new york herald tribune

Today was my last day in Paris. I bought a Herald Tribune, lit a candle at the grave of Jean Seberg, crossed the Champs-Elysées and went to the Musée Rodin. Just as Bath makes you wonder how anybody could draw attention to a spinster aunt's straitened circumstances at the tea table, Rodin makes you wonder how anybody restrains themselves from ripping their duds off and pashing the nearest gorgeous creature. All of Rodin's characters writhe in the extremes of human emotion--the last moments before their execution, the first act of an epic erotic union, the anticipation of eternal punishment. It's a stirring vision of humanity, but it already feels out of reach. The nouvelle vague, with its miscommunications, broken attempts at intimacy and sense of helplessness in the face of fate--c'est dégueulasse, maybe, but it feels more like home. That's why I went to visit Jean, I suppose. I didn't have time for Sartre and de Beauvoir, but I did eat at their old hang-out, Le Deux Magots, the other day. The wait staff weren't exuding any unctuous bad faith while I was there--they were expressing their conard natures as sincerely as one could wish. Much nicer are the proprietors of my local laverie and internet café. They act tough, but they're big softies really.

Tonight I'm going to a creperie with Macgregor, and an open mic night of some sort with his housemate. Coming back to the Marais in the afternoons is starting to feel like a home-coming. A nice thing to experience before you leave a place. Tomorrow I'll be in Narbonne, in the south. I'll keep you posted.