The pursuit
On the way to Mabillon, taking the Metro. This book was bought at Palais de Tokyo, on the day I arrived at Porte de Saint Cloud. The date was 4 December 2014, Thursday. I was reluctant to go to Palais de Tokyo but the ever present obligation to the host brought me, and I am glad that I went there. Again, on the train to Mabillon, with the intention to sit down at the Cafe le Procope, the oldest cafe in Paris within the heart of St Germain de pres, where intellectuals would meet for discussions over a cup of coffee, so I was told by a gentleman whom I met at the Metro. I did not have travel itineraries nor a destination in mind. But here I am, in Paris. And so here I am, on my way to St Germain. What will I be doing there, I wondered. Perhaps to simply soak in the atmosphere. I remembered how I spent the time outside Museé du Louvre having conversations with strangers, overlooking the sculptures through an enormous glass window and how I stood in front of Paintings by Mondrian and Rothko at Centre Pompidou intellectualising those forms and structures without having felt a tinge of emotions within. But London was different. I found what I was looking for in the paintings of Vincent van Goh and Peter Paul Rubens at the National Gallery. In them, I found the fluidity of form. I was profoundly amazed, especially by Rubens, with what he sees and feels that showed in his works. I felt, in Rubens’, the sublime.
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Paris is decaying. A city of past glamour and grandeur, with idealistic young Parisians who still sing in its praise. But who am I at where I am here? I do not see what they see. What I see is a city that is only a shell. It is rotting and sinking slowly but surely. But who am I to say such things to all these idealistic young ones. They dream. But their dreams of making it big from small towns such as Saint May end with Paris. They could dream farther, look towards Asia where there are cities which are bustling, the cities that are alive. Perhaps then they will see. They will then see the state of their decaying city that belongs to the past, and not of the future.
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Paris is a city to “enjoy” when you have the means to do so.
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I have come back to the same Cafe again. As if my feet would not and could not bring me to another place. The same waiter flirted and served, but I could see only the tiredness behind his smiling face. Sitting by the large glass window, by myself. I have been alone many times throughout this travel, but never did I feel lonely. This place has expensive food and drinks. Perhaps I could have gone to the cafe at the other corner of Place du Châtelet, the one where I have become a regular, a less expensive alternative. They even had wifi, an important feature of modern life. But my feet brought me here.
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He said, everyone wants to come here, to Paris. Because this is where the possibilities are. This is where the dreams are made of. He was enthusiastic. Proud even. I leaned into the back of my seat, mastering the art of looking interested, while listening to what he was saying. In Rue de Rivoli, you couldn’t see it, could you? This is not where the dreams are made of. This is where you see the debris of shattered dreams. This is where you see people shivering in the cold on the streets covered with nothing more than a thin blanket and you walked undisturbed because you have no concern with that homeless person. This is where you see the disparity between the races, the classes and the ages. Maybe I could have stayed longer at St Germain in spite of the rain. Maybe I could have made a more concerted effort to talk to those intellectuals at Cafe Le Procope or Cafe de Flore. But I did not. Maybe I should do it again, coming to Paris. But I am not sure. I could live in a small town like Ólafsfjörður or a bigger city like Reykjavik in Iceland. Heck, I could even live in London. But not Paris. I could not stand the stench of this place.
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Are there angels in Paris?
There are angels in Paris.
Indeed, there are angels in Paris.
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