A poet can read. A poet can write. A poet is African in Africa, or Irish in Ireland, or French on the left bank of Paris, or white in Wisconsi...
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In Paris today, millions of pounds of bread are sold daily, made during the previous night by those strange, half-naked beings one glimpses through cellar windows, whose wild-seeming cries floating out of those depths always makes a painful impression. In the morning, one sees these pale men, still white with flour, carrying a loaf under one arm, going off to rest and gather new strength to renew their hard and useful labor when night comes again. I have always highly esteemed the brave and humble workers who labor all night to produce those soft but crusty loaves that look more like cake than bread.
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I'd imagine my wedding as a fairy tale... huge, beautiful and white.
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America is my country and Paris is my hometown.
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The old Paris is no more (the form of a city changes faster, alas! than a mortal's heart).
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And really, the reason we think of death in celestial terms is that the visible firmament, especially at night (above our blacked-out Paris wi...
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If a man has his throat cut in Paris, it's a murder. If 50,000 people are murdered in the east, it is a question.
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Poorly secured nuclear material in the former Soviet Union, or secrets from a scientist in Pakistan could help build a bomb that detonates in Paris. The poppies in Afghanistan become the heroin in Berlin. The poverty and violence in Somalia breeds the terror of tomorrow.
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In Paris they simply stared when I spoke to them in French; I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their language.
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Secrets travel fast in Paris.
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We worship not the Graces, nor the Parcae, but Fashion. She spins and weaves and cuts with full authority. The head monkey at Paris puts on a traveler's cap, and all the monkeys in America do the same.
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No flying machine will ever fly from New York to Paris ... [because] no known motor can run at the requisite speed for four days without stopping.
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What are the convulsions of a city in comparison with the insurrections of the soul? Man is a depth still greater than the people. Jean Valjean at that very moment was the prey of a terrible upheaval. Every sort of gulf had opened again within him. He also was trembling, like Paris, on the brink of an obscure and formidable revolution. A few hours had sufficed to bring this about. His destiny and his conscience had suddenly been covered with gloom. Of him also, as well as of Paris, it might have been said: Two principles are face to face. The white angel and the black angel are about to seize each other on the bridge of the abyss. Which of the two will hurl the other over? Who will carry the day?
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There's a moment in life where you can't recover any more from another break-up. And even if this person bugs you sixty percent of the time, well you still cant live without him. And even if he wakes you up every day by sneezing right in your face, well you love his sneezes more than anyone else's kisses.
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Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that will never be again. And what do we teach our children? We teach them that two and two make four, and that Paris is the capital of France. When will we also teach them what they are? We should say to each of them: Do you know what you are? You are a marvel. You are unique. In all the years that have passed, there has never been another child like you. Your legs, your arms, your clever fingers, the way you move. You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You have the capacity for anything. Yes, you are a marvel. And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is, like you, a marvel? You must work, we must all work, to make the world worthy of its children.
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In Paris they simply stared when I spoke to them in French I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their language.
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If Paris lived now, and preferred beauty to power and riches, it would not be called his Judgment, but his Want of Judgment.
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Every women needs at least 4 animals. A mink in her closet, a jaguar in her garage, a tiger in her bed, and a jackass that pays for everything.
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I am the man who accompanied Jacqueline Kennedy to Paris, and I have enjoyed it.
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The first thing that strikes a visitor to Paris is a taxi.
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The American arrives in Paris with a few French phrases he has culled from a conversational guide or picked up from a friend who owns a beret.
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Eclecticism is the degree zero of contemporary general culture: one listens to reggae, watches a western, eats McDonald's food for lunch and local cuisine for dinner, wears Paris perfume in Tokyo and retro clothes in Hong Kong; knowledge is a matter for TV games. It is easy to find a public for eclectic works.
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Please leave your values at the front desk.
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Paradoxically, the freedom of Paris is associated with a persistent belief that nothing ever changes. Paris, they say, is the city that changes least. After an absence of twenty or thirty years, one still recognizes it.
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An artist has no home in Europe except in Paris.
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I cherish the Franco-German cooperation as one of the most important developments in post-war Europe. But I will not accept is as being so sacrosanct that the rest of us shall simply adapt to what is decided between Paris and Berlin.
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The best accessory a girl can have is her best friend.
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Good Americans when they die, go to Paris.
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If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.
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I'd like to see Paris before I die. Philadelphia will do.
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