I have always thought the greatest art or literature comes out of darkness. The long and cold Siberian winter nurtured the Russian literatures that are tough to read at the first sight yet desperately romantic. Or it could be the inner madness that drives them to rumble, to line, to color, to hum, just to avoid drowning in their own thoughts. Gaugin was depressed, as thousands of other painters, Munch screamed “death was knocking his door” due to a severe hallucination, London tried to kill himself, Hemingway actually killed himself.
But Paris, oh Paris, the summer here is so bright. The sun sets at 10p.m., and La Seine still reflects the golden light at 11p.m. There is no time for you to pity your horrible job or other sorts of misery. Only, you feel forced to stare at the blueness of the blue sky, redness of red wine and the beauty of Parisiennes in chic dresses, feeling a slight chill from the breeze blowing through the river. How could such a fluffy city give birth to such grand amount of greatness?
Hemmingway, Beauvoir, Fitzgerald, Wilde, Miller, Duras, Celine… Some of them were bathe-in-wine-and-polish-shoes-with-perfume kind of extravagant, some of them lived dangerously and scandalously, and some of them were obnoxious bastards. Two things they had in common though, are that for one, they sure knew how to write, and for two, they were absolutely hopelessly in love with Paris.
Cafe du Flores, Les Deux Magots, bars in the Latin Quarter, pubs in the narrow, winding streets in Le Marais. Nowadays these places have become venues for tourists and writer-wannabes to spend 8 Euros on a cup of Cappuccino and talk about their spiritual connection with this “movable feast”. But then again, there is nothing wrong in this desperate attempt of getting closer to those insane brains. We could always sit at the very spot and wonder what view had inspired Pablo Picasso.
– Wanting to be a genious (and end up waking up at 7a.m. just to watch the new episode of Game of Thrones)