The Last Time I Saw Paris - European Travel Books

Paperback - 02 July, 2003 - Sickle Moon Books
Usually ships in 2 to 5 weeks
By: Elliot Paul
ISBN: 1900209136

Buy this book from Amazon.com

List Price: ~~$18.42~~
Amazon.com Price: $11.97
You Save: $6.45

Other books you may find interesting

Reviews by readers

Reminiscing

This book is a fascinating window into the Paris of the inter-war period. Written in 1942 by a well-known journalist of the time, the book contains the reminiscences of Elliott Paul, an American who chose to call a neighborhood in a little back street of Paris home for some 17 years. In the first part of the book, Paul paints a picture of the neighborhood and the characters who populated it. The second part of the book describes the changes to his neighborhood as Europe began to descend into war, and the book finishes with Paul's despair as he thinks over all that was lost to him and to France once the Second World War finally broke out in earnest.

I found the first part of the book most compelling. Yes, it may be historically interesting to read later about how the political events of the time were interpreted by an American living in Paris and by his French friends, but it is the day-to-day details of life in Paris during the 1920s that remain fascinating today. After reading this book, I began to get an inkling at how un-developed France was compared to the general standard of living we expect and find today throughout Europe. From Paul's descriptions, living conditions in Paris in the 1920s were comparable to those found in many developing countries today. In his hotel, for example, the toilet facilities consisted of what some call today a "Turkish toilet", with one shared squat toilet for the entire floor, with only a partition door for privacy. Milk was adulterated before being distributed door-to-door in unwashed bottles by a buxom teenager. There was no central heating in the homes of ordinary people, and those who couldn't afford a small coal stove in their rooms for heat warmed themselves by rubbing their skin with cat-fur mittens, purchased at the local pharmacy. Women had not yet been granted property rights. They couldn't own or sell property or bank accounts, and they weren't even allowed to travel without written permission from their husbands or fathers. Looking back today, it's incredible to think how much French culture has changed. I wonder what Paul would think of modern French culture if he could experience it again- -what changes would he approve of, and what would he find distasteful? No doubt, as an outsider, Paul probably formed a few inaccurate hypotheses about French culture, but he lived long enough in the country and neighborhood to discover some truths as well. And as an outsider, he found them interesting enough to write about. It is only because they were written down that they survive at all- -they are just too far removed from modern realities to even be conceivable today. This is a great written record of Paul's experiences, and well worth reading.

A (somewhat biased) review . ..

I love this book, for many reasons. Ellliot Paul was my father's best friend. They traveled together in Europe, Elliot working on one of his books (I forget which) and my father working on his (alas, never published). I knew Elliot as a kid - I even saw him on his deathbed, a sight I'll never forget. In any case, this is a WONDERFUL read, atmospheric, full of unforgettable characters, especially the author himself. I only wish I could write like this.

Fond nostalgia.

One of the most delightful books I've read in a long time. Elliot Paul writes of his beloved Rue de la Houchette on the Left Bank of Paris in the turbulent period between the wars. His appreciation enlightens us, appreciation for the arts and culture of France, of its people and its food and its foibles and, it the 20's and 30's, its deplorable politics.

For instance here is some of his ecstatic picture of Les Halles: France, in her wisdom, ordained that all the strawberries for miles and kilometers around should convene near a grand old church just after midnight, and should be ranged there neatly in straw baskets, garnished greenly with their leaves. If one man can small one wild strawberry at a distance of eight inches, how far can four million men enjoy the perfume of one million, five hundred thousand strawberries ... laid out on ancient cobblestones? Or this on mushrooms: Twenty-five hundred square yards of mushrooms, back to back, as neatly matched as dancers by Degas.

How I would have loved to have been an habitue of the bar at Hotel Caveau. To see Father Panarioux heading for the bar at the same time as Madame Mariette of the brothel, from opposite directions, each bowing to the other in a hesitation dance as to whom should pass through the entrance first. To have been served by the always-smiling Georges, the Serbian waiter, who, lacking papers and wanting to avoid internment `finds` some French army clothes and waits by the side of the road heading south - he`s rather fight the Italians than the Germans - for a division of cavalry to go by - he`s good with horses. To have supped with the wealthy M. de Malancourt who used his influence to get his mistress out of prison, married her, settled on her a great deal of money and a passport and delivered her to Switzerland, returning himself to Free France where he distributed the rest of his money to the refugees who poured in from every corner of Europe. Above all, to have been astonished by the extraordinarily precocious Hyacinthe who, a successful actress in 1939, refuses to leave France for Hollywood: I am lost, like the rest of France But I am a part of Paris, of the stifling soul of France. When France goes, I go. When Daladier (the Prime Minister) sells France, he sells me. I am part of the bargain.

Alas, the good times came to an end, helped by Mr. Chamberlain's umbrella and the greed and obtuseness of politicians. Paul writes, No matter how many Frenchmen voted, or how they voted, the same predatory combination ran the country for the benefit of large employers and speculators on a colossal scale. Voters in a so-called democracy may depose tyrants or crooks in isolated cases, but they cannot give birth, full grown like Minerva, to honest and experienced statesmen to take their places.

Plus ca change, plus c'est le meme chose. (Add accents as required!)

Top of page