IV

A/N: I will most likely be adding on to this post.

In New York I wander a lot. I do it most during finals week when I’ve hit a wall in my writing and my coffee begins to taste like water. I actually hate when I do it because I feel as though I’m giving up on overcoming the obstacle. I’ll close my computer, put on my headphones, and walk out the quiet and tense first floor computer lab in Arnold Hall. Initially, I tend to always walk in the same direction, towards the West Village, but rarely ever seem to end up in the same spot. During these walks I’ll overanalyze scenarios that are consuming my mind in that given moment not out of anxiousness, but for pleasure. It’s probably not healthy but I’ve always found it amusing to overthink things. In doing so, I acquire deeper, more significant views and answers. It’s mathematical in that sense; you start with your base problem and answer, then you add an alternative way of looking at it, which adds more presumptions to your mind, and then when you’ve acquired a myriad of thoughts and conclusions, you divide them by half with ratiocination, and eventually subtract the remaining filler until you’re only left with your final decision or conclusion. I’m pretty sure I tried explaining my thought process during walks to someone and unsurprisingly they didn’t understand. So I just left it at, “yeah, I walk a lot.”  

I haven’t wandered enough in Paris, at least not for non-academic purposes. I should more often; walking and coming back home with the obligation of recounting my experience—predominantly visual—bothers me because it becomes the central focus of my walk; I stop enjoying the walk. Though when I realized the theme of this week was psychogeography, I couldn’t have been more pleased. Psychogeography highlights the psychological benefits of drifting around an urban environment. It encourages the average walker—me in this case—to stray away from his or her regular path, and instead explore unknown ones to in the end acquire newfound awareness and knowledge of not only the city, but of themselves—the term for this objective is “dérive”, originating from the 1940’s artistic and political, Letterist International group of Paris. Naturally, Le Marais seemed like the ideal spot to fulfill this mission.

Having just returned from sunny Barcelona, I felt annoyed slipping into my multiple layers of clothing simply to comply with another overcast day in Paris, though the resentment faded as soon as I thought of my friends in New York shivering with numb toes. Then, for some inexplicable reason, after putting my clothes on, I decided to Google Ernest Hemingway’s writing—albeit that’s not entirely random considering his unavoidable presence in this course—and I came across the quote, “write drunk, edit sober”. Various forums argued whether or not those words were Hemingway’s or actually Peter de Vries (who was titled as the “funniest writer on religion ever”), but regardless those words resonated with me. So in the spirit of immersing myself into the culture, I decided to drink an obscene amount of terrible white wine before my walk, as well as right now, before continuing onto my following paragraph. Though I suppose to be “fully” present, as I’ve stressed the importance of before, would require being sober. But I’m young and a Sagittarius, therefore impulsive and occasionally facetious (is that bad to admit?), so this is a natural decision to make. I apologize for what and how the following comes out—these are simply the thoughts I remember having during the walk, and am currently accumulating as I type.

My previous statements sound very much so like those of an alcoholic, concerning and distasteful, though I assure you my intentions were solely to experience an aimless journey like Hemingway, but in my own body. I’m not sure if that really makes sense and when I’m sober tomorrow there’s a high chance I’ll look at that with scrunched eyebrows and a Mac Dre Thizz frown (Oakland reference—Google in order to fully understand). Anyways, I decided to not follow the guided tour as I figured that was going completely against the idea of psychogeography. I got off St. Paul, walked straight towards the church, and then turned a right. I made a conscious effort to not remember any of the street names I walked on or turned on so that I wouldn’t take the same stroll again. And if I were to do so, considering I have an oddly good photographic memory, I would just consider it luck/chance and not just another a predictable act.

Walking through Le Marais—an undeniably beautiful neighborhood, both in its aura and architecture—I felt very Parisian. Not because the area is filled with fashionable young men and women, but because I wasn’t shocked or stunned by anything I saw; this, despite what the words may convey at first read, isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Sure the tags were cool, and spotting the little ones on poles and corners of walls felt just as rewarding as spotting Waldo in a sea of clones, but none of it overwhelmed me. This may also have to do with the fact that most of my friends in New York are notorious taggers, one specifically who sprays “Harlem” in giant letters in virtually every nook and cranky of the city. And another, a sweet and subdued Brazilian, who one would assume spends their day drinking coffee and reading a collection of used books, sprays “pixote” in massive letters, letters so big it’s one of the first things you see driving off of the Williamsburg Bridge. So essentially, tags to me, are for a lack of a better term, “normal”.

 Strolling aimlessly reminded me of strolling aimlessly in New York. Whether or not I knew where I was going, or had ever been where I was going, I felt comfortable and knew I would eventually make it back home safely. I’ll admit some part of this confidence and comfort must stem from my fluency in the language, but nonetheless, there’s a very specific type of encouraging energy within Le Marais. As I walked down the little alleyways, many of which I now appreciate on a deeper level after reading about Haussamannisation during the 1850’s, and walls covered in beautiful graffiti, I didn’t feel the need to take my phone out and take a photo, despite the assignment rules and ending up at possibly some of the most beautiful residences.

However, me not taking pictures or not being stupefied by the street art around me is no way an act of rejection or carelessness, but rather a sign of deep appreciation. I find that contemporary society has recently become so consumed with capturing moments to share with others later instead of treasuring the moment for it’s given beauty in that specific moment, without any filters or highlighted saturation—hash tag instagram. Admittely, I have been and occasionally still am guilty of this, which is why I appreciate the moments I’m not. Actually, I feel like “honestly” might be too modest. I’m completely guilty of the superficial, must-capture-this-moment phenomena. On a completely different note though, I will say Le Marais is in fact nothing like Williamsburg. It’s a bit too bourgeois, even with its colorful street art, so if anything it’s like Soho. I think many often compare Le Marais to Williamsburg because of it’s alternative image in comparison to more classical parts of Paris, but the area is so rich with history, but with stores like Adidas and Zadig and Voltaire’s alongside of primeval walls, it’s an incredible hybrid of old and new. 

The Other Women

Immediately within the first paragraph of the Shakespeare and Company chapter in Ernest Hemingway’s, A Moveable Feast, Hemingway speaks highly of the bookstore owner, Sylvia Beach. Though at first he comments on her appearance, and a bit sexually at that, his diction is telling of her gay personality. And in quintessential Hemingway fashion, his observations are short, but acute. We get a greater comprehensive understanding of her character and role in his life through his integration of dialogue and interactions. Beach is a lovely woman—present, understanding, welcoming—she seems to fall in that category of people you ask yourself if its possible that they have any enemies. It’s hard to imagine they would.

Though the chapter is short, a mere four pages, only two really dedicated to Beach, the friendship between her and Hemingway is potent. Two literature lovers, one a bookkeeper, the other a writer, they are at opposite ends of the same spectrum, providing two different perspectives on the same labyrinthine subject. Not only one of his first friends in Paris, Beach was also one of Hemingway’s first fans and supporters as a writer. I find that it’s hard to find a friend and someone who appreciates your craft in the same person, and when it happens, that individual is to be cherished endlessly. This is not to say that best friends don’t understand each other on a professional level, but rather that if they do not study the same subject or practice the same art, it’s difficult to relate on a level that eclipses surface compliments such as, “I can really hear your voice in your writing!” or perhaps the most hollow, “wow, that was so good!” I realize I sound bitter and unappreciative, and though it’s flattering to hear such remarks, it’s always more rewarding to hear comments that are constructive, even if they sting.

Beach also had a profound relationship with Irish novelist and poet, James Joyce; she was arguably one of the most important support systems in his literary career, and life in general. Their relationship however seemed to be one of co-dependence—on Joyce’s end. In the Joyce and Sylvia Beach document by Sanford Pinsker, it’s apparent that Joyce used Beach not only as an emotional support, but also as an endless errand runner. Beach adopted the role of being Joyce’s life-assistant, and obediently followed all his demands, tirelessly recruiting and overseeing various typists to create a pristine final manuscript for Joyce’s, Ulysses. But despite her devout and virtuous character, Beach, like all humans, reached a breaking point and in her letter to Joyce, she articulates herself in such a raw, and impressive way. She is honest, and her words read in a rational, calm-paced tone. She relays her pain without including any character assassination or victimizing herself. And even if she had it would have been justified. Despite all the financial and emotional investment she put in to his work and their relationship, Beach never received the appreciation she deserved. She never sent him the letter, which suggests that she feared her feelings were too honest for Joyce and that in opening herself up to him she may end their relationship.

The bond between Joyce and Beach is beguiling—toxic, yet undeniably charming—and Beach’s recorded role in the friendship unveils her subdued nature, a quality I wouldn’t have picked up on from Hemingway’s profile of her. Furthermore, Hemingway’s description of her does not reveal her outspoken, emotional side like the letter to Joyce does or more importantly, her own notes on Shakespeare and Company. Beach is an eloquent speaker, as mentioned previously—albeit, it seems to be apparent only in her writing—and her writing, laconic and observant, is very similar to Hemingway’s. A woman with “pretty legs [and who] was kind, cheerful, and interested”, Beach was certainly more than what met the eye.

Then, there is Elizabeth Hadley Richardson, Hemingway’s first-wife, who Hemingway, infatuated by her and her innocence, once stated as, “the girl [I knew] I was going to marry”. Their relationship appeared to be a heavenly, and though the two did share a strong bond, the story of Richardson’s relationship with Hemingway ends with a parting between the two, along with an enkindling of self-worth for Richardson. In A Moveable Feast, Hemingway presents a very blissful union between him and his wife; they not only loved one another, but they learned from each other as well, experiencing life and growing from their travels together—arguably, one of the best relationships to have. However, in Irene Gammel’s, “New Readings of American Expats in Paris”, we discover the betrayal and lack of respect sent forth to Richardson from Hemingway. Hemingway, much like Joyce to Beach, needed his female counterpart, but failed to provide and reciprocate the warmth and support she showed him, and instead—consciously and/or subconsciously—peripheralized her, literally.

Richardson was a not a writer neither like Hemingway, nor like his subsequent wives, and her domestic, quintessential soft, Southern St. Louis identity clashed with that of the modern literati, and the shameless sexual freedom attached to that culture. Initially, Hemingway was drawn to Richardson’s wholesome character, but as he grew more known in the literary world and experienced more liberal cultures, especially during his travels abroad, Richardson’s loyalty to him became vexatious. A man more honest on paper than in person, Hemingway engaged in infidelity with Pauline Pfeiffer—one of Richardson’s friends, no less—and two years after that, Richardson and Hemingway got divorced. Pfeiffer was very likely only one of the tens of sexual affairs Hemingway had, but it was perhaps the one that triggered Richardson’s awakening.

However, despite their divorce and Hemingway’s three subsequent marriages, Richardson was undeniably his most significant muse. In addition to be being his first wife, therefore first committed love, and the mother of their first child, Richardson was his partner and constant comfort in Paris, a city that before Hemingway made his mark in, was entirely unfamiliar to him. And once the honeymoon stage of the uninhibited literary-star lifestyle came to an end, Hemingway began to recognize the beauty of the anti-modernism Richardson represented. Though he never publically reclaimed a desire to reignite an intimate relationship with Richardson, he has acknowledged and admitted to being the one who destroyed their marriage.

            

Afternoon in the Cemetery

Truthfully, I had never thought much of Montparnasse, and knew little of it besides Picasso moving there in his 30s, and it being home to the aesthetically displeasing Tour Montparnasse—modernism’s failed attempt to ameliorate Paris—and the catacombs; thus the idea of writing 1000+ words on the neighborhood made me anxious.

            I decided to go on Saturday, as it was a nice day for Parisian standards, that is to say sunny and cold, but still heavy stress on sunny, and I figured days that weren’t overcast were “lucky days” considering their rarity. In addition to the pleasant weather, my day had already started off on a rather romantic note. I woke up naturally and unexhausted at 9:30, and enjoyed one and half blood orange Mimosas with my small bowl of vanilla yogurt and a seedless and juicy, therefore perfect, clementine. Uninterested in seeing the Tour Montparnasse and the catacombs, despite my odd fondness for graveyards and eerie places alike, I got off at the Raspail stop on the 6-train, the stop nearest to Boulevard Raspail, where Picasso lived. The 6-train always made me feel weird; its 70’s color palette made it the J-train of Paris, and the thought immediately made me crave a bodega sandwich. Afraid I would fall into a spiral of nostalgia, I shook the thought of out of my head, and exited the metro station.

            Ironically, one of the first things I saw as I walked up the stairs out of the station was the Tour Montparnasse. Structurally, the tower merits some praise. It’s dark and sleek, and powerfully intimidating; however, its placement is painfully awkward and entirely out of the context with the surrounding area. My friends’ dad once said, “the view from the observation desk is maybe one of the best views in Paris,” he paused and put his finger up in the air, suggesting that what followed was the most important part, “only because it is the only place and way the tower is not seen”. Even from a mile away, I knew it exactly what he meant.

            I continued my walk, hoping to find a welcoming café to sit and have a coffee at. I passed apartment number 242, Picasso’s studio, and stopped in front of it for a few seconds. Before leaving in the morning, I googled the address to see if I could get a look at its interior. I was unable to find images of the studio, but instead found photos of “Villa Picasso” which was in the same courtyard. The space is completely filled by natural light, and has the perfect balance of countryside charm and city living space. I was taken aback by how beautiful it was and assumed Picasso’s studio was probably similar looking.

After observing the studio, I made a spontaneous decision to walk through the Montparnasse cemetery. I’ve always been attracted to cemeteries ever since I visited Père Lachaise when I was 13. Initially, I was drawn into the aesthetics of these areas. Hyperemotional and obsessed with all things “alternative”, I remember the tenderness I felt seeing Jim Morrison’s grave, candles, roses, letters, and beers up to it’s rim, along with thousands of kisses and hundreds of ways of saying “love” posted on Oscar Wilde’s. I laugh now because besides being able to recognize the melody of only a few Doors’ songs (most notably their top 4 on iTunes) and the title, “The Importance of Being Earnest”, in hindsight I knew little, if not, nothing about the two artists. I also remember running through the labyrinth of graves, rambunctious and loud, and the warm, May sun erasing any sense of unfriendly ghostliness. As I grew older, the significance of cemeteries became more meaningful, breaking beyond just their aesthetic. Cemeteries, especially those in urban areas, despite their surroundings, are always quiet. It’s as though, there is an invisible wall which surrounds them, blocking the plethora of daily life stresses—barely met deadlines, missed calls, meticulous tasks, trivial errands. Thus, I figured it was simply something I had to do and it seemed refreshingly less tourist than the catacombs.

Unsurprisingly, the walk was long and lovely and exactly what I needed that day—my subconscious always came through in that sense. I decided to sit down and begin a note on my phone. I used to love writing in journals, but as I’ve gotten older, I sadly only enjoy writing class notes by hand; my personal notes are almost always written on my computer or my phone only because my hands quickly grow achy as my writing speed tries to mirror that of my thoughts. I really wish this wasn’t the case. Anyways, I began to make a list. The list was conventional one, a combination of desires regarding my stay in Paris and general life reminders, and a small section dedicated to appreciating the month of February thus far. The first thing I listed was to be able to articulate myself in person the way I do on paper—a goal which I’ve had for some time now, one that deserves constant practice and attention. Next one was to really take in the information presented in class—a seemingly expected task, but one I find myself ignoring if I don’t feel the class is intellectually stimulating (I’m unfortunately extremely judgmental in that sense)—and so on and so on. Sitting in the Montparnasse Cemetery reminded me of a piece I wrote about a man and a woman who met at a cemetery. Though the cemetery setting was vastly different, the story of Julia and Reed could easily mold itself to fit the Montparnasse Cemetery. I could see the two strolling past Satre’s grave, smoking their joint, and vocalizing the erudite and complex thoughts that were nestled into every crevice of their brains. They’d discuss matters that required undivided attention, and though they would most likely not come to one single conclusion, the take way was still invaluable.  

After what felt like hours of sitting and listing things, I got up from the ground—I was sitting on some stairs—dusted myself off, and made way towards the exit, and then towards the train. I hadn’t even realized I never stopped by the café to get a coffee. My afternoon in Montparnasse was a quiet and simple one, but exactly what I needed. 

Life and Writing with Stein, the James', and Hemingway

II.

           

            Most recently in my academic career, not in including this assignment, I’ve been assigned to imitate two writers, Jamaica Kincaid and Vladimir Nabokov. On the exterior, their writing styles could not be any opposite; one is aggressive, while the other is more poetic, respectively. But their thought processes are in fact more similar than one would think: the two are both pretentious (often consciously).  And despite the differences in their voice, the voice they are projecting is their honest, everyday one. I personally believe I write more like Nabokov than Kincaid. Evidently our skill levels are vastly different, master vs. beginner, but there’s a sense of didacticism and lyricism present in both of our writings. I share all this because as I read Henry James’ piece, “Occasional Paris”, he too enjoys explaining things, often using “one” to make the information more universal, but also directing the reader as “you” as though we are in dialogue with him. James’ approach to writing is carefully constructed and analytical. Though his works are long and dense (Velvet Grove being the more tricky of the two), James’ is economical with the words and information he chooses to include and exclude—everything has a purpose.

This past winter break—a time I will surely reference time and time again—I would spend my days writing about myself through a second person point of view, much like in “Occasional Paris”. I realize at first read that sounds selfish, and in a way it was, but I did this because it is easier for us, self-conscious and emotional beings, to believe and respond more positively to another’s words versus our own—an extremely silly and contradictory phenomena, if you think about it. Anyways, typically I’d start the piece with an “I”, for one, on the top right corner, skip a line, and begin. Sometimes I’d know exactly what I’d want to write about, other times I would have no prompt—but learning something was always the end goal. Neither of those approaches follow a strict a, b, c blueprint, but rather my points flow continuously one after the other, following the natural movement of my thoughts. Because of this, there are instances where my works can seem confusing, only because everything is happening simultaneously. When I first started writing, the disorder of my emotions and thoughts frustrated me, but with the more practicing I did, I learned to work with them and untangle them. I learned that it’s okay to reflect and doubt a decision seconds after making it. I now use this same approach and philosophy with perhaps the biggest, most personal concept of all time: life. Though in life, we don’t have the luxury of a backspace/return button, we can still correct our wrongs and past-doings, simply by changing our approach, behavior, or whatever factor it was that created the mistake in the first place. As Stein states in her piece, “Composition as Explanation”, “if every one were not so indolent they would realize that beauty is beauty even when it is irritating and stimulating not only when it is accepted and classic”. Life and writing are chaotic, but we accept that, and continue to work towards creating something positive.

Life, besides the natural course of aging—infancy to childhood to adolescence to adulthood to elder-hood—is not entirely linear; it’s an amalgam of unpredictable highs and lows, a majority of the choices made and the events that take place often derive from erratic, heat of the moment decisions. It’s bewildering: we all see the exact same things, but how we see them is different; we’re all experiencing a present, but how we’re experiencing will never be the same as someone else (this concept of everything being the same but not is closely related to quantum mechanics and its relation to life: the source of everything at the end of the day is “one energy”, therefore everything is actually the same at the core… but anywho…). One could even apply this to the experience of studying abroad. There are 30 of us, perhaps less, perhaps more, and though we are all in Paris, studying at the same small school, none of us share the exact same feelings and thoughts on the experience. Though we may all enjoy it, the levels of enjoyment differ from person to person. We are all in Paris, living a different Paris. Moreover, there is no “first, next, then last,” but instead “a right now, and what happened before now”. Future isn’t included in that timeline because it has yet to happen, so it’s simply an abstract concept, and when it does happen, it’s no longer the future, it’s the present. Gertrude Stein also delves into the concept of a continuous present in “Composition as Explanation” as the most natural approach to time. She admits it’s not easy to understand, and she too struggled to fully comprehend it, but the mindset came to her the most naturally. Naturally, Stein’s explanation exhausts the word “naturally”, amongst many others, but despite exhausting the word, the reading of it is informative and rhythmic—hypnotic almost.

            The stress on the “natural” is prominent not only in Stein’s thinking, but also both James brothers, and Hemingway. Ironically, each individual, though it’s the same word, approaches “natural”, in different ways that work harmoniously. For Hemingway, the sense of being “natural” comes through in his unadorned and simple writing style. Extremely observational, Hemingway does not spend time elaborating descriptions of what he sees, rather he provides readers with a more explicit visual experience. He and Stein relate in this way, because the two are less concerned with seeming aesthetically pleasing, and more focused on conveying a clear image. For William James, “natural” is how he describes certain behavior and responses to a wide spectrum of subjects, from religion to tolerance. And more importantly, “natural” as the truth, and truths “lead to consistency, stability and flowing human intercourse. They lead away from eccentricity and isolation, from foiled and barren thinking”. Though, he too believes the notion of the “same life, but different life” mentioned earlier: “[truths are made in the course of human experience] and beliefs verified concretely by somebody are the posts of the whole superstructure”—we are all living in this one life, but differently. And then, Henry James was an important figure of the literary realist movement. The objective of literary realism is to report things for what they actually are. James and Hemingway are both describing everyday life, but in different ways. James is simply more poetic, and Hemingway is straightforward. One could say James romanticizes reality, but that’s simply an individual’s interpretation of it; the content of his works are realistic, and the way he presents it is James’ “natural”.

            Ultimately, life is an experience that is always experienced in the present. We can’t go back to the past, nor can we fast-forward to the future. Unlike the future, the past has happened but in the present, in the “now”, it’s just a memory. And the future is not a memory but a concept. There is one present, but there are 7.12 billion people experiencing it in their own way. This is because each and everyone is an individual with their own set set of constructed ideologies, likes and dislikes, fears, and aspirations. Carly Sitrin from BU wrote in her piece, “Making Making Sense: Decoding Gertrude Stein”, “an object is not the sum of its parts, but rather every atom of an object within it is the essence of the whole—and therefore can be rearranged at will while still maintaining the overall sense of the thing”, a notion followed by Stein and Hemingway in their writing, Jamesian in his philosophy, and even Picasso in his art—cubism. It is one concept, adopted by several people and executed in several ways--again, like life.