Yep, When Good Americans Die, They Still Go to Paris

Actucally if one is very very good, one gets to come and
stay before death.

Earl

*****


New York Times


Yep, When Good Americans Die, They Still Go to Paris
By JANET MASLIN

Published: April 15, 2004


n astonishing array of well-known writers light up the anthology "Americans
in Paris." But the book's sparkle should be ascribed as much to its
editor, Adam Gopnik, as to the voices that he collects. Mr. Gopnik has
assembled a vibrant cross-section of experience from high-profile tourists,
chroniclers and expatriates. He has selected and excerpted their writing in
ways that remain inviting throughout 600 pages.

Advertisement

Although "Americans in Paris" has a chronological structure, Mr. Gopnik
still gives it a soupçon of suspense: the reader moves from section to
section wondering whether the book can top what it has just delivered. So
ignore the table of contents and allow yourself to be caught off guard.

A book that extends from Benjamin Franklin's fascination with Frenchwomen's
cosmetics ("As to Rouge, they don't pretend to imitate Nature in laying it
on") to S. J. Perelman's imagined French horror of American cooking ("Don't
be an Airedale . . . Hasn't Marcel told you about my noodles Yankee Doodle,
smothered in peanut butter and mayonnaise?") is sure to provide unexpected
treats.

A few unifying principles can be found. As Mr. Gopnik explains in astute
introductions to individual selections, Americans in Paris typically want to
take notes. Whether they are enraptured by the city or aghast (from Abigail
Adams: "It is a matter of great speculation to me when these people
labor"), their reactions are dramatic. In perhaps the most vivid postcard
ever sent from France to America, Hart Crane explained in 1929: "Dinners,
soirees, poets, erratic millionaires, painters, translations, lobsters,
absinthe, music, promenade, oysters, sherry, aspirin, pictures, Sapphic
heiresses, editors, books, sailors. And How!"

For every sybaritic French experience recorded here (Diana Vreeland marvels
at how Coco Chanel's lover insisted that his shoelaces be ironed daily)
there is sure to be a priggish one. Paris was "a loud modern New York of a
place" to Ralph Waldo Emerson, who displayed the limits of transcendentalism
when he traveled, and who detected his own version of a da Vinci code.
Having been to the Louvre (a favorite clichéd subject for American visitors,
Mr. Gopnik says), Emerson observed: "Leonardo da Vinci has more pictures
here than in any other gallery & I like them well despite of the identity of
the features which peep out of men & women. I have seen the same face in
his pictures I think six or seven times."

Rivaled for crankiness by Nathaniel Hawthorne, Thomas Jefferson and the
virulently French-baiting Mark Twain, Emerson even complained in 1833 about
Père Lachaise, Paris's most famous cemetery: "The tombstones have a
beseeching importunate vanity and remind you of advertisements." More than
two centuries later Dawn Powell would call Sartre the French Hopalong
Cassidy and note "that the French were really very hospitable, only their
hospitality consisted in allowing people to have as many men in their hotel
as they liked or allowing them to bring their pets into restaurants."

Even the book's most disparaging or heavy-handed Americans were bound to
notice the city's special allure. "We were obviously in beautiful, if not
moral, company," Theodore Dreiser wrote about Paris, also calling it "a
perfect maelstrom of sex." James Fenimore Cooper, invited to a grand party,
grudgingly multiplies the number of carriages to conclude that there must
have been 1,500 guests. "Truly, I have no sympathies towards the French
people," wrote Nathaniel Hawthorne. "Their eyes do not win me, nor do their
glances melt and mingle with mine. But they do grand and beautiful things,
in the architectural way, and I am grateful for it."

The subtler American observers ‹ like Edith Wharton, comparing social
adroitness with the making of a soufflé ‹ are also well represented. But
this collection is so rich that its best-known voices are not necessarily
the most interesting. Hemingway is here, remarking that there is good
fishing in the Seine; F. Scott Fitzgerald's short story "Babylon Revisited"
finds the main character full of recrimination ("I spoiled this city for
myself"); Kerouac writes of "romantic raincoats," and Henry James's eye for
nuance is typically keen.

But this book may be better remembered for E. E. Cummings's description of
Josephine Baker at the Folies-Bergère, for Sylvia Beach's account of her
bookstore, Shakespeare & Company, or for Waverly Root's description of a
certain celebrated news event.

"By not knowing who Charles Lindbergh was at 11:00 a.m. on May 21, 1927,"
Root writes, "I betrayed the fact that as a newspaperman I was being grossly
overpaid at $15 a week."

Song lyrics and poems are here. So are eccentricities like Anita Loos's
reference to the "Eyefull Tower." And Mr. Gopnik has unearthed his share of
morose self-indulgence as another brand of American vision. (From Henry
Miller: "Men and lice, men and lice, a continuous procession toward the
maggot heap.")

Best of all are the anecdotes of pure quirkiness. P. T. Barnum wrote of
bringing a dwarf from his circus, General Tom Thumb, to Paris but letting
him wear his Napoleon costume only in private, and by request of King Louis
Philippe.

Then there were the Iowa Indians who visited Paris with the painter George
Catlin. They kept a list devoted to dog walking: women who walked dogs,
women who carried dogs and women who wheeled little dogs in carriages. The
Indians also enjoyed what they called the "queen's chickabobboo." In
Paris, that was an especially American way to describe Champagne.

What does this rant have to do with travel in Europe?


"Earl Evleth" wrote in message
...
Actucally if one is very very good, one gets to come and
stay before death.

Earl

*****


New York Times


Yep, When Good Americans Die, They Still Go to Paris
By JANET MASLIN

Published: April 15, 2004


n astonishing array of well-known writers light up the anthology
"Americans
in Paris." But the book's sparkle should be ascribed as much to its
editor, Adam Gopnik, as to the voices that he collects. Mr. Gopnik has
assembled a vibrant cross-section of experience from high-profile
tourists,
chroniclers and expatriates. He has selected and excerpted their writing
in
ways that remain inviting throughout 600 pages.

Advertisement

Although "Americans in Paris" has a chronological structure, Mr. Gopnik
still gives it a soupçon of suspense: the reader moves from section to
section wondering whether the book can top what it has just delivered. So
ignore the table of contents and allow yourself to be caught off guard.

A book that extends from Benjamin Franklin's fascination with
Frenchwomen's
cosmetics ("As to Rouge, they don't pretend to imitate Nature in laying it
on") to S. J. Perelman's imagined French horror of American cooking
("Don't
be an Airedale . . . Hasn't Marcel told you about my noodles Yankee
Doodle,
smothered in peanut butter and mayonnaise?") is sure to provide unexpected
treats.

A few unifying principles can be found. As Mr. Gopnik explains in astute
introductions to individual selections, Americans in Paris typically want
to
take notes. Whether they are enraptured by the city or aghast (from
Abigail
Adams: "It is a matter of great speculation to me when these people
labor"), their reactions are dramatic. In perhaps the most vivid postcard
ever sent from France to America, Hart Crane explained in 1929: "Dinners,
soirees, poets, erratic millionaires, painters, translations, lobsters,
absinthe, music, promenade, oysters, sherry, aspirin, pictures, Sapphic
heiresses, editors, books, sailors. And How!"

For every sybaritic French experience recorded here (Diana Vreeland
marvels
at how Coco Chanel's lover insisted that his shoelaces be ironed daily)
there is sure to be a priggish one. Paris was "a loud modern New York of
a
place" to Ralph Waldo Emerson, who displayed the limits of
transcendentalism
when he traveled, and who detected his own version of a da Vinci code.
Having been to the Louvre (a favorite clichéd subject for American
visitors,
Mr. Gopnik says), Emerson observed: "Leonardo da Vinci has more pictures
here than in any other gallery & I like them well despite of the identity
of
the features which peep out of men & women. I have seen the same face in
his pictures I think six or seven times."

Rivaled for crankiness by Nathaniel Hawthorne, Thomas Jefferson and the
virulently French-baiting Mark Twain, Emerson even complained in 1833
about
Père Lachaise, Paris's most famous cemetery: "The tombstones have a
beseeching importunate vanity and remind you of advertisements." More
than
two centuries later Dawn Powell would call Sartre the French Hopalong
Cassidy and note "that the French were really very hospitable, only their
hospitality consisted in allowing people to have as many men in their
hotel
as they liked or allowing them to bring their pets into restaurants."

Even the book's most disparaging or heavy-handed Americans were bound to
notice the city's special allure. "We were obviously in beautiful, if
not
moral, company," Theodore Dreiser wrote about Paris, also calling it "a
perfect maelstrom of sex." James Fenimore Cooper, invited to a grand
party,
grudgingly multiplies the number of carriages to conclude that there
must
have been 1,500 guests. "Truly, I have no sympathies towards the French
people," wrote Nathaniel Hawthorne. "Their eyes do not win me, nor do
their
glances melt and mingle with mine. But they do grand and beautiful things,
in the architectural way, and I am grateful for it."

The subtler American observers like Edith Wharton, comparing social
adroitness with the making of a soufflé are also well represented. But
this collection is so rich that its best-known voices are not necessarily
the most interesting. Hemingway is here, remarking that there is good
fishing in the Seine; F. Scott Fitzgerald's short story "Babylon
Revisited"
finds the main character full of recrimination ("I spoiled this city for
myself"); Kerouac writes of "romantic raincoats," and Henry James's eye
for
nuance is typically keen.

But this book may be better remembered for E. E. Cummings's description of
Josephine Baker at the Folies-Bergère, for Sylvia Beach's account of her
bookstore, Shakespeare & Company, or for Waverly Root's description of a
certain celebrated news event.

"By not knowing who Charles Lindbergh was at 11:00 a.m. on May 21, 1927,"
Root writes, "I betrayed the fact that as a newspaperman I was being
grossly
overpaid at $15 a week."

Song lyrics and poems are here. So are eccentricities like Anita Loos's
reference to the "Eyefull Tower." And Mr. Gopnik has unearthed his share
of
morose self-indulgence as another brand of American vision. (From Henry
Miller: "Men and lice, men and lice, a continuous procession toward the
maggot heap.")

Best of all are the anecdotes of pure quirkiness. P. T. Barnum wrote of
bringing a dwarf from his circus, General Tom Thumb, to Paris but letting
him wear his Napoleon costume only in private, and by request of King
Louis
Philippe.

Then there were the Iowa Indians who visited Paris with the painter George
Catlin. They kept a list devoted to dog walking: women who walked dogs,
women who carried dogs and women who wheeled little dogs in carriages. The
Indians also enjoyed what they called the "queen's chickabobboo." In
Paris, that was an especially American way to describe Champagne.

non-smoking restaurants in Paris
http://www.smokefreeworld.com/paris.shtml