The Lost Generation vs. Generation Me

Back in middle school, my friends and I used to talk extensively about which generation we wish we had been born in. Naturally everyone chose the 20s, 60s, or 80s. Each of these generations have their own sort of ‘myth’. A stereotype that follows them; an over-romanticization of how the youth experienced this time including the, as Marc Dolan believes, ‘disillusionment’ of the generation; disillusioned in an unfamiliar post-world war. 

The end of the war created the general celebratory feel of the 'lost generation.' It was a relief. The war was over and now was a time for celebration; a time to live again. At that same time, soldiers returned finding that no one truly understood what they had experienced. This feeling of being misunderstood, possibly fueled this generation’s “need to create,” and appeal to excess. 

Stanley Bernshaw describes this time as, “Freedom, liberation, and do whatever you want. Find yourself. And nobody will get in your way. You’ll be respected for whatever you do or you won’t be chided. And this, in America was quite a change.” This gave the writers of this grouping an opportunity to create new styles, experiment, and just generally explore in a way they hadn’t necessarily done prior. 

It’s ironic that me and my friends were searching to get out of our generation, considering our generation has its own ‘lost’ quality, creating a clear divide between the young and the old. I guess, with the introduction of terrorism, we too are (in a way) experiencing an unfamiliar world. 

Dolan states, “If we examine the historical record, we see that the sense of common identity they [the 'lost generation'] discovered in age sprang from their demographic uniqueness. As Paula Fass has demonstrated, the years from 1870 to 1930 showed a steady decline in the national birth rate and consequently in the size of the family unit.” 

A definite decline in the family unit has occurred recently, the divorce rate being at over 50%. It’s no coincidence that my generation has embodied elements extremely similar to those of the 'lost generation's.' We both have experienced isolation in one way or another, creating our own culture out of necessity; to create something in which we are attached to; can feel connected to. 

The 'lost generation' created their own culture because they had to. They were under-represented, and due to that, isolated. They felt that they were different, living in a world that was different. They felt they didn’t ‘fit in’ to the culture around them, but they also didn’t have a culture of their own. So they created one. 

This included new fashion trends, excessive drinking, a newfound promiscuity-a rebellious streak, separating them from the generations previous to them. The 'lost generation' became a fetish of sorts, “ crazy—young men tried to get as imperturbably drunk as the hero, young women of good families took a succession of lovers in the same heartbroken fashion.” The youth generation were seen as losing their “moral bearings.” But in reality, they were creating their own moral bearings that were devoid that of the older generation’s. 

My own generation has created a new ‘raunchy’ style, including crop tops and short shorts. We too, like the 'lost generation' have this image of getting ‘imperturbably drunk’, young women going to clubs and taking a ‘succession of lovers’. 

Even through music, a correlation can be found, the ‘lost’ youth clinging to jazz-something older generations hadn’t fully discovered. But, “though the Jazz Age continued, it became less and less an affair of youth…like a children’s party taken over by the elders.” This same trend is seen in my own generation through electric dance music. Starting out as ‘just noise’ it kept growing and growing, becoming something that one’s parents didn’t know about; something that one’s parents didn’t enjoy; something that was strictly the youth generation’s. EDM has come to represent a new sort of culture, one intrigued by dancing, sex, and of course music. The EDM scene even created PLUR, a bracelet exchange standing for Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect. Fitzgerald describes jazz in a similar fashion: “The word jazz in its progress toward respectability has meant first sex, then dancing, then music. It is associated with a state of nervous stimulation.” Coincidentally, EDM has been infiltrated by ‘elders’ just as the jazz scene was, popular DJs such as Carl Cox and Pete Tong being in their fifties. 

The appeal in this culture of the youth is that it’s new-unknown. It’s not understood because it’s still being created. The youth enjoy it because they are finally connected to something. Older generations look down on it because it’s not their own culture, yet they stay interested in it for it’s what the kids are doing; what’s ‘cool.’ 

Dolan summarizes how the lost generation was seen, stating, “The mythic narrative of the Lost Generation: from sex to dancing to music and on; from youthful exuberance to group activity to public performance and stylization.” It’s easy to find fun/interest in these things. These elements are easily over-romanticized. They look like more fun than they probably are, creating this overly intense image; this ‘myth’. Considering that America had the prohibition at this time too, the image of drinking-breaking the law-was considered extremely scandalous. 

This ‘myth’ was then broadcasted through film, music, and TV. We see this happening for my generation as well through shows like Skins or The OC. Even through films like Springbreakers, portraying girls in this over-sexualized light, listening to EDM, etc. 

By grouping these writers together as part of the 'lost generation' a genre of its own is created; something that one can expect; anticipate. A change in both form and content occurred. Famous writers of the 'lost generation' including Hemingway and Fitzgerald both had been in the army themselves, including elements of this in their writing, but further including a general sense of excess.

Hemingway describes his experience with gambling on horses as, “I was going to races alone more now and I was involved in them and getting too mixed up with them.” Here we see an example of this irresponsible behavior. 

Life after the war had become about excess, possibly as a coping mechanism, or just a newfound freedom. Further, these writers challenged pre-conceived notions of what the ‘norm’ was. They rejected previously accepted standards, for they were focused on forming their own culture; their own identity. 

Essentially, these writers portrayed the lifestyle and mentality of the generation. By grouping these writers together, a general face/persona was put to the term ‘lost generation,’ these writers becoming a representation for their generation and the culture that surrounded them. Gertrude Stein even said to Hemingway, “All of you young people who served in the war. You are a lost generation.” 

This came after a man had failed to speedily repair Ms. Stein’s car, Ms. Stein overhearing a patron use the term, but essentially this was meant as a comment on the generation’s work ethic. We can further see how Stein saw Hemingway and his ‘lost generation,’ telling him that he was reading ‘trash’ and giving him her own book suggestions. She even states, “You have no respect for anything. You drink yourselves to death.” 

Ms. Stein may have meant ‘lost’ to be slightly different from how it was portrayed by the patron, however, we can see a parallel in the view of the work ethic of those belonging to the ‘lost generation’ and how the older generations view my generation’s work ethic, referring to us as 'generation me,' wanting only what’s most convenient for ourselves. 

Maybe this is why all these writers went to other countries in an attempt to find their artistic voices. They were lost, trying to find something that was missing. They were creating a new style. Hemingway referred to the Old Testament, others referred to older English writings. They were looking for guidance; looking for something. But we also can observe that the war directly affected these writers, and the generation as a whole, fueling their feeling of being misunderstood; isolated.

There are clear correlations between the ‘lost generation’ and my own generation. We both formed our own culture, which arguably every group of youths do, however we did it out of necessity. Isolated and disillusioned by a world no one really understands, we try to make a world of our own; a world in which we understand, but more importantly, a world that no one can take away from us. 

The Natural Side to Things: Parc des Buttes Chaumont

escaped
From the vast city, where I long had pined
A discontented sojourner: now free
Free as a bird to settle where I will 

-Wordsworth, The Prelude 

The Natural World and Order

Wordsworth, along with Thoreau and Muir discuss walking as this sort of escape from the city; an escape from something that almost seems to be infecting them. Wordsworth discusses in a later piece walking and being, “Happy in this, that I with nature walked. Not having a too early intercourse with the deformities of crowded life.” 

Rather than focusing on being apart of something; society, “Wordsworth shares none of the intoxication with the natural world that he himself was to experience. On the contrary, the walker in invariably portrayed as a figure of social alienation, divorced both from his society and his surroundings.” Using characters such as discharged soldiers and beggars, Wordsworth focuses on this concept of being socially alienated. 

It even seems as though walking enthusiasts, such as Wordsworth, Hazlitt and Thoreau find pleasure in the fact that they are isolated from society. Hazlitt states, “I like to go by myself. I can enjoy society in a room; but out of doors, nature is company for me. I am then never less alone than when alone.” 

With this emphasis put on finding solitude in the natural world: a world that is untouched by man, society, and the expectations that come with it, we see that these authors value just this. To them, walking is a form of escape-a way of getting back to their ‘primitive’ rhythm. 

Coverley discusses this in his essay, paying attention to how Dorothy Wordsworth’s journal primarily concerned with walking, eventually evolves into, “The day has been pared back to reveal its constituent parts-walking and sleeping-and the remainder is left unspoken.” Walking, to these writers, is seen as a way of getting back to their primitive core; a simpler life; a life devoid of the pressures and expectations of society. 

Thoreau even chooses walking as, “A protest against the encroachments of the city and the erosion of the natural world.” He uses walking as a means of, ‘escaping confines of the city.’ Being a transcendentalist, Thoreau (just like others previously mentioned) uses walking to get in touch with nature, wilderness, and eventually the spiritual realm. It’s a process for him of getting out of society, into himself, and eventually into something bigger than himself. 

With that being said, the natural world in an urban context can’t compete with the natural world in it’s most primitive sense. For the natural world in an urban context has been touched my man; has been touched by society. It’s organized, laid out, but more importantly, it’s there for a purpose. 

Thoreau states that, “Front yards are not made to walk in, but, at most, through.” Front yards are calculated; not something to lose yourself in, but rather to let society dictate what you use it for. Front yards, made by man, therefore have an agenda. They’re not there for a greater purpose, but rather cut to the same height at presumably the same time every week to demonstrate one’s stability-to fulfill some sort of societal expectation. 

In this sense, nature in the urban context lacks the genuine nature of, well nature. The whole fascination these writers have with nature lies in the fact that it’s not asking them for anything. These writers feel some sense of freedom in it-a sense of freedom in just being. But nature in a park setting, designed by man, is already asking something from one. It’s organizing nature. 
Every park is organized to a certain degree, asking one to park somewhere, enter through somewhere, or look at the scenery in a particular order. So off the bat, any type of nature in an ‘urban context’, presumably designed by man around the layout of the city, is contradicting what these writers romanticized about nature-that it’s untouched by us and further, by our dedication to order. 

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. 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. 

But this ended abruptly as I heard my heels clank against the concrete. I was taken out of this moment. 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.’ 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 never grow next to each other. 

Some greens

The Pigeon

As I kept walking I observed the beauty around me. Trees, squirrels, everything seemed in its right place. Like by some deep intrinsic notion nature knew what it was doing and would continue to do it no matter what/where it was.

A pigeon walked in front of me, pecking at a pile of dirt. Poor pigeon. Attempting to eat a cigarette, the pigeon let me walk extremely close to it, knowing I was there but not caring in the slightest. I’m no threat. Little does it know what my race is doing to it. 

I felt superior to this bird, looking down at it, filming it to later show the class how silly it is. How stupid can a bird be? Trying to eat a cigarette! Ha. The pigeon doesn’t know! How could it? But then I remember that I’m guilty of actually inhaling one of those things. Man is more sophisticated than say, this bird. We’ve created an order, but it’s not what’s most natural. It can’t be. The order around us is killing us; giving us stress and expectation; poisoning us, while nature sits pretty waiting for its moment to expand again-to be free itself. 

I kept 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. 

The Pond (with some city in the back)

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.

Another City View

I kept walking, coming across a railing of wood, meeting a railing of some metal or another. They can touch, but they can’t be apart of the same thing-metal and wood (at least in this case). I can enjoy the natural world and I can, to a degree, enjoy society, but I enjoy them separately. One always bombards the other, replaces the other. 

Maybe it’s a sign that what we’ve created wasn’t what was intended. It doesn’t fit together; work together. Muir believed that, “It is the natural world which is man’s true home, an environment superior to anything which human civilization has to offer.” 

The Bridge (and some more graffiti!)

Graffiti close up 

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. This 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. 

John Dos Passos' Paris

Although both Hemingway and Passos provide us with a distinct depiction of their surroundings, Hemingway focuses largely on his personal day to day life, Passos being more concerned with portraying the culture and depth of the area. 

Hemingway is much more concerned with his own perspective and life than Passos. For example, when describing the fishermen, Hemingway goes into an explanation of why he did not choose to fish. Further, he goes into long passages describing how he feels, stating, “I wish I had died before I ever loved anyone but her.” Hemingway gives us insight to his personal thought, which Passos fails to do so directly, giving Passos’ writing a more documentary feel than Hemingway’s, whose writing comes off as far more personal. Further, he focuses on presenting the perceptions of the people in his immediate reality. He doesn’t really make an effort to reach out, but instead writes about his wife, Sylvia Beach, the ‘rich’. He writes about the things that he is doing-buying books, taking a walk. 

With this being said, Hemingway paints a very vivid picture of his environment. For example, “The island ended in a point like the sharp bow of a ship and there was a small park at the water’s edge with fine chestnut trees, some huge and spreading, and in the currents and back waters that the Seine made flowing past, there was excellent places to fish.” Here Hemingway has given us a full image of what he is seeing, but fails to include the actual truth to the area. We get an image, a picture almost, of the area itself, but it seems like every other park-quaint, quiet, normal. 

Passos differs in this manner, including the nitty gritty details of the area that ultimately provides the reader a fuller perspective. For example, when describing the ‘grey town hall,’ Passos tells us that a riot occurred here, and that the square is ‘thick with knots of workingmen.’ Here, Passos starts by giving a basic introduction to what the street looks like, but goes into the culture that makes up the street. Although this is from Three Soldiers, his style stays consistent. By including this information, Passos is able to convey the essence of the area in a way that Hemingway doesn’t necessarily stress. Hemingway shows us an area, but Passos demonstrates the reality of it. 

This is further emphasized through the differing use of the first person narrative amongst the two authors. Passos’ use of first person is used for us to walk with him; observe what he’s seeing. Hemingway uses first person in the same manner, but also to provide us with a certain level of insight into his own thoughts, opinions, and ultimately self. This is expressed through his depiction of the wealthier people he encounters stating, “I trusted the pilot fish as I would trust, in those days, the Corrected Hydrographic.” 

As mentioned previously, John Dos Passos includes a wider variety of characters than seen in Hemingway’s writing. His characters range in socio-economic levels and jobs, adding multiple perspectives to his writing, which gives it a fuller feel. He’s focused on presenting the whole.

This contrasts with Hemingway who focuses on presenting the perceptions of the people in his immediate reality. When reading Hemingway, one is limited to his world, but not necessarily the entirety or truth of the area; more the truth of Hemingway’s perception of his surroundings. This is why Hemingway discusses writing to the extent that he does as well; writing interests him and Hemingway chooses to include long segments, even chapters, discussing the craft, for it is a part of his personal surroundings. 

Both Hemingway and Passos include small details of people to reveal their characters. For example, Passos includes that while Monsieur le Ministre was discussing the program of the Socialist Party, he was also, "Playing with little gold paper seals out of a box he had on his desk, the gold paper seals that are affixed to the bottom of official documents." 

With his emphasis on a variety of characters, however, Passos maintains a very fly on the wall style, not really intervening with his ‘characters’, but rather letting them do what they do. This again creates a more ‘real world’ experience for the reader. Passos even switches to the second person, further engaging his audience. When reading Passos, the reader is a part of that world. When reading Hemingway, the reader is apart of Hemingway’s world. 

Further, Passos is also a lot more direct in his interpretation of characters, telling the reader directly what he sees from people. Hemingway merely implies traits of the people whom he’s discussing. Although Passos does rely on the reader’s implication, he definitely expresses his opinion of people in a much more direct manner than Hemingway. 

For example, Passos describes a group’s conversation: “Voices were gradually growing more tense. The last warmth in these fading fictions that had unhappily survived their inventor was in their hatred.” Here we’re given a clear depiction of what these people are doing, but we’re also given Passos’ interpretation of them, forcing us to view them in this same light. 

Passos’ style continues in this opinionated manner, “As money was none too plentiful there had been suggestions from higher up that only the faithful be relieved. The deserving poor. They’d damn well better be deserving.” By including this, Passos emphasizes the essence of the area; the culture of it. This contributes to Passos’ matter of fact style, allowing him to describe what people are doing and the manner in which they are doing it. 

Passos’ description of Paris is that from the perspective of the working. He sheds light on the tired of Paris, describing the young as having, ‘an old look.’ Essentially he depicts a lot of anger in Paris that we’re not necessarily exposed to through Hemingway. Passos describes the working people of Paris, as generally calloused and worn down. We receive a lot of dark imagery: ‘grey,’ ‘dark’, ‘cold,’ ‘fog.’ In one passage, Passos even describes a mere barn as ‘desolate.’ 

Towards the end of the passage, “Think of them guys in Paris, havin’ a hell of a time with wine an’ women, an’ we stay out here an’ clean our guns an’ drill.” Here Passos even acknowledges the vision of this over-romanticized notion of Paris that he is ultimately contrasting. 

Through Andrews we’re introduced to Paris from an American’s perspective: the over-romanticized nation. Henslowe even says to Andrews, “D’you remember that man shot ooh the bite out of our wine-bottle…He didn’t give a hoot in hell, did he? Talk about expression. Why don’t you express that? I think that’s the turning point of your career. That’s what made you come to Paris; you can’t deny it.” Here we see Paris presented as this place of opportunity; a place to experience new things; a place to become inspired. 

It’s a kind of escape for Andrews. When he hears the train that will bring him from Paris back to his division, he has ‘a sick feeling of despair.’ Further, Andrews walks, trying to “Find a cafe where he could sit for a few minutes to take a last look at himself before plunging again into the groveling promiscuity of the army.” Paris is portrayed as an escape from reality; an escape from the horrors of the war-something that deep down Andrews, and presumably most Americans, wanted to avoid. 

We get an image of Paris as a city with something to offer from Passos. Henslowe stating, “But man, we’re in Paris. We’re not going to be here long. We can’t afford to stay all the time in one place.” Passos sheds light on the working of Paris and by taking himself out of his writing and speaking through the perspective of Andrews, Passos is able to show the difference between the American view of Paris and the reality of the city. 

Hemingway definitely also shows a certain reality to Paris, but it’s often smothered in his own over-romanticization of the city. Only towards the end of An Immovable Feast does Hemingway reveal, “Paris was never to be the same again although it was always Paris and you changed as it changed.” Even here though he’s still fascinated with it; still sees it as something that can give him something. 

Through Passos’ broader range of characters, more in depth descriptions, including background information, and also his lack of internal dialogue, we get a reality of the present that surpasses merely summarizing. Hemingway is very much more concerned with portraying his immediate reality; ‘his Paris.’ 

Marais Walk: Iain Sinclair

Sinclair and the Marais 

Sinclair’s cinematic, almost fragmented style fits the atmosphere of the Marais, or any city I think. Life works like a movie; noticing one thing, then the next. We really don’t focus on anything for too long, every thought kind of just occupying us until something else takes it place. We’ve formatted society to keep us occupied; entertainment: the job of cinema and society. 

Even walking is fragmented. Stopping at crosswalks, turning a corner-we rarely ever really walk in a straight line: a linear path that runs into the next, leading its walker directly to a conclusion. Instead the walker has to go, get lost, figure it out. Writing works both ways, but Sinclair’s style seems to lean towards the latter. 

Space Invader and an Ally

Space invaders sprinkle themselves along the area, providing some sort of constant throughout Paris. These little critters, unobtrusive yet undeniably apparent-there for those who want to appreciate them, but not asking for anything in return. Their technological façade contrasts with the old Parisian architecture. The colors, unapologetic in their vastness and clarity, clash against the classic cream. A cream that knows better. A cream that’s wise enough to accept the critters, but polished enough to distance itself from them.

Space Invader Outside the Metro 

The streets continue and so do the critters; 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: an outlet 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 ally there’s an assortment of street art. Each piece carries its own message. Each piece screaming to be heard, but 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.

If any of this art was displayed at a gallery, people would probably be lining up to see it. Reading into the artist’s ‘message’ and nodding approvingly, feeling gratified that they understand and appreciate art; as long as someone else has told them of its value. Shepherd Ferry, Banksy-they started out as street artists, branding themselves to gain respect. With branding ('selling out') comes recognition. 

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. And it’s time for lunch.

Storm Trooper 

The 'Dangerous' Marais 

L’as du Fallafel is on the corner. The falafel-crispy-warms me up from the inside. Psychological or not, I don’t care. This falafel really is better than any I’ve ever had. Continuing down the street: thrift stores, more falafel places, some crepe stands (as always) and a ton of galleries. There seems to be a pretty heavy Jewish influence here, which is why there are so many cops-keeping alert due to the recent ‘I am Charlie’ events. Safety fills the area; the calm after a storm.

Falafel that'll change your life

Soldiers-bureaucrats with guns-dressed in combat boots, bullet-proof vests-ready to fight, ready for war. They stand near the falafel stand, watching over the tourists too focused on checking this restaurant off their list to fully comprehend the power these men hold. Their Peter Pan-y hats overpowering their guns, vests, all intimidation is lost. Mere decorum; the people protecting France have to look good too. 

Bureaucracy using violence. I guess it’s necessary though. Once you’re a criminal, you lose some basic human rights since you’re posing a threat to a greater mass. Bureaucracy doesn’t work for an individual, it works for the masses because what individual would it choose to most represent? 

Regardless these soldiers aren’t intimidating. Or maybe it’s because I was in the city during all the Ferguson rallies-when people were really riled up and persistent in making a difference-literally fighting the cops to do so. These cops are that control-a reminder that the culture I live in controls society when it reaches primitive levels. 

I keep walking towards the Seine, looking up, searching for more art. In a window, two men look back at me. Mere paintings on a window, 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.  

'Je Suis Charlie' x Parisian in a Window

Walking past some more space invaders, a friend appears. She’s working the denim on denim (an accomplishment within itself), beanie covering her newly transformed hair cut. She has Doc Martins on and is puffing on her cigarette as though it’s fulfilling any other need or want she might’ve had. She doesn’t need you. She doesn’t need me. She’s badass. We hug. We talk. We do the whole thing. We’re here for the same assignement-this assignment. Telling me about some more hidden street art, we kiss goodbye-once on each cheek, of course (pretending to be French has become second nature by now).  

The hidden aspect to street art adds to its allure too. It’s too cool for just anyone to see-you have to know about it-be on the inside scoop. 

Some more Invader

The Bougie Marais 

The Marais is hip and upper class. Jeans aren’t just jeans here-they’re specialty pants and they advise you to clean them by throwing them in your freezer instead of in the wash. They’re too sensitive for a machine. The restaurants are chic and the only really cheap food you’ll find are crepes, and only if you’re content with your crepe being smothered with butter and sugar. You pay for the nutrition you receive in Paris. 

I LOVE MY BLENDER. The title doesn’t tell me anything; doesn’t tell you anything. It’s alluring. It’s marketing. Too hip for a descriptive name. It doesn’t need you to understand it. It doesn’t need your business. It just loves its blender. Housing an array of witty mugs, books with quirky titles just to reveal pictures of nonsense. A sofa sits in the front-decoration. The quintessential cool kid hang out. A place to buy stuff to make you unique; reassurance of your individuality. And for only 30 euros you can get a mug with a mustache. Wow. 

LA CHAMBRE AUX CONFITURES. Only jam. All jam. Any jam. Jam. Sweet jam. Savory jam. Never in my life have I seen so many jams. You know an area is a little bougie when a store that sells only jam (at an average of 8 euro/jar) can stay open. In its defense, if you’re willing to sling out the 8 euro, you can get your exact craving filled. Apricot isn’t just apricot. It’s apricot and lavender; apricot and ginger. The oranges aren’t just oranges. It’s orange and flower. ‘Orange exotique.’ What does exotic taste like? Whip out your 8 euro and find out. They’re displayed on shelves. Overwhelming. Looking up at jams, they suddenly seem to have more power. Intimidated by jam? No. Intimidated by the amount of product. The amount of possibilities, temptation, for me to waste a full day’s food money on. 

For an area that’s so chic, the street art becomes a sort of effort to keep the area from becoming ‘bougie.’ 

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 it in a way that a gallery (or the law) doesn’t really allow. Although I guess street art within itself is illegal too. 

President Sarkozy

Leaving the area, I look up. ’Je suis Charlie’ fills the area. 

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. I guess that’s the point.

 

Other Female Figures in FEAST

Through Hemingway, we’re introduced to a feminine and gentle Sylvia Beach. He describes her as having, “Brown eyes that were as alive as a small animal’s and as gay as a young girl’s.” He includes descriptions of her gossiping and joking, but also gives light to her kindness and trust, discussing a time when she let Hemingway borrow books without paying the borrowing deposit. In addition to this, Hemingway emphasizes that Beach didn’t rush him to pay, but rather encouraged him to take his time and enjoy the literature stating, “Don’t read too fast.”

Beach is portrayed as all-knowing and witty in this passage as Hemingway doesn’t think she knows that he lives in a poorer side of Paris, however it is later revealed the Beach very well knows where Hemingway lives and is knowledgeable of the area. Beach is portrayed as a genuine and patient woman who enjoys the ‘finer’ elements of life, wanting to share them with everyone: reading books, eating good meals. She even invites Hemingway and his wife over for dinner upon just meeting him. 

In Beach’s letters to Joyce, we see this same kindness that Hemingway portrays, as she states “Everything I have I give you freely.” This highlights this open and giving nature that Hemingway experienced with Beach. 

However through these letters we see a side to Beach that Hemingway does not give light to. Beach was level-headed, dealing with the mistreatment from Joyce (and his ego) to publish a book she believed in. Beach found herself, ‘being pressed into service to run his endless errands, to lend him pocket money, to give him a sympathetic ear.’ 

Joyce eventually betrays Beach by taking Ulysses to a ‘more lucrative’ publisher. Beach states, “(I am poor and tired too) and I have noticed that every time a new terrible effort is required from me, (my life is a continual “six hours” with sprints every ten rounds) and I manage to accomplish the task that is set me you try to see how much more I can do while I am about. Is it human?” 

Hemingway compares Beach to a ‘young girl,’ however here we see Beach defending herself; not letting herself be pushed around and taken advantage of. Beach, although shown as kind, patient, and giving, is revealed as a strong woman through her letters with Joyce. Beach also puts her store before Joyce, having her priorities clearly marked; a woman who knows what she wants and what’s important to her. 

Beach as a strong and rational woman is again supported through her discussion of the war. For example, while discussing her student assistant being, ‘machine-gunned in the ditches’ to later be interned, she does so matter-of-factly, interjecting none of her own emotion in the matter. Beach even begins the following paragraph describing how lovely a particular day in June was. 

Even the mere fact that Beach decided to take the risk and stay in Paris talks to her determined and strong demeanor, refusing to compromise her preferences for the Nazis. As opposed to the eager way she gave Hemingway books, she refuses to sell the copy of Finnegan’s Wake to the German officer (who Beach points out was high-ranking), simply saying that she was keeping it for herself. Hemingway’s encounter with Beach fails to expose this strong demeanor, bravery, and the manner in which she stuck to her ideals that we see through her interactions with Joyce and the war.

In regard to Hadley, we receive this same very blanketed representation from Hemingway. 

Hadley, as portrayed in the Gammel reading, is traditional-sacrificing to take care of her mother. 

This image of Hadley as a woman of another time; a woman who follows the gender norms and sits pretty as a dutiful wife is really only hinted at throughout A Moveable Feast. For example, Hadley insists on paying back the library that day-she’s kind; intends on doing things right; being a good, dutiful wife by caring for her husband and picking up his shortcomings. She makes him lunch and waits to hear about his day. Again, further on, we get this sense of Hadley as this naive woman of domestication when she says, “And we’ll never love anyone else but each other.” 

Through A Moveable Feast, we also see Hemingway’s control in their relationship, making plans for the night without consulting Hadley, merely telling her. But Hemingway presents her as stable, kind, and gentle, portraying her traditional mindset, not so much as traditional, but rather as helpful and calm.

Hadley (and her traditionalism) was on the sidelines of Hemingway’s modernism. Hemingway doesn’t present this clash either throughout A Moveable Feast, which brings up the question of whether he really digested how traditional of a woman she was. Hadley states, “I have no passion of my own.” Dropping out of university, Hadley did not have the same work ethic or drive as Hemingway either. We don’t see this side of her in A Moveable Feast either, as she seems interested in the library, asking if it has Henry James. Hadley was probably not an intellectual in the same sense as Hemingway, but this is never revealed through Hemingway’s depictions of her.  

In addition to this clash in mentalities, Hemingway’s wife experienced inner turmoil herself-dealing with the effects of an abusive father and suffering with Ernest’s anxiety (as it reminded her of her father’s rage). Hadley was not as stable as we see her presented by Hemingway.

Regardless, this difference in their mentalities eventually catches up to them when Hemingway leaves Hadley for Pauline, Hadley even gave Hemingway permission to remarry (how traditional). Hadley follows the older norms for women. Pound even warned her against trying, “to utterly domesticate” Hemingway. Hemingway, a man so ahead of his time and Hadley, a woman so stuck in the times, were sure to not work out. 

For the most part, A Moveable Feast shows Hadley as warm, kind and gentle, which she very well may have been, but it leaves out that these qualities stemmed from a mindset stuck in the ‘traditional.'

Nonetheless, Hemingway portrays both these women with qualities which other readings support, but leaves out the deeper elements to their personalities. For Beach he leaves out that, although kind, gentle and understanding, she was also strong and respected. He presents his own wife as kind and warm, hinting that she may care about her reputation amongst the locals (in her eagerness to return the book), but never revealing the extent of her traditional mindset and instability. 

“Paris is so very beautiful that it satisfies something in you that is always hungry in America.” 

Maybe this is why Hemingway failed to highlight Beach’s strength, or his own wife’s domesticated nature. He was in a city that leaves you constantly fulfilled, painting everything in it in the best possible light. Hemingway was starstruck by Paris.

Walking in Montparnasse

Getting Lost

Montparnasse is, or seems to be, less touristy than the area that I’m living in (16e). There are more supermarkets, practical stores; stores for life instead of entertainment. People walk with intention, giving light to and isolating the few tourists who look up, wide-eyed. It’s all new for them. They look up in awe. Awe of the unknown. Awe of the new. Those who are from here, look down, for to them, the monotony of concrete and Parisian architecture is all the same.

A woman, middle-aged and blending in well: her clothes are dark, her hair is tied up neatly in a ponytail. She’s un-obtrusive, merely becoming apart of the backdrop to my Paris. “Ou est-ce que la gare?” She’s asking me for directions. Little does she know how lost I am. Ironically I know where the train station is. I point her in the general direction of the station, murmuring my broken French. The woman stares at me and moves on. She’s figured me out. She knows I can only be of minimal help.

Walking along, I search for the street on my page. At a stop walk I spot a woman carrying a baguette in her bag. I figure she’s headed home. She probably knows the area. I ask her for directions. She looks up for a second, thinking. She’s searching for the English word for train station I think, eventually just shrugging and continuing to walk. I can’t blame her. I’m interrupting her day and more than that, not abiding with her norms: speaking French and eating baguettes. I give up on following the directions given and instead go into a small museum: Musée Jean Moulin.

Tour Montparnasse

Some Museum in Montparnasse 

The museum is small, centered around wars and the French military. It’s filled with posters-similar to ones of Uncle Sam, but with slogans less direct than the “I Want You!” That ‘good ol’ American know-how.’ We don’t waste time. The French are much more polite, or at least subtle in regard to propaganda. 

The museum emulates pride in a way I’m only familiar with as American. Some song plays out overhead, the French in the museum point excitedly. War brings out pride. It has to. War needs support or else it’s just a game sure to be lost. Pride fuels the respect granted to war-a respect that validates the violence. Iconic, legendary, the people in these pictures-these war heroes have a one up on me. They have been apart of something bigger than me-bigger than the entirety of my immediate world.  

Stepping out of the museum, the reality of the city settles back in-the hustle that comes with the 21st century. One cannot hear anything really, only background noise-noise that consolidates everything-all individual conversations blend into a monotonous 3 noises: cars, people, and the wind. 

Cartoon in the Musée Jean Moulin

Getting Lost. Cont'd

Being lost, I’m left with nothing to do but look around. A pair identical twins sits near a stand eating baguettes. I guess they really do start them early. France: A nation of baguettes. These girls are beautiful in a way only young girls are-beauty that doesn’t ask or strive to be noticed. Beauty that strives in its genuine nature. Their parents are MIA, or one of the bustling bodies searching for information-train times, etc. 

Girls eating baguettes 

Suddenly I become hungry. Hunger always seems to work like that. You’re fine until you’re not, and once you’re not, food is the only objective. Walking over to a row of carts I’m forced to choose between a crepe stand or a baguette. The men eye me down, waiting to see how ‘local’ I really am. Butter and sugar smeared on a crepe sounds perfect-the exact comfort any lost tourist needs. But I refuse. “Un sandwich aver jambon s’il vous plait.” You killed it Emily. You fooled them.

“Five euros.” The man answers in English. I haven’t fooled anyone. My accent might as well be dripping in red, white and blue. Part of being somewhere new-somewhere you’re not familiar with though is feeling outcasted. By being isolated you’re forced to see everything to a much deeper level, for one is not immersed, but rather observing. Observing the people, interactions-culture. It’s weird that I feel outcasted, considering they are speaking to me in English-my comfort zone. I guess it’s being outcasted from the general culture-the country as a whole. 

I sit, eating my sandwich, watching the Montparnasse train station; Montparnasse at its most hectic. A couple is saying goodbye. They’re young…real young. The girl still holds the awkwardness that comes at the tail end of puberty-just before it drips off and exposes the confidence intrinsic to a woman. The girl smiles, revealing her braces. The couple's public display of affection is one only capable of those who have never been hurt. They don’t have caution yet. They’re not wary of showing the world their happiness. They have no fear of jinxing their passion. They’re not afraid of love yet, embracing it fully. They haven’t experienced deception yet; men with game, or women with agendas. 

Men who have ‘game’ tend to be able to charm many. It’s deception, transforming yourself into what you need to be in that moment. I guess everyone sacrifices apart of themselves around different people, though. 

Louis keeps asking me to hangout. For the last couple years, real relationships haven’t interested me. How can I accept the responsibility of another’s reliance, when I myself am just learning the responsibility of relying on myself?

The Boulangerie Woman 

I hope I never have to rely on anyone. There’s a solid amount of homeless people in Paris. 
Regardless of whatever argument one may make as to why Europe is ‘so much better’ than the US, it’s undeniable that sadness and suffering occurs here too. 

Walking, I give my leftover change to an older woman who sits outside a bakery. Every morning she sits, leaning against a pole. Her clothes, although upon a closer look, reveal fine cloth, give the appearance of rags. Placing a .20 piece in her cup she looks up at me, her eyes not holding a look of surprise or relief, but rather duty. She grins. “Merci. Vous avez gentille.” 

The last time I gave money to the homeless was in New York. He was older, not even begging, but just sitting, looking to the floor, giving up on something; giving up on everything. I gave him five dollars. I understood him. Those days when you can’t get anything right. When everything feels attainable, but not in your present mindset. Trying to alter your mindset you just end up more confused; overwhelmed in questioning the most productive way for you to perceive your world. Seeing the bill in his cup, his whole demeanor changed. His eyes actually changed, from empty, blank, to revived. He nodded and looked up at me, crinkling his eyebrows in surprise. “Thank you.” 

I suppose I was expecting this same sort of transformation with this elderly woman. Maybe it’s just that I gave her less than I had given that man. Maybe people in Paris are kinder and receiving coins isn’t foreign to her. Maybe she was just having a good day, but I couldn’t help feeling that she expected I would give her that coin. She knew and I knew that walking away from a begging woman in the city I was raised to over-romanticize-a city in which I was now part of-was not going to happen. I would, subconsciously of course, give a large amount more to simply uphold this facade: an image of myself living in Paris, fitting into Paris.

I finish my sandwich and realize I’m on my own again. No more hunger; no more distraction. I jump on the metro, getting off at the Argentine stop. Walking out of the train, familiarity surrounds me. I walk the route I walk everyday, passing the fruit stand I stop at every morning. The man who works there-an older man, whose hands are calloused and white from working in the cold all day, waves at me. “Bonjour mademoiselle.” 

I’m a tourist in Montparnasse, but here I’m home. Here I can look down. Here I know where I am. I know the people. I am the woman with the baguette. 

Paris is just distance, really. Distance from a world I’ve been so confined in. And with distance comes clarity. A clarity of who I am, what I want, and how I treat people. 

At the same time, it’s just a matter of time until I become confined in this new world, making a life in Paris-making Paris home. 

With distance also comes missing my family. That’s been hard. I love my family. I’d give them my soul if I could. Without them I’d be nothing.