Colette Kerber and the Legion d’Honneur: A Great Honor for a Great Lady
842
Colette Kerber
is the owner of les Cahiers de Colette, a small bookstore a stone’s
throw from the Pompidou Center on the rue Rambuteau in Paris. She is
fiftyish, slender and attractive, beautifully dressed and carefully
made up in the manner of the most stylish of Parisians. She is a dame
élégante. Far more
significantly, she is a Chevalier de la Legion d’Honneur, an honor
recently conferred upon her in recognition of her contribution to
French literature. I met Colette
accidentally one afternoon in September when I ambled into her
bookstore, a block or so from my apartment. When I asked her to
recommend a book about Louis XIV, she smiled generously and lit one of
the long, super-thin cigarettes that are one of her trademarks. (The
others are a deep throaty laugh, a low and sensual contralto voice, and
a warm, personal welcome to anyone who enters the shop.) “You
ought to ask this gentlemen,” she said, smiling in the direction of the
man on her left. “He’s written a dozen books on Louis XIV and knows
more about the period than anyone in France.” For
the next hour and a half, I stood beside the little counter at which
Colette holds court for her friends and customers, and felt myself
welcomed, with a smile, a nod and an occasional encouraging word, into
the apparently endless conversation that Colette conducts–in the great
tradition of French women of letters–with anyone who wishes to talk
about books and writers. Colette’s
conversation that day embraced the writer and me. Although periodically
interrupted by other customers asking, often reverentially, for advice,
it flowed over and around these little interruptions like water in a
bubbly brook. Basking in the sunshine of Colette’s smile, and in her
own astute comments, we talked about Louis XIV and American politics;
we invented relationships between the 17th and the 20th century; we
discussed books recommended by the writer and books I had recently
enjoyed; we moved from French politics to the novels of a mutual
friend. The conversation glittered, as do most conversations between
men and women in France, with various little flirtations: more
significantly, it introduced me to a woman who had a profound knowledge
and sympathy for writers, and most of all, for readers. Eventually
we reached the question of my literary tastes. Colette asked me a few
questions; then she took me around the shop and pulled out a book here
and there, commenting briefly on the author’s style, subject matter or
previous successes. When I had amassed a small stack and began asking
about yet another possibility, she cut me off with a laugh and a wave
of her hand. “That’s enough!” she said. “Wait until you’ve finished these! After that we’ll see what else you might enjoy.” My
next meeting with Colette was also accidental. As I passed by the
bookstore shortly before midnight on my way home from la Nuit Blanche,
an all-night Parisian art-event-cum-public-happening held last year on
October 6, I noticed that the shop was crammed with people. Intrigued,
I tapped on the door; once inside, I discovered an entire galaxy of
French literary stars, including Frédéric Beigbeder, the media darling
whose best selling “Windows of the World” I had finished, and greatly
enjoyed, that very day. My
little neighborhood bookstore was a hotspot! It was filled with real
French writers, people whose books I had seen in all the supermarkets
and chain stores in Paris! What a kick! Les
Cahiers de Colette, I learned later, is one of the high temples of
contemporary French literature. It was also the only bookstore in Paris
to volunteer to participate in la Nuit Blanche. For her contribution to
this municipal mega-party, which this year attracted over a million
celebrants, Colette invited about twenty of her writer friends to read
from their works, or from books that they had particularly enjoyed.
Seeing that the shop was an official Nuit Blanche event, an additional
batch of writers just “happened to stop by;” with characteristic
generosity, Colette warmly embraced them, too, and invited each of them
to read, whether or not they had been part of the original schedule.
Judging by the enthusiasm of the crowd–and by the fact that the party
lasted until 5:00 a.m.–I concluded that Colette’s literary
mini-happening was a smashing success. I
stopped by the bookstore the next afternoon to tell her how much I had
enjoyed the readings. I must have been particularly lavish in my
praise, because she turned to an assistant and with a wave of the
perpetual cigarette asked him to bring me “an invitation”. To my
intense delight, that turned out intense to be to the ceremony at which
she was to be inducted into the Legion d’Honneur by the French Minister
of Culture Jean-Jacques Aillagon. (As an American with a taste for
literature, I was probably as thrilled to receive the invitation as
Colette was to receive the decoration.) The
ceremony was held in the bookstore, at noon on October 16. When I
arrived a little early, fearful of missing even an instant of such a
grand event, I found myself surrounded by 50 or 60 of Colette’s closest
friends and supporters, including writers, editors, librarians, public
officials and just plain readers. All of these people had come to pay
homage to a woman they regarded as a personal friend or mentor, or a
literary godmother or benefactor; all of them regarded her as a godsend
to French literature. The
Minister’s speech was brief but lavish. “In his 18th century Memoires,”
M. Aillagon began elegantly, “the duc de St. Simon noted that all of
France came to the salon of his wife the duchess. Today, we can say
that all of France comes to the bookstore of Colette Kleber. “And
today I come, in the name of the French Republic, to honor Colette, who
is one of the most radiant figures in the world of French literature.”
(The word “radiant” seemed to me particularly apt.) “I come as a
friend, as a reader and as a customer; I come to honor her love of
books, her love of writing, her love of literature.” He then turned to the beaming honorée. “You,
Colette, have advised people to read books you have loved; you have
encouraged young writers and helped them develop an audience. Authors
are thrilled to read here; readers are thrilled to discover new writers
here; all of…
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Colette Kerber
is the owner of les Cahiers de Colette, a small bookstore a stone’s
throw from the Pompidou Center on the rue Rambuteau in Paris. She is
fiftyish, slender and attractive, beautifully dressed and carefully
made up in the manner of the most stylish of Parisians. She is a dame
élégante.
is the owner of les Cahiers de Colette, a small bookstore a stone’s
throw from the Pompidou Center on the rue Rambuteau in Paris. She is
fiftyish, slender and attractive, beautifully dressed and carefully
made up in the manner of the most stylish of Parisians. She is a dame
élégante.
Far more
significantly, she is a Chevalier de la Legion d’Honneur, an honor
recently conferred upon her in recognition of her contribution to
French literature.
significantly, she is a Chevalier de la Legion d’Honneur, an honor
recently conferred upon her in recognition of her contribution to
French literature.
I met Colette
accidentally one afternoon in September when I ambled into her
bookstore, a block or so from my apartment. When I asked her to
recommend a book about Louis XIV, she smiled generously and lit one of
the long, super-thin cigarettes that are one of her trademarks. (The
others are a deep throaty laugh, a low and sensual contralto voice, and
a warm, personal welcome to anyone who enters the shop.)
accidentally one afternoon in September when I ambled into her
bookstore, a block or so from my apartment. When I asked her to
recommend a book about Louis XIV, she smiled generously and lit one of
the long, super-thin cigarettes that are one of her trademarks. (The
others are a deep throaty laugh, a low and sensual contralto voice, and
a warm, personal welcome to anyone who enters the shop.)
“You
ought to ask this gentlemen,” she said, smiling in the direction of the
man on her left. “He’s written a dozen books on Louis XIV and knows
more about the period than anyone in France.”
ought to ask this gentlemen,” she said, smiling in the direction of the
man on her left. “He’s written a dozen books on Louis XIV and knows
more about the period than anyone in France.”
For
the next hour and a half, I stood beside the little counter at which
Colette holds court for her friends and customers, and felt myself
welcomed, with a smile, a nod and an occasional encouraging word, into
the apparently endless conversation that Colette conducts–in the great
tradition of French women of letters–with anyone who wishes to talk
about books and writers.
the next hour and a half, I stood beside the little counter at which
Colette holds court for her friends and customers, and felt myself
welcomed, with a smile, a nod and an occasional encouraging word, into
the apparently endless conversation that Colette conducts–in the great
tradition of French women of letters–with anyone who wishes to talk
about books and writers.
Colette’s
conversation that day embraced the writer and me. Although periodically
interrupted by other customers asking, often reverentially, for advice,
it flowed over and around these little interruptions like water in a
bubbly brook. Basking in the sunshine of Colette’s smile, and in her
own astute comments, we talked about Louis XIV and American politics;
we invented relationships between the 17th and the 20th century; we
discussed books recommended by the writer and books I had recently
enjoyed; we moved from French politics to the novels of a mutual
friend. The conversation glittered, as do most conversations between
men and women in France, with various little flirtations: more
significantly, it introduced me to a woman who had a profound knowledge
and sympathy for writers, and most of all, for readers.
conversation that day embraced the writer and me. Although periodically
interrupted by other customers asking, often reverentially, for advice,
it flowed over and around these little interruptions like water in a
bubbly brook. Basking in the sunshine of Colette’s smile, and in her
own astute comments, we talked about Louis XIV and American politics;
we invented relationships between the 17th and the 20th century; we
discussed books recommended by the writer and books I had recently
enjoyed; we moved from French politics to the novels of a mutual
friend. The conversation glittered, as do most conversations between
men and women in France, with various little flirtations: more
significantly, it introduced me to a woman who had a profound knowledge
and sympathy for writers, and most of all, for readers.
Eventually
we reached the question of my literary tastes. Colette asked me a few
questions; then she took me around the shop and pulled out a book here
and there, commenting briefly on the author’s style, subject matter or
previous successes. When I had amassed a small stack and began asking
about yet another possibility, she cut me off with a laugh and a wave
of her hand.
we reached the question of my literary tastes. Colette asked me a few
questions; then she took me around the shop and pulled out a book here
and there, commenting briefly on the author’s style, subject matter or
previous successes. When I had amassed a small stack and began asking
about yet another possibility, she cut me off with a laugh and a wave
of her hand.
“That’s enough!” she said. “Wait until you’ve finished these! After that we’ll see what else you might enjoy.”
My
next meeting with Colette was also accidental. As I passed by the
bookstore shortly before midnight on my way home from la Nuit Blanche,
an all-night Parisian art-event-cum-public-happening held last year on
October 6, I noticed that the shop was crammed with people. Intrigued,
I tapped on the door; once inside, I discovered an entire galaxy of
French literary stars, including Frédéric Beigbeder, the media darling
whose best selling “Windows of the World” I had finished, and greatly
enjoyed, that very day.
next meeting with Colette was also accidental. As I passed by the
bookstore shortly before midnight on my way home from la Nuit Blanche,
an all-night Parisian art-event-cum-public-happening held last year on
October 6, I noticed that the shop was crammed with people. Intrigued,
I tapped on the door; once inside, I discovered an entire galaxy of
French literary stars, including Frédéric Beigbeder, the media darling
whose best selling “Windows of the World” I had finished, and greatly
enjoyed, that very day.
My
little neighborhood bookstore was a hotspot! It was filled with real
French writers, people whose books I had seen in all the supermarkets
and chain stores in Paris! What a kick!
little neighborhood bookstore was a hotspot! It was filled with real
French writers, people whose books I had seen in all the supermarkets
and chain stores in Paris! What a kick!
Les
Cahiers de Colette, I learned later, is one of the high temples of
contemporary French literature. It was also the only bookstore in Paris
to volunteer to participate in la Nuit Blanche. For her contribution to
this municipal mega-party, which this year attracted over a million
celebrants, Colette invited about twenty of her writer friends to read
from their works, or from books that they had particularly enjoyed.
Seeing that the shop was an official Nuit Blanche event, an additional
batch of writers just “happened to stop by;” with characteristic
generosity, Colette warmly embraced them, too, and invited each of them
to read, whether or not they had been part of the original schedule.
Judging by the enthusiasm of the crowd–and by the fact that the party
lasted until 5:00 a.m.–I concluded that Colette’s literary
mini-happening was a smashing success.
Cahiers de Colette, I learned later, is one of the high temples of
contemporary French literature. It was also the only bookstore in Paris
to volunteer to participate in la Nuit Blanche. For her contribution to
this municipal mega-party, which this year attracted over a million
celebrants, Colette invited about twenty of her writer friends to read
from their works, or from books that they had particularly enjoyed.
Seeing that the shop was an official Nuit Blanche event, an additional
batch of writers just “happened to stop by;” with characteristic
generosity, Colette warmly embraced them, too, and invited each of them
to read, whether or not they had been part of the original schedule.
Judging by the enthusiasm of the crowd–and by the fact that the party
lasted until 5:00 a.m.–I concluded that Colette’s literary
mini-happening was a smashing success.
I
stopped by the bookstore the next afternoon to tell her how much I had
enjoyed the readings. I must have been particularly lavish in my
praise, because she turned to an assistant and with a wave of the
perpetual cigarette asked him to bring me “an invitation”. To my
intense delight, that turned out intense to be to the ceremony at which
she was to be inducted into the Legion d’Honneur by the French Minister
of Culture Jean-Jacques Aillagon. (As an American with a taste for
literature, I was probably as thrilled to receive the invitation as
Colette was to receive the decoration.)
stopped by the bookstore the next afternoon to tell her how much I had
enjoyed the readings. I must have been particularly lavish in my
praise, because she turned to an assistant and with a wave of the
perpetual cigarette asked him to bring me “an invitation”. To my
intense delight, that turned out intense to be to the ceremony at which
she was to be inducted into the Legion d’Honneur by the French Minister
of Culture Jean-Jacques Aillagon. (As an American with a taste for
literature, I was probably as thrilled to receive the invitation as
Colette was to receive the decoration.)
The
ceremony was held in the bookstore, at noon on October 16. When I
arrived a little early, fearful of missing even an instant of such a
grand event, I found myself surrounded by 50 or 60 of Colette’s closest
friends and supporters, including writers, editors, librarians, public
officials and just plain readers. All of these people had come to pay
homage to a woman they regarded as a personal friend or mentor, or a
literary godmother or benefactor; all of them regarded her as a godsend
to French literature.
ceremony was held in the bookstore, at noon on October 16. When I
arrived a little early, fearful of missing even an instant of such a
grand event, I found myself surrounded by 50 or 60 of Colette’s closest
friends and supporters, including writers, editors, librarians, public
officials and just plain readers. All of these people had come to pay
homage to a woman they regarded as a personal friend or mentor, or a
literary godmother or benefactor; all of them regarded her as a godsend
to French literature.
The
Minister’s speech was brief but lavish. “In his 18th century Memoires,”
M. Aillagon began elegantly, “the duc de St. Simon noted that all of
France came to the salon of his wife the duchess. Today, we can say
that all of France comes to the bookstore of Colette Kleber.
Minister’s speech was brief but lavish. “In his 18th century Memoires,”
M. Aillagon began elegantly, “the duc de St. Simon noted that all of
France came to the salon of his wife the duchess. Today, we can say
that all of France comes to the bookstore of Colette Kleber.
“And
today I come, in the name of the French Republic, to honor Colette, who
is one of the most radiant figures in the world of French literature.”
(The word “radiant” seemed to me particularly apt.) “I come as a
friend, as a reader and as a customer; I come to honor her love of
books, her love of writing, her love of literature.”
today I come, in the name of the French Republic, to honor Colette, who
is one of the most radiant figures in the world of French literature.”
(The word “radiant” seemed to me particularly apt.) “I come as a
friend, as a reader and as a customer; I come to honor her love of
books, her love of writing, her love of literature.”
He then turned to the beaming honorée.
“You,
Colette, have advised people to read books you have loved; you have
encouraged young writers and helped them develop an audience. Authors
are thrilled to read here; readers are thrilled to discover new writers
here; all of us are thrilled that you exist.
Colette, have advised people to read books you have loved; you have
encouraged young writers and helped them develop an audience. Authors
are thrilled to read here; readers are thrilled to discover new writers
here; all of us are thrilled that you exist.
“I
note finally, that, although this bookstore is the heart of your work,
you have also sat on government commissions, participated in seminars,
and given a major boost to the world of poetry–which most certainly
can use all the help it can get.
note finally, that, although this bookstore is the heart of your work,
you have also sat on government commissions, participated in seminars,
and given a major boost to the world of poetry–which most certainly
can use all the help it can get.
“In
the name of the Republic, therefore, for her service to French
literature, for her support of independent booksellers, I am pleased to
bestow upon Colette Kleber the Legion d’Honneur.” Then he pinned on her
(obviously carefully selected) little black dress the
blue-white-and-red ribbon and medal of Chevalier de la Legion d’Honneur,
the name of the Republic, therefore, for her service to French
literature, for her support of independent booksellers, I am pleased to
bestow upon Colette Kleber the Legion d’Honneur.” Then he pinned on her
(obviously carefully selected) little black dress the
blue-white-and-red ribbon and medal of Chevalier de la Legion d’Honneur,
Colette responded to this praise in a voice that was trembling, just a little, with emotion and pleasure.
“Monsieur
le Ministre,” she began. “No, Jean-Jacques! I am so moved by this
honor! I am grateful to you, and I am so grateful to my writers, my
publishers, and most of all to my readers, who have decorated me for
many years with their friendship.
le Ministre,” she began. “No, Jean-Jacques! I am so moved by this
honor! I am grateful to you, and I am so grateful to my writers, my
publishers, and most of all to my readers, who have decorated me for
many years with their friendship.
“In their name as well as my own, I thank you for this great honor.”
At
the end of these two brief speeches, we all trooped across the street
to Le Bouledogue, the lively local bistro that serves as the
bookstore’s unofficial canteen. The distingué Minister and
miscellaneous other politicians joined the rest of us for a celebratory
luncheon; indeed the Minister–Jean-Jacques–stayed for the entire
lunch, chatting amiably with writers and readers and sitting beside
Colette for a hearty serving of autumnal pot-au-feu. His constant grin
and regular outbursts of laughter suggested that he was enjoying the
event as much as I was–and that was a whole lot.
the end of these two brief speeches, we all trooped across the street
to Le Bouledogue, the lively local bistro that serves as the
bookstore’s unofficial canteen. The distingué Minister and
miscellaneous other politicians joined the rest of us for a celebratory
luncheon; indeed the Minister–Jean-Jacques–stayed for the entire
lunch, chatting amiably with writers and readers and sitting beside
Colette for a hearty serving of autumnal pot-au-feu. His constant grin
and regular outbursts of laughter suggested that he was enjoying the
event as much as I was–and that was a whole lot.
I asked Colette the next day whether she had had to wage an arduous campaign for the award.
“Certainly not!” she said with a throaty laugh. “I didn’t even know I was going to get it until they called me!”
“But
isn’t it unusual for a person like you, the owner of a neighborhood
bookstore, to receive such a high distinction from the French
government?
isn’t it unusual for a person like you, the owner of a neighborhood
bookstore, to receive such a high distinction from the French
government?
“It is, absolutely
yes! The government had previously given awards to the large chain
bookstores, but as far as I know this is the first time an award has
gone to the owner of a small shop like mine. I was so delighted!”
yes! The government had previously given awards to the large chain
bookstores, but as far as I know this is the first time an award has
gone to the owner of a small shop like mine. I was so delighted!”
“Most
people think that these awards are highly political, or a reward for
some special, inside relationship. I assume you are a strong supporter
of this administration?”
people think that these awards are highly political, or a reward for
some special, inside relationship. I assume you are a strong supporter
of this administration?”
“Not at
all. In fact, insofar as I am political, I am firmly on the left, and
this is a government of the right. And I am a passionate supporter of
Bernard Delanoe, the socialist mayor of Paris, who is certainly not of
the UMP, the party of Chirac and the Prime Minister.”
all. In fact, insofar as I am political, I am firmly on the left, and
this is a government of the right. And I am a passionate supporter of
Bernard Delanoe, the socialist mayor of Paris, who is certainly not of
the UMP, the party of Chirac and the Prime Minister.”
“No close personal relationship?”
Colette
laughed again. “No, no, certainly not. I have known Jean-Jacques for
many years–he lives in the neighborhood, and used to stop in when he
was the Executive Director of the Pompidou across the street–but
certainly nothing more than that.”
laughed again. “No, no, certainly not. I have known Jean-Jacques for
many years–he lives in the neighborhood, and used to stop in when he
was the Executive Director of the Pompidou across the street–but
certainly nothing more than that.”
“How then do you explain the award?”
Colette paused for a long draw on her cigarette.
“I
don’t think the award has anything to do with politics. It is about
books and the cultural life of Paris. It just doesn’t matter that I am
not a supporter of the President’s party: in a sense, books in France
are more important than politics. I believe the stated reason for the
award was the real reason: the government is pleased to honor people
who have worked in the interests of French culture.”
don’t think the award has anything to do with politics. It is about
books and the cultural life of Paris. It just doesn’t matter that I am
not a supporter of the President’s party: in a sense, books in France
are more important than politics. I believe the stated reason for the
award was the real reason: the government is pleased to honor people
who have worked in the interests of French culture.”
As
an American living in France, I feel as if I am constantly being
bombarded by a series of little culture shocks, almost all of them
pleasant. Of course there is the food and the wine, and the beauty of
the cities and the countryside. But there are also more subtle
differences.
an American living in France, I feel as if I am constantly being
bombarded by a series of little culture shocks, almost all of them
pleasant. Of course there is the food and the wine, and the beauty of
the cities and the countryside. But there are also more subtle
differences.
Unlike America,
France does not seem to be a country divided into two angry and
opposing political camps, red states versus blue, determined
conservatives versus furious liberals. French political debate is
lively and constant, but the French as a nation seem to be in agreement
on certain basic principles, and those principles are regularly
articulated and restated by the political leadership.
France does not seem to be a country divided into two angry and
opposing political camps, red states versus blue, determined
conservatives versus furious liberals. French political debate is
lively and constant, but the French as a nation seem to be in agreement
on certain basic principles, and those principles are regularly
articulated and restated by the political leadership.
More
or less everyone, for example, seems to support President Chirac’s
foreign policy, and to support the rapidly increasing Europeanization
of the country. More or less everyone seems to agree that nuclear power
should continue to be France’s principal source of energy; that there
should be an expanding network of (extremely expensive) high-speed
trains; that the (extremely expensive) 35 hour work-week mandated
during the last (socialist) government should be continued; and that
the government should forcefully oppose the racism and anti-Semitism
that have recently begun to threaten the country.
or less everyone, for example, seems to support President Chirac’s
foreign policy, and to support the rapidly increasing Europeanization
of the country. More or less everyone seems to agree that nuclear power
should continue to be France’s principal source of energy; that there
should be an expanding network of (extremely expensive) high-speed
trains; that the (extremely expensive) 35 hour work-week mandated
during the last (socialist) government should be continued; and that
the government should forcefully oppose the racism and anti-Semitism
that have recently begun to threaten the country.
This
political consensus means that Colette Kleber, a person of the left,
could be given a major award by a government of the right. It means
that her awards ceremony could be attended by people across the
political spectrum–and that all of them could be wreathed in smiles.
(To see this event in an American context, try to imagine George Bush
giving a medal to Michael Moore. The politics are almost the same, but
the bitterness is not.)
political consensus means that Colette Kleber, a person of the left,
could be given a major award by a government of the right. It means
that her awards ceremony could be attended by people across the
political spectrum–and that all of them could be wreathed in smiles.
(To see this event in an American context, try to imagine George Bush
giving a medal to Michael Moore. The politics are almost the same, but
the bitterness is not.)
A second
difference between the two countries is the women’s movement. In
America, an award to a person such as Colette would be loudly hailed as
a victory for women and women’s rights. In Paris, it has apparently
been understood at least since the time of Mme. de Sevigné that women
and men are intellectual equals: mentioning Colette’s sex at her awards
ceremony would have been as irrelevant as mentioning the color of her
hair–and no one mentioned either. (To an American, French women seem
not to be fighting for equal rights; they simply have equal rights. And
of course there is the complementary fact that flirtation here is alive
and well–a striking, and delightful, difference for a cautious
American male.)
difference between the two countries is the women’s movement. In
America, an award to a person such as Colette would be loudly hailed as
a victory for women and women’s rights. In Paris, it has apparently
been understood at least since the time of Mme. de Sevigné that women
and men are intellectual equals: mentioning Colette’s sex at her awards
ceremony would have been as irrelevant as mentioning the color of her
hair–and no one mentioned either. (To an American, French women seem
not to be fighting for equal rights; they simply have equal rights. And
of course there is the complementary fact that flirtation here is alive
and well–a striking, and delightful, difference for a cautious
American male.)
Third, France is
a country that pays enormous respect to its intellectuals. French
people of all ages and regions are interested in books and writers.
Books that Americans would regard as loftily “literary” are regularly
reviewed on the front pages of the newspapers and discussed on
television, in popular magazines and on the radio; excellent
independent bookstores flourish even in tiny country towns, and can be
found everywhere in Paris.
a country that pays enormous respect to its intellectuals. French
people of all ages and regions are interested in books and writers.
Books that Americans would regard as loftily “literary” are regularly
reviewed on the front pages of the newspapers and discussed on
television, in popular magazines and on the radio; excellent
independent bookstores flourish even in tiny country towns, and can be
found everywhere in Paris.
This
is not a country that could produce a movie glorifying the wisdom of a
dimwit like Forrest Gump. This is not a country in which a leading
columnist could argue, as Nicholas Kristof recently argued in the New
York Times, that a man who uses the word “contretemps” in public
discourse probably cannot be elected President of the United States.
This is a not a country in which it is regarded as offensively
“elitist” to spend public money on an intelligent radio or television
station, or on public art, or on subsidies for the (gasp!) opera and
the theater.
is not a country that could produce a movie glorifying the wisdom of a
dimwit like Forrest Gump. This is not a country in which a leading
columnist could argue, as Nicholas Kristof recently argued in the New
York Times, that a man who uses the word “contretemps” in public
discourse probably cannot be elected President of the United States.
This is a not a country in which it is regarded as offensively
“elitist” to spend public money on an intelligent radio or television
station, or on public art, or on subsidies for the (gasp!) opera and
the theater.
On the contrary,
this is a country in which poets become cabinet ministers and
ambassadors; it is a country in which writers, philosophers and poets
are well-respected members of the public community.
this is a country in which poets become cabinet ministers and
ambassadors; it is a country in which writers, philosophers and poets
are well-respected members of the public community.
Finally
I was struck once again, as I am so frequently struck here, by the
gross disparity between the realities of life in France and the
conventional wisdom about life in France.
I was struck once again, as I am so frequently struck here, by the
gross disparity between the realities of life in France and the
conventional wisdom about life in France.
The
conventional wisdom holds that there is a deep and permanent animosity
between “the French” and “the Algerians.” The conventional wisdom also
holds that there is a permanent, perhaps an unbreachable, gulf between
Jews and Arabs.
conventional wisdom holds that there is a deep and permanent animosity
between “the French” and “the Algerians.” The conventional wisdom also
holds that there is a permanent, perhaps an unbreachable, gulf between
Jews and Arabs.
At the luncheon
after the ceremony, I sat between a novelist and a woman who was
obviously her close personal friend. I listened politely as they
conversed and giggled about Colette and the novelist’s most recent
publication; I smiled as they gossiped about mutual friends.
after the ceremony, I sat between a novelist and a woman who was
obviously her close personal friend. I listened politely as they
conversed and giggled about Colette and the novelist’s most recent
publication; I smiled as they gossiped about mutual friends.
Towards
the end of the conversation, I asked a question on an unrelated
subject. It was then that I discovered that the writer was Algerian and
her friend was a Jewish emigrée whose first language had been Yiddish
and whose parents had been murdered in the camps.
the end of the conversation, I asked a question on an unrelated
subject. It was then that I discovered that the writer was Algerian and
her friend was a Jewish emigrée whose first language had been Yiddish
and whose parents had been murdered in the camps.
The
conventional wisdom could not imagine these two women as friends. And
yet the idea that they should distrust each other because one was
Jewish and the other Algerian would have seemed as bizarre to them as
suggesting that they eat off the floor. (In fact they had an intensely
close bond, perhaps deriving from the horrendous abuse the novelist’s
family had suffered at the hands of the French during the Algerian War.)
conventional wisdom could not imagine these two women as friends. And
yet the idea that they should distrust each other because one was
Jewish and the other Algerian would have seemed as bizarre to them as
suggesting that they eat off the floor. (In fact they had an intensely
close bond, perhaps deriving from the horrendous abuse the novelist’s
family had suffered at the hands of the French during the Algerian War.)
So much for the conventional wisdom.
Life
is not perfect in France. The French are engaged in a massive and
difficult debate over immigration and the rights of immigrants; they
have serious unemployment; they suffer through endless strikes and
demonstrations that seem, at least to this American observer, utterly
devoid of merit.
is not perfect in France. The French are engaged in a massive and
difficult debate over immigration and the rights of immigrants; they
have serious unemployment; they suffer through endless strikes and
demonstrations that seem, at least to this American observer, utterly
devoid of merit.
And yet France
seems to be a well-run, well-functioning society in which the
government actually serves the people. French people grumble
constantly–that seems to be their nature–but they nevertheless seem
generally happy with their country, generally pleased with their
government and (always) proud to be French.
seems to be a well-run, well-functioning society in which the
government actually serves the people. French people grumble
constantly–that seems to be their nature–but they nevertheless seem
generally happy with their country, generally pleased with their
government and (always) proud to be French.
I love living in France. And I love standing just a little bit on the outside and observing the swirl of life around me.
Vive
La France. And Vive Colette Kerber, a proud new member of the Legion
d’Honneur. Thank you for allowing me the pleasure of seeing you honored
by your country.
La France. And Vive Colette Kerber, a proud new member of the Legion
d’Honneur. Thank you for allowing me the pleasure of seeing you honored
by your country.
—
Michael
Padnos, who in an earlier life practiced law in Massachusetts,
Washington DC and Atlanta, GA, grows olives in Provence and writes on
France for various publications. He is working on a book entitled
Sunshine and Fresh Garlic: A Tour of the Markets and Food Festivals of
Provence. He lives near Aix-en-Provence and eats extremely well.
Michael
Padnos, who in an earlier life practiced law in Massachusetts,
Washington DC and Atlanta, GA, grows olives in Provence and writes on
France for various publications. He is working on a book entitled
Sunshine and Fresh Garlic: A Tour of the Markets and Food Festivals of
Provence. He lives near Aix-en-Provence and eats extremely well.
Thiscompletely renovated apartment is located on charming Rue Elzévir in
the historic Marais district of Paris, France.
Contact:[email protected], or visit out our paris apartment for rent web site.
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