Final

January in Paris. Many had said that all I could expect was rain and darkness. 2015 felt different. The seventeenth of January was my first true day in the city of love; at least I thought it was, for I felt as if I was having an out of body experience due to the surreal change in my life I had just made. Although jet lag had taken over my body, my soul was alive as the sun glistened through the marshmallow clouds swirling in pink and purple shades as if the sky had turned into cotton candy. Like the expatriate’s of 1920s Paris, I too was escaping from a world that I felt had nothing to offer me for the time being and came to Paris to find something that I wasn’t quite sure was looking for. Reality was beginning to appear psychedelic, filling my lungs with anxiety and pollution every time I stepped outside of my Brooklyn apartment. What I was running away from is subjective, partly because I wasn’t quite sure what it exactly was. What I did know was that I could no longer create my art because I did not know who I was anymore. Out of everywhere in the world I could have traveled to, Paris seemed to be a place that would offer me answers.

The expatriate’s of the 1920s can be referred to as, how Gertrude Stein would say, the “Lost Generation”. This includes writers and other artists such as Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Henry James, etc. Being one of Post World War I, this generation had suffered and was looking for an intellectual haven to ease their confusion of the war. For artists, Paris was the ideal place to be at that time. America was full of “restrictions”. Some of these restrictions included those of behavioral, example of alcohol being illegal, and the culture being somewhat “ready made” or, as a life already being planned out for you as in: school, work, get married, have kids, etc. From this, what I understand from this lost generation is that these artists broke loose from America to avoid the responsibilities of life. Paris was full of freedom; freedom to drink, dance, dine, sit in café’s for hours on end and write, etc. After a period of suffering, these artists found happiness and liveliness within the city of love; there was romance, warm food aromas swarming the streets, and fellow artists struggling to make a living by selling their creations. Because there was so much art being produced in various types of ways- writing, music, painting, etc.- there was an open possibility to achieve inspiration from another’s peers.

The generation that I am currently growing up in today has been given several titles by many. I think one of the most popular might be the generation of technology, due to the advancements in the 2000’s that grow more and more every day. Although this might be one of the assorted titles labeled to my “generation” in the United States, I consider associating myself in a different kind of “generation”. When I think about “The Lost Generation”, I think: a group of artists confused with life, who have traveled to an unknown place of beauty to try and find answers through intellect with other artists in the same tract. With this, I have myself thinking of The New School. Like the Lost Generation, I see The New School as a place that people, rather than coming from one place, come from all over the world to find truth in the art they want to pursue. Some come knowing exactly what specific art that is, others come in searching of it. I cannot compare The New School and The Lost Generation with the same meaning of “lost” because it is not the same suffering. However, each and every individual at The New School is lost in some way or another in their own way. And by this, we gather in social conversation of culture, philosophy, literature, politics, religion, etc., whether it is over a joint in the courtyard, a class seminar, a critique of one’s own art work in the studio, or a happy hour beer at a local bar down the street. 

After studying and analyzing Hemingway and his life as an expatriate in Paris, he has now become a personal symbol in my life when I think of the city and my experience here. Like the other expatriates, Hemingway seemed to be trying to find his own meaning of life. Throughout my whole stay here, I felt as if I was in a way experiencing the same journey Hemingway was in his novel, A Moveable Feast. “As a whole, A Moveable Feast discusses his current life as a writer in the 1920s of Paris. Out of everything he is, in this book Hemingway presents himself as someone sort of on the outside of things. He goes along his days wandering the streets of Paris coming upon many different interactions with many different types of people, sitting in cafes very clearly in detail describing the food he eats and the aromas of the restaurants he walks by; so much that one can identify with the tastes and the smells while reading of it. With every interaction he has, Hemingway always seems to kind of be a sort of therapist figure. It seems as if he positions himself as a listener while the people he meets discuss with him their life stories, experiences and most of all, problems. But maybe this is the point of the whole book? Maybe Hemingway acts as that therapist figure in order to derive stories out of it, maybe this is the answer of his writing.” This is how I questioned Hemingway and his outlook of life when I wrote this post earlier semester. After reading A Sun Also Rises, I could see that Hemingway himself was indeed a listener and an outsider, but he was doing so to find the meaning of life; it as if this novel was a fictional interpretation to A Moveable Feast. In both novels, Hemingway distinguishes his characters so clearly as if one can feel that they actually know them. There are reoccurring themes of love, money, animals, writing, values and nature. I believe that through these themes, Hemingway was attempting to write in a realistic approach to the way he perceived life by the places he went, what he did and who he was surrounded with. Whether it was in the 1920s or now to this day, there is so much truth in what he writes and how he describes life. In A Moveable Feast, Hemingway rarely speaks about his personal life. When he does, it’s usually simple joys out of simple activities between him and his wife; for example, “and we would swim and be healthy and brown and have one aperitif before lunch and one before dinner”. This is one trait that I admire of him; he seems to find the simple things of life as the most joyous. I find this extremely relevant in my experience of living in Paris. In both novels, I find myself relating to the characters immensely in my experience in coming to Paris, mostly with how I see Hemingway, as I quote, “finding the simple things of life as the most joyous” attitude in A Moveable Feast and to Jake’s separate reality with nature in A Sun Also Rises. I too have a separate reality and relationship with nature, but for me now in my life, my psychological shift and separate reality has been Paris. Here is one of my posts from when I started to realize this during my semester here:

“When I was living in New York, it was as if I took everything I had for granted. But then again it seems as if every New Yorker takes everything for granted. An example could be as small as the dread of partaking in the simple act of the five to seven minute walk (depending how fast or slow I was feeling that day) down 5^th Avenue because there was a class switch from Twelfth Street to Sixteenth Street. I would dread this walk whenever I was forced to take it—this was remotely out of pure laziness. Oddly enough, the past week here in sunny and warm Paris I have been thinking of that walk everyday. I have been thinking of the people I would pass by exchanging nods and smiles, sometimes fist touches, that 1:35 pm every Tuesday and Thursday to my 1:50 pm class, just so I had enough time to receive my large iced coffee with skim milk from the one and only hole in the wall, Mapi. And then when class was over, I would light up a Turkish royal cigarette with my friend Ellis and we’d take our time puffing our smokes, enjoying the sun, making our way back to the courtyard on Twelfth Street to be greeted with the gleaming souls of positivity from our people. This small act of walking down a street for five to seven minutes is something that I would give anything to partake in right now. Just from this, I am positive that once I get back to New York, I am going to be saying the exact same things about Paris. Maybe I will think about how I have a yearn to go to Monoprix, pick up a Pain au Chocolat and stroll down Rue Saint-Roch and then onto Rue de Rivoli to make my way to the Jardin des Tuileries, find a nice spot in the sun, light up a camel blue along with a bottle of Rose all while having Radiohead playing in my ears. You certainly cannot find in New York. It is uncontrollable to think about the past, but being so far away from my past, I have learned to notice and love every single detail of the present; because soon it will be gone and I will wish I had taken advantage of the things I could have when I had it.”

Like the Expatriates, I came to Paris looking for answers. Not only was I looking for answers; I was looking for freedom and meaning. I was looking to escape the stress and issues being forced upon me in New York. I was looking to fall in love with life again and to have the freedom to live my own life, unlike the one that was being forced upon me in New York. Reading about the expatriates of the 1920s while living in Paris aided me in finding what I was looking for—life is clearer, my mind and soul are back into place, I am ready to face reality. 

Fitzgerald- The Ultimate Expatriate

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “Babylon Revisited” is a story of a man, Charlie, attempting to bring his daughter, Horonia, back into his life. However, the story breaks down into many complications leaving the reader with several questions and indecisive feelings of the characters, especially Charlie.

As soon as the story begins, there is a sense of nostalgia within the air of Paris. It is obvious that Charlie has just returned to the city after many years, but to him it seems like it was a different lifetime. It is apparent that he does not mind this though hence the “emptiness”; this brings up the thought that maybe he does not want to be seen or found, but if that is true than why not? This becomes certain during his conversation with the bartender, Alix. Alix reminds him of his past, “You were going pretty strong a couple of years ago,” when Charlie admits to have a change in a lifestyle, “I’m going slow these days…I’ll stick to it all right, I’ve stuck to it for over a year and a half now”. As the conversation with Alix continues, Charlie explains his reasoning for coming back, to see his daughter, and begins to show a bit of resentment; resentment in himself, Paris and the past, he states, “I spoiled this city for myself. I didn’t realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone”.

Charlie is afraid. There is a sense of fear that lies within him due to trying to get his daughter back. As the story continues, we are presented with slight information that year’s ago, Charlie was in a bad place; he lost all of his money, became an alcoholic and was somehow partially blamed for his wife’s death. Because of this, Horonia would stay with Charlie’s wife’s sister and husband, and he would go off to try and change his life. Now that he is back, his mission is to convince Marion, his wife’s sister, and Lincoln, her husband, that he has changed and can provide a good lifestyle for Horonia. Having this in mind, within the character of Charlie, we a major sense of awareness and “holding back”. Every step he takes and word he says in front of Marion and Lincoln, Charlie is aware. He hold’s back some of the things he wants to say or do in order to receive is daughter. He acts with confidence as he admits that he now only has one a drink a day, a glass of whiskey, and will never allow what had happened in the past to reoccur. But one of the main questions is, has he really changed?

For me, it is hard to decide how I feel about Charlie. Half of me feels it is difficult to not have a small admiration for him and the other questions his doings. Although the past has made him out to be this someone destructive force that has aided in his wife’s death, abandoned his child, been a drunk, etc. I would like to believe that he has come back with genuine intentions. Along his journey, there seems to be obstacles that try to get in the way of his goal and he strongly turns them down, although Marion does not see this. Also there is the fact that he came back before it was too late. But is this an act of selfishness? He admits to wanting to be able to raise Horonia now that she is young before it is too late so he doesn’t “miss out”, but most importantly so the truth about him does not turn up to have her view him negatively the rest of her life. Even though it is shown that he loves his daughter immensely, Charlie makes sure to keep a sort of “distance” or “detachment” between him and Horonia. The reasoning for this is so she does not get her hopes up of finding a man to love like him someday because it will be impossible. Is this an act of honesty or one of self-doubt in that he doesn’t want her to end up with a man like him? 

The Feast Stands Still

As a whole, A Moveable Feast discusses Hemingway’s current life as a writer in the 1920s of Paris. Out of everything he is, in this book Hemingway presents himself as someone sort of on the outside of things. He goes along his days wandering the streets of Paris coming upon many different interactions with many different types of people, sitting in cafes very clearly in detail describing the food he eats and the aromas of the restaurants he walks by; so much that one can identify with the tastes and the smells while reading of it. With every interaction he has, Hemingway always seems to kind of be a sort of therapist figure. It seems as if he positions himself as a listener while the people he meets discuss with him their life stories, experiences and most of all, problems. But maybe this is the point of the whole book? Maybe Hemingway acts as that therapist figure in order to derive stories out of it, maybe this is the answer of his writing.

Out of everyone that Hemingway met throughout this novel, there was one character that seemed to stick out within his favorites, Ezra Pound. Pound seemed to have a certain inspiration for Hemingway. Something about him, Hemingway seemed to admire and always speak extremely highly of. Pound is the only character whom you hear Hemingway state that he “misses” and that he seeks advice from, other than Gertrude Stein, although he seems to fancy Pound’s opinion more. Multiple times Hemingway states how Ezra was one of the kindest and most generous people that he ever knew, how he always wanted to help others “whether he believed in them or not”. I think that Hemingway somewhat aspired to be like Pound and that might be one of the things that this book is wrapped around.

In A Moveable Feast, Hemingway rarely talks about his life. When he does, it’s usually simple joys out of simple activities between him and his wife like, “and we would swim and be healthy and brown and have one aperitif before lunch and one before dinner”. This is one trait that I admire of Hemingway; he seems to find the simple things of life as the most joyous. I find this extremely relevant in my experience of living in Paris. When I was living in New York, it was as if I took everything I had for granted. But then again it seems as if every New Yorker takes everything for granted. An example could be the dread of partaking in simple act of the five to seven minute walk (depending how fast or slow I was feeling that day) down 5^th Avenue because there was a class switch from Twelfth Street to Sixteenth Street. I would dread this walk whenever I was forced to take it—this was remotely out of pure laziness. Oddly enough, the past week here in sunny and warm Paris I have been thinking of that walk everyday. I have been thinking of the people I would pass by exchanging nods and smiles, sometimes fist touches, that 1:35 pm every Tuesday and Thursday to my 1:50 pm class, just so I had enough time to receive my large iced coffee with skim milk from the one and only hole in the wall, Mapi. And then when class was over, I would light up a Turkish royal cigarette with my friend Ellis and we’d take our time puffing our smokes, enjoying the sun, making our way back to the courtyard on Twelfth Street to be greeted with the gleaming souls of positivity from our people. This small act of walking down a street for five to seven minutes is something that I would give anything to partake in right now. Just from this, I am positive that once I get back to New York, I am going to be saying the exact same things about Paris. Maybe I will think about how I have a yearn to go to Monoprix, pick up a Pain au Chocolat and stroll down Rue Saint-Roch and then onto Rue de Rivoli to make my way to the Jardin des Tuileries, find a nice spot in the sun, light up a camel blue along with a bottle of Rose all while having Radiohead playing in my ears. You certainly cannot find in New York. It is uncontrollable to think about the past, but being so far away from my past, I have learned to notice and love every single detail of the present; because soon it will be gone and I will wish I had taken advantage of the things I could have when I had it. 

Henry Miller

In Walking Up and Down in China, Henry Miller Speaks of two separate lives—a life in America and a life in Paris. With his surrealist literary style, some might read him as extremely negative and hateful towards his own country, America. The way I look at it, Miller seems discouraged by his country, feeling like an outsider. He states, “I could not believe, being a man of the American continent, that there was a place on earth where a man could be himself. By force of circumstances I became a Chinaman—a Chinaman in my own country” (387). By the term “Chinaman” I see this as him calling himself an outsider. He speaks of the “hideousness of a life in which I had no part”—I interpret his hate towards this life as not about life in general, but more of a lifestyle. I think that things have happened to him in his past that have made him pessimistic towards so.

Within this reading, I see hostility towards the aesthetic of “perfection”. The way the avenues and streets are spoken of, I believe Miller is at one point describing New York City. The “smiles” of the population surrounding him are what piss him off the most. He states, “The living walked right over the dead, smiling all the while to advertise their beautiful white teeth. Its this cruel white smile that sticks in my memory. I see it in my sleep when I put out my hand to beg—the George C. Tilyou smile that floats above the spangled bandanas at Steeplechase. America smiling at poverty. It costs so little to smile—why not smile as you ride along in an open barouche? Smile, smile. Smile and the world is yours. Smile through the death rattle—it makes it easier for those you leave behind. Smile, damn you! The smile that never comes off!” (389). There is a sense of fakeness within America that Miller seems to be longing to separate himself from. The act of performing as if everything is fine and dandy, when in all reality there are troubles surrounding you.

Contrasting to his perception of Americans, Miller speaks of the faces he witnesses in France and appreciates and is impressed by the blemishes within because he believes that there is truth being shed. There is no sense of fraud attempting to be exhibited, just reality.  This theme of reality is constant throughout this piece. There is a question of what is real? Is it reality or is it all psychological interpretation? This is where I can see eye to eye with Miller. Dealing with reality can be so difficult at times that it is necessary to create our own realities whether it is actually real or not.  I feel like with Miller, it is hard to tell what is real at times because he is not sure himself what he is experiencing is real or not.