I said I was going to read A Farewell to Arms, and I am, but first I was lured by the much slimmer volume of A Moveable Feast.
(I’m not scared by big books – I got through The Goldfinch in a week…)
But who wouldn’t be tempted by these first words on the back cover, so evocative of a carefree youth; a wistful existence, smoked in a thousand cigarettes, fresh from the lips of literary giants, and immortalised in film, music, art and iconography the world over?
I’ve been to Paris three times, (once as a student, once with a lover, once with a husband…), though I’ve just realised: never in summer.
And I like to think that the implied resonance applies equally to ‘young women’. Thanks Ernest.
Still, in my head I can imagine the French musicians and the artists with their easels around the Montmartre and the Sacré-Cœur.
I can see the pigeons and the crêpe vendors, almost taste the chocolatey squidge of Nutella in my mouth, as elegant Parisians stalk the streets, stopping in little cafés to drink coffee and wine and smoke and talk in their language of love.
Ahhhh. I’ll leave you with that thought!
Bon samedi, mon amie.