what they are—The texture of enamelled tinted skin, the hard avaricious noses, the chic style of coats, hair, eyebrows, etc.
The great myth that the Latins are romantic people. The Latins have qualities and standards that we do not possess—Hence we overvalue them.
There are many places in the world where life attains a greater variety, interest or profundity than in Paris (viz., New York, London, Vienna, Munich). Yet a great many Americans make their homes in Paris because they are sure it is the centre of the world’s intellectual and cultural reputations.
It is easier for a writer to secure a reputation in France than in any other country. Many French writers have very respectable reputations who would be laughed at in other countries. For example, Henri Bordeaux—Some Americans who study French literature think he is a distinguished writer. His name has a solid, respectable sound to it. On the cover of all his books is printed “Member of the French Academy.” But you could hardly find an intellectual in America who would say a kind word for Harold Bell Wright. Yet Harold Bell Wright—poor as he may be—is a better writer than Henri Bordeaux. If you don’t believe it, read them. Americans are very unfair about this.
The way things go: At 6.10 A.M. the street lights of Paris go off. I sit at a little all-night café in Grand Boulevard opposite Rue Faubourg de Montmartre and watch light widen across the sky behind Montmartre. At first a wide strip of blue-grey—a strip of violet light. You see the line of the two clear and sharp. The paper trucks of Hachette, Le Petit Parisien, etc., go by.
In the bar a rattling of leaden, holey coins—the five-, ten— and twenty-five-centime pieces. Taxi-drivers drinking café rhum, debating loudly in hoarse sanguinary voices. A prostitute, the blonde all-night antiquity of the Quarter streets, drinking rich hot chocolate, crunching crusty croissants at the bar. The veteran of a million loves, well known and benevolently misprized, hoarse with iniquity and wisdom. A pox upon you, Marianne: You have made Monsieur le Président très triste; the third leg of the Foreign Legion wears a sling because of you!
A swart-eyed fellow, oiled and amorous, sweetly licks with nozzly tongue
