{"id":18314,"date":"2011-07-14T11:01:58","date_gmt":"2011-07-14T15:01:58","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=18314"},"modified":"2011-07-15T11:19:00","modified_gmt":"2011-07-15T15:19:00","slug":"postcard-from-paris","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2011\/07\/14\/postcard-from-paris\/","title":{"rendered":"Postcard from Paris"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Dear Thessaly,<\/p>\n

You\u2019re probably still in bed, or finishing up a short story, but here in Paris it\u2019s four o\u2019clock; across the street from my hotel the bells of N\u00f4tre Dame are playing \u201cThree Blind Mice\u201d; and I owe you an update from the Ville-Lumi\u00e8re.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s my first time here in years, since the indoor smoking ban in fact, but no sooner did I get through customs than I started craving a cigarette. I think it must be the strain of reading airport signs in French. This craving intensified in the taxi. By the time I got through breakfast at a tourist caf\u00e9 on Saint Germain\u2014jambon\u00a0beurre, three caf\u00e9s cr\u00e8mes\u2014it was time for a Gauloise Blonde and a nap.<\/p>\n

My hosts at Shakespeare & Co. kindly booked me a room around the corner from the famous shop. Mine is the best room the Hotel Esmeralda has to offer, and one of the highest, smelling faintly but not unpleasantly of blow-dryer and dead mouse. It is five flights up. Reaching the top of the stairs, I dropped my bag, conked out, and dreamed of Robert Silvers: he had climbed up after me to inquire about an essay he had written on the early history of The Paris Review\u2014<\/em>an essay slated to run in our last issue, but it hadn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

This anxiety dream is easy to explain. You see, on the flight over I\u2019d been reading a doctoral dissertation, Enterprise in the Service of Art: A Critical History of <\/em>The Paris Review, 1953\u20131973<\/em>, in preparation for my talk at the bookstore: \u201cThe Paris Review<\/em>: Past, Present, Future.\u201d I had taken plenty of notes, but nothing that added up to a talk.<\/p>\n

In fact, the more I read, the more trouble I had keeping past, present, and future apart. In the late fifties, the managing editor cut shipping costs by switching to lightweight paper\u2014the same brainwave Nicole had three issues ago. In 1964, the editors launched a line of Paris Review<\/em> ashtrays\u2014an idea I believe Sadie floated, and nixed, last month. Everything was the same, and everything was different. Here were poetry editors tendering resignations. Here was a memo from Frederick Seidel (of all people!) on office management\u2014and a postmortem of the original 1958 Revel (\u201cWe didn\u2019t do as well as we might have financially\u201d) that would have made Peter proud.<\/p>\n

\"\"I am no traveler, Thessaly. Two hours in the Old World and already time was collapsing in my brain. I woke up in a cold sweat, late sunlight pouring through my window, with fifteen minutes to shave and run around the corner. Folding chairs were already set up on the pavement.<\/p>\n

As fiascos go, the talk came off all right. I was supposed to talk for an hour, but after fifteen minutes I ran out of things to say. The crowd, mainly students and teachers in the NYU summer program, were forgiving. The seraphic Sylvia Whitman threw me several softballs, ditto her equally angelic manager, Jemma Birrell. Meghan O\u2019Rourke, James Surowiecki, and Darrin Straus did what they could. Dan Chiasson fielded one thorny poetry question. One of the bookstore\u2019s regulars quizzed me on a fight between George Plimpton and Doc Humes, which somehow hadn\u2019t made it into the dissertation \u2026<\/p>\n

I bunted, and bunted, and bunted.<\/p>\n

Afterward Sylvia and her companion, David, threw a party in the bookstore\u2019s upstairs rooms. It was a night to remember, at least for me. I finally got to ask Aleksander Hemon about the classic Qu\u00e9b\u00e9cois novelist Louis H\u00e9mon (no relation, alas). Deborah Landau gave a dramatic reading of the first page of The White Hotel<\/em>. Joanna Yas and Adam Thirlwell led the \u201ctumbleweeds\u201d\u2014the kids who live above the shop and do the shelving\u2014in \u00a0a kind of impromptu roundtable on The Goon Squad<\/em>. I wish you had been there.<\/p>\n

The next morning a friend took me to the suburb of Malakoff to visit the painter Sam Szafran and his wife, Lilette. Here, my vertigo steepened and deepened. M. Szafran is in his late seventies. A Parisian Jew who spent his childhood in hiding and lost most of his family in the war, he was befriended as a youth by many artists of an older generation. Our talk revolved around Beckett, Giacometti, Picasso, and Cartier-Bresson. M. Szafran is an uncanny mimic and one of the best storytellers I have ever met. I may never have heard Calder speak, or Chagall, but I have heard the late James Lord talking in French\u2014and M. Szafran\u2019s impression vouched for all the rest.<\/p>\n

\"\"Although he claims to have lost much of his English (and has never gone to visit his painting at MoMA, because he\u2019s afraid of flying), his English\u2014when he speaks it\u2014is startlingly pure Australian. After the war, he explained, he and his mother and sister spent three years in Melbourne. There, he trained as a jockey, because he was malnourished and very small, but \u201cthey were always giving me the strap<\/span>,\u201d so he stowed away to Jakarta. At sea he was discovered and would have been pitched overboard by the crew, only the captain intervened. When the family sailed back to France, in 1951, he kissed the ground at Marseilles.<\/p>\n

By the mid fifties, as a teenager, he was living on the streets of Montparnasse, in the company of artists and musicians. He remains passionate about jazz. Chet Baker introduced M. Szafran to heroin; he credits Mme Szafran with getting him clean. Many of his works are portraits of her, seated on a bench by Gaudi, in the shadow of the giant vine that fills his atelier. Beneath this vine\u2014a kind of one-plant indoor jungle\u2014are large tables holding oil pastels, arranged by color. Half-finished tableaux stand on easels, drooping cobwebs, the labor of years. M. Szafran insists that he owns a feather duster, somewhere, \u201cmais je travaille dans la poussi\u00e8re.\u201d<\/p>\n

There was an especially funny story he told, involving Chagall, Cartier-Bresson, and Lincoln Kirstein, which I have spent the last ten minutes trying and failing to reproduce\u2014and also I wanted to tell you how I went to buy a box of chocolates off the Place Saint Sulpice and ended up, impossibly, underneath the Eiffel Tower\u2014but now there are fighter jets flying in formation over the cathedral, the sun is low in the sky, and I promised to send you copy before the afternoon.<\/p>\n

As you will have guessed from all the softball metaphors above, I\u2019m eager to hear how Stephen and the others fared against The New Yorker<\/em>. In the meantime, please remember me to the team.<\/p>\n

Amiti\u00e9s a tous,<\/p>\n

Lorin<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Dear Thessaly, You\u2019re probably still in bed, or finishing up a short story, but here in Paris it\u2019s four o\u2019clock; across the street from my hotel the bells of N\u00f4tre Dame are playing \u201cThree Blind Mice\u201d; and I owe you an update from the Ville-Lumi\u00e8re. It\u2019s my first time here in years, since the indoor […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[26],"tags":[2828,2877,280,2870,2863,14,2869,2248,456,2868,270,2865,2860,426,462],"class_list":["post-18314","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-a-letter-from-the-editor","tag-a-visit-from-the-goon-squad","tag-bastille-day","tag-dan-chiasson","tag-darrin-straus","tag-gauloise","tag-george-plimpton","tag-james-surowiecki","tag-jet-lag","tag-lorin-stein","tag-meghan-orourke","tag-paris","tag-robert-silvers","tag-shakespeare-co","tag-the-paris-review","tag-thessaly-la-force"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nPostcard from Paris by Lorin Stein<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"July 14, 2011 \u2013 Dear Thessaly, You\u2019re probably still in bed, or finishing up a short story, but here in Paris it\u2019s four o\u2019clock; 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