“The Prelude (Book Fifth — Books)”
While listlessly I sate, and, having closed
The book, had turned my eyes toward the wide sea.
On poetry and geometric truth,
And their high privilege of lasting life,
From all internal injury exempt,
I mused; upon these chiefly: and at length,
My senses yielding to the sultry air,
Sleep seized me, and I passed into a dream.
“There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. We always returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed or with what difficulties, or ease, it could be reached. Paris was always worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it.”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
I’m a late, and somewhat reluctant, convert to the magic of old Paris but I must confess that despite the clichés and the ever-present crowds of tourists, there is still an irresistible fire burning under its surface. That is why after a prolonged (and regretted) absence from this blog, I am now compelled to share some of my favourites sights of the city.
So here it goes, some of my favourite things and places in Paris:
- Stained Glass Windows at Notre Dame Cathedral
- “La Fiancée de Belus” by Henri-Paul Motte at Musée d’Orsay
- Statue of Diderot in Place St-Germain-des-Prés
- Medici Fountain at Luxembourg Gardens
- Musée des Lettres et Manuscrits
And let me finish by giving my readers a couple of tips for their next visit to Paris….
- Stop by “Un Dimanche à Paris” at Cour du Commerce Saint André for delicious sweets and chocolate
- Remember that Parisian cats have only contempt for tourists trying to take a picture
“Beyond my anxiety, beyond this writing,
the Universe awaits, inexhaustible, inviting”
“Poem Written in a Copy of Beowulf” — Jorge Luis Borges
A year has passed since I began writing this blog and I wanted to mark the occasion with a few lines to thank all my visitors and followers.
Some of you have come across my blog by chance but have been kind enough to take an interest in my clumsy attempts at expressing some ideas in a language that although foreign to me, I love deeply. Others are just incredibly patient friends who have not just read this blog but liked it and provided comments and great suggestions to improve it.
Regardless of how you have arrived on these shores and whether or not you stayed for long, I want you all to know how much it has meant to me. It has become a wonderful shelter from the pressures and pains of my other life and helped me keep a magic fire alight. That fire has been made truly special by the friends who have gathered around it and their gifts: books, films, songs and other blogs are just a few of the treasures I have found thanks to you.
I hope that you have also enjoyed it and will visit this site again. In the meantime, I can only offer my sincerest gratitude and a promise to continue my search for an entry that will make it not entirely worthless. Let’s meet again soon!
“Don’t walk in front of me; I may not follow. Don’t walk behind me; I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend.”
“When the booty had been gathered together, a tenth of the whole was set apart for the Delphian god, and, from this, was made the golden tripod which stands on the three-headed bronze serpent nearest the altar.” Herodotus
It’s early afternoon and the square is crowded. An insatiable horde of tourists takes possession of Istanbul. After Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, five minutes are now dutifully allocated to immortalize the instant when they walk over the Hippodrome of Constantinople. The impossibly old Egyptian obelisks are the undisputed stars of the relentless ritual but today, the heretic in me prefers the solitude and the shade.
I make a tactical retreat but before leaving the square, I notice the broken column. Avoided by the cloud of tourists and under siege by a sea of cigarette butts and plastic bottles, it casts a simple but dignified silhouette. My curiosity takes over and I read the inscription that identifies it as the Serpent Column (Greek Τρικάρηνος Όφις (trans. Trikarenos Ophis), part of an ancient Greek sacrificial tripod built to commemorate the victory over the Persian Empire at the Battle of Plataea (479 BC). Continue reading
Some films grab you by the throat and don’t let go…films that cross the boundaries of fiction and shatter your cosy world. “Johnny Mad Dog” is one of those films. Released in 2008 and directed by Jean-Stéphane Sauvaire, it is based on the novel “Johnny Chien Méchant” (2002) by Emmanuel Dongala.
It follows a group of child soldiers fighting during the Second Liberian Civil War in 2003. In their march towards the capital Monrovia, they travel through towns and small villages, where they terrify, rape and kill civilians on a rampage fuelled by drugs and fanatical brainwash.
The year is 1959 and the place is New York City. Outside the “Birdland” club, a young musician is taking a break when he is told by a patrolman to “move on”. The musician tries to explain that he works at the club. The policeman punches the musician in the stomach and is then joined by another one that beats the musician in the head. Later that night, the musician receives five stitches for a wound on his head. A few days after the attack, he tries to pursue the case in court but has to eventually drop it in order to recover his license to work in the city clubs.
The young musician was none other than Miles Davis who, in that same year, produced his great masterpiece “Kind of Blue”. One of the many fascinating aspects of that amazing album is how its creation epitomized Davis’ commitment to freedom. A sense of freedom that transpires in the more technical aspects of the work that broke the bebop tradition of complex chord changes in favor of modal scales. Freedom also highlighted by Davis’ decision to give a pivotal role in the album to a white and classically trained musician, Bill Evans. Davis made the change despite the ferocious opposition of some followers and even other members of the band like Coltrane.
Some places deserve more attention than are usually given. In modern cities like London, the underground system is, in my opinion, a prime example. Based on a rough calculation, I reckon that I have spent the equivalent of over one hundred and sixty full days in the London “tube” during the last eight years.
However, I think that the underground is interesting in many ways and not merely because we, poor commuters, are forced to spend long periods of time there.
While suffering the winter cold that the air conditioner fails to mitigate and longing for the ideal holiday portrayed on the inevitable myriad of ads that cover it, there are many things that can be appreciated.
Consider, for example the relentless regularity of certain patterns in the behaviour of the “tube” tribes. Groups of builders discussing football and reading “The Sun” at 5:30am, bankers and lawyers religiously reading the “Financial Times” at 6:30am, noisy children in uniform comparing mobile phones at 8am, the inevitable pack of foreign students wearing their “I love London” t-shirts and going back to the hotel at 8pm, the football fans on their way to Wembley wearing the prescriptive scarfs and face colours, the group of young girls with too much make-up and impossibly high heels going clubbing on Friday nights…
I have made very good friends over the years. They have enriched my life in countless ways and helped me overcome painful situations. Yet, I have never met some of those friends in person. They belong to the world of fiction and an impenetrable barrier sits between us. Well, that is not entirely true…every time I have sought their help they have generously shared valuable lessons and inspiration. They have never asked for anything in return but I feel I owe them and perhaps this humble entry will go some way to repay my debt.
The first one is a Greek king, who went to war in order to “rescue” another man’s wife and experienced the most eventful journey home ever written. Over two thousand years, he has enjoyed an awful reputation as a womanizer, hedonistic and impious scoundrel but in my opinion, his story is one of the best metaphors of human existence ever composed.
Odysseus was extremely resourceful and had in his extraordinary intelligence the key to fool even the wrath of the gods and defeat his enemies. He taught me to pursue one’s goals relentlessly and endure setbacks and pain when they are required to achieve a worthy goal. He was no angel, his hands were covered in blood and left most of his ideals shattered by his journey through life. Yet, he was not afraid of the truth and always loyal to his friends. Odysseus is the only king I would greet with a bow and inspired me with an everlasting fascination for Greek history and myth. I cannot stop wishing that, perhaps one day, I will encounter the old rogue and get to ask him about Troy, Circe and Polyphemus and hear his own account of the tale. More importantly, I would try to convince him to tell me about those other stories that the blind poet forgot to sing about.
Since the time of Herodotus, some historians have followed that rule usually attributed to journalists: ”Don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”. The danger behind that principle is that tends to cover up reality and is likely to lead us astray.
The history of political institutions provides a perfect example of such a tendency. The story of how the idea of the state emerged first in Europe and then spread to the rest of the world is still told. Yet, if, following Max Weber, we understand a state as a “centralized, uniform system of bureaucratic administration that governs a large population and territory”; the historical evidence indicates that we should look for its origins somewhere else. That other place is China and the time was the period between the eighth and the third century B.C.
“Never say you know the last word about any human heart”
“Every life is both ordinary and extraordinary – it is the respective proportions of those two categories that make that life appear interesting or humdrum”. This line comes from “Any Human Heart”, a profoundly moving novel by the British writer William Boyd. The book portrays its protagonist, Logan Mountstuart, through excerpts from his intimate journals. It provides not only details of his intimate tribulations but a greatly evocative depiction of major historical events through the twentieth century.
Logan is born to a well-to-do English family but his identity is modelled by certain facts and influences that set him apart from the beginning. He is the son of an English father but his mother is Uruguayan and his first written words were in Spanish. The author displays an inclination for introducing these singular traits into a character that comes to exemplify human life in all its vigour and weakness.
Logan records his life on a number of journals that take the reader into an exhilarating ride through school, the life of a promising undergraduate at Oxford University, the early successes and challenges of a young and successful writer, marriage, the Spanish Civil War, the Second World War, the art world in New York, the economic misery of the seventies and the denial of history in modern France….