten, my nail polish scattered, revealing a transparency to my nails.