the best author of all time: ford madox

We got lucky getting on the 1 to Bastille, finding a cluster of open seats -- exactly how many seats as there were of us. At the next stop a group of young teenage boys, and one girl, already quite drunk, got on the car. They running in circles around the pole at the center of the car, playing a scaled-down game of tag. One tripped and hit his chin on the chair in front of him. I laughed, more loudly than I had intended to, and he laughed too. Then we all started laughing, and the already high spirit became  even more buoyant. He approached me, with his girlfriend, and said to me, "cette femme ici est la plus belle femme du monde." I nodded, because was certainly nice to hear him say that, and he repeated it again, "elle est la plus belle femme du monde! J'ai raison!" I smiled and said, "j'en suis sûr." He passed us, and began playing on the pole to our left. Another boy came up to me, and said, "est-ce que tu connais l'hyperbolisme?" but not understanding what the context of his saying this was, I thought he had said something along the lines of, "l'hyper Belize," ou n'importe quoi. I asked him to repeat, repète, un fois plus, until he explained to me that, "l'hyperbolisme c'est quand on dit quelque chose pas vrai, un exagération du coup." I understood! It doesn't quite translate, no pun intended, however this anecdote is oddly pertinent this week's prompt.

A friend of mine once told me that I should be weary of anything that seemed great, another friend told me not to be fooled by beauty, another told me that perfection is an illusion, and Sami the security guard says that nothing is special because of what it looks like, but what it does. These have been some of the most valuable lessons I have learned.

The Ford Madox writings were very evidently plein d'hyperbolisme, as is Paris. Often I walk around looking for them, especially now, with fashion mongers rampant in the streets, do I find myself laughing at the hyperbolisme that is real, not just a literary device.

Paris is a confusing city -- one which has and continues to defend itself from invasion, and only now has it become slightly less xenophobic and exclusive, however it still retains some of its pride. I do not know whether this quality in the French is deplorable or admirable, because it is both regressive and rude while being dignified and self confident, the ladder of which I think are qualities that everyone and everything should be, though the French tend to get criticized for this, possibly because they have few things to criticize. 

Lately I have been having tons of fun, though within this expatriate community. What Madox says about the band of expatriates in Paris, and about how Paris will always only be real to the Parisians, strikes a cord of recognition in me. I wonder if this is because I have not made an effort to integrate myself, or if, because, I have not been accepted by the French people and this is not apparent to me because I have been so discreetly rejected that I am not even aware of it, just as I was so discretely fooled by Madox's descriptions that I was not aware I was being fooled. I think this is my biggest fear, but I also think I know most times in my gut when I am being blindsided, or at least I hope.

This is a short post, and I will most likely add more to it as more comes to me. I have not been sleeping too well, for a multiplicity of reasons. I have been craving a restaurant sit-down meal and I have not been able to because of monetary constraints. I feel that I should dine in at least one restaurant before I leave Paris. I have a long time until then, though time goes by faster than I realize.

The extent of Madox's writing style is likely much further reaching than he intends, or potentially it goes exactly as far as he intends. I cannot know, because I feel as though I cannot know Madox's mind. The mystery and misleading nature of his art is ultimately what makes me appreciate and distain it. I am abstracted from it, and by it, and with it, and to it, or maybe I am just tired.