Conflicting Aspects of Paris

Being an Eyewitness's Report on the Two Cities in the French Metropolis

E. E. CUMMINGS

THE much misunderstood metropolis of Paris (France) is at present two cities. One of these cities—the one which exhibits itself for the benefit of tourists—has been and still is widely advertised as "Parce". The second Paris (which no mere tourist has ever so much as glimpsed, but which was, is and will forever remain) calls itself "Panamc".

"Panamc" is argot. Argot is slang. Slang is the most alive aspect of a language. The aspect of Paris which "Paname" signifies is the most alive aspect, the inner part; the secret of secrets, unpurchasable cither by His Britannic Majesty's pounds or by His Yankee Excellency's dollars. Frequently, however, P Stranger is led to believe that, minus "Gay Parce", Paris would not be Paris—and here lurks a particularly poisonous mistake, which it is the present writer's intention to assassinate.

That foreigner, more particularly that American, who inhabits Paris for more or less cultural reasons, will hereupon raise her or his voice in protest, crying: "Verily your distinction is absurdly obvious. Anyone of even mediocre intelligence is perfectly aware of the contrast between that brand of Paris which is served to tourists and the genuine article. As for me, I speak the language, I despise cabarets, I enjoy the Louvre"—etcetera.

To which outburst we beg to respond:

"Dear sir, or madam—that foreigner who (for any reason whatsoever) inhabits Paris, is a strictly negligible phenomenon. It is the foreigner whom Paris inhabits, who matters. Only to such a foreigner is the distinction between 'Parce' and 'Paname' vitally and irrevocably clear; only in such a foreigner does the confusion of these two aspects, 'Paname' and 'Parce', cause the gorge unmitigatedly to rise. Believe it or not, gentle madam,; or sir — your highly respectable:

Paris is far from being our 'Paname'."

To prove this assertion is not difficult. Suppose, for instance, that Paris be considered as a whole or as one compound unit—a kind of microscope, for the examination of the world. Let us apply this microscope called Paris to our unenlightened eye. What do we discover with the aid of its lenses? We discover, ladies and gentlemen, that the world is not (as some are wont to suppose) at peace. Quite the contrary: war is everywhere. Our civilization is rent, to put it mildly, by strife. But by precisely what sort of strife? Strife between nationalities? Nothing as superficial as that. Between capital and labour? Wrong again. Looking very closely and holding our breath, we discover that the truly stupendous strife under observation partakes of a deeply religious nature, since it involves two furiously contending cults. What we perceive is nothing less than a holy war of unprecedented proportions, a fight to the death between two groups of unparalleled fanatics— comprising, on the one hand, the Worshippers

of Life and, on the other, the Worshippers of Bathtubs. These distinctions I shall proceed forthwith to define.

The Worshippers of Life (hereafter to be known as the W.O.L. party) and the Worshippers of Bathtubs (hereafter to be indicated by the letters W.O.B.) arc enemies of long standing. Indeed, an accurate and painstaking survey of the W.O.L.-W.O.B. conflict would

include the history of modern civilization. Our readers need have no fear—we shall not attempt such a survey. Instead, the subject of this essay being "Parce" vs. "Panamc", we shall concern ourselves merely with contemporary and local aspects of the epoch-making struggle. For it is this struggle and nothing else which at present divides the metropolis of Paris into "Paname" and "Paree".

Let us make the foregoing statement perfectly clear. The distinction between naughty or pleasure-loving or "gay" Paris, and noble or museum-haunting or intellectual Paris is a bit of arbitrary nonsense, fabricated out of the whole cloth by Flerr Karl Baedeker and carefully perpetuated by Messrs. Thos. Cook & Son. To a Parisian (and to anyone else who has his wits about him) such a distinction is utterly ridiculous. Judged from the standpoint of psychology, occupying oneself with any aspect of existence to the exclusion of the opposite aspect—being serious without also being silly—

is unhealthy; whereas your Parisian is a remarkably healthy psychological specimen. Your Parisian, we repeat, perfectly realises that without folly there would be no wisdom; and his Paris (constructed in accordance with this realisation) embraces as many and as diverse kinds of existence as possible. Throughout this Parisian Paris, properly entitled "Panamc", opposites of all varieties meet. Madame la Comtesse rubs elbows with Mile, la Gonzesse, dance halls mingle with museums, and life is an essentially healthy —since homogeneous—affair.

In only one respect are the Cooks and Baedeker right: there exist two kinds of Paris. The metropolis is divided—but divided fundamentally, we reiterate, not arbitrarily; and as the direct result of actually conflicting values, not as a mere means of accommodating certain unnecessary Anglo-Saxon prejudices. What actually makes of the city of Paris two distinct cities, two contrasting entities, is the before-mentioned Holy War between two cults: the W.O.L. and the W.O.B. To put the thing a little differently—whether a visitor goes to naughty Montmartre or to nice Napoleon's Tomb is (Baedeker and the Cooks to the contrary) unimportant; but whether a human being merely inhabits the bathtub city of "Parce" or actually is inhabited by the living city of "Panamc", wholly and fundamentally matters. TO BE, OR TO BE BATHED—that is the question, which threatens the world in general and Paris in particular.

Remembering ye good olde proverbe, "Cleanliness is next to godliness", the gentle reader will demand, in righteous fury: "How dare you assert that bathtubs are iniquitous? " Or should the sacrosanct tradition of "progress" (viz. that form of prosperity which is intimately connected with bathing) arise in her or his mind, she or he will exclaim: "The bathtub is civilized! The bathtub is holy! Down with unclcanlincss! Long live the noble institution of tubbing! Vive the aristocracy of the daily bath!"

Throughout "Parce" one hears the very same slogan, for throughout Paris the cult of the tub is triumphant. Everywhere one's eye is greeted by Hotel du Progres, Dernier Confort, Con fort Moderne ("confort", apparently, is hermaphroditic) and "Englisch" spoken. The Stranger is invited at each step to inhabit American Bars until it shall be time for five "oclok" tea. On the upper rue de Rivoli, enunciation of French is no longer considered merely uncultured; it is considered positively blasphemous. As for a certain famous hill named Montmartre (where, not so very long ago, persons of all varieties amused themselves in a spontaneous and original manner) 'tis nowadays nothing more nor less than a peculiarly uninteresting machine for separating Anglo-Saxons, from their bankrolls. Cleanliness is indeed next to godliness! Formerly a vein, Boulevard Montfarnasse has become an artery through which pulses most of the none too red blood which comes straight from the none too sound heart of Greenwich Village, U.S.A. God's in His Heaven, prices soar, National Cash Registers adorn all the progressive cafes, Wrigley advertises where it will do most good, the franc touches 33, and that invaluable home of hilarity, Le Concert Mayol translates "Oh! Quel Nu", the title of its revue, as "Ladies Shirt Off"(!).

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So much for "Paree" and the triumph of the Worshippers of Bathtubs. And now, a few words concerning the second Paris, the unconquerable and authentic city: "Paname".

Pounds, progress, dollars and morals have assailed and still assail her, but in vain. At any bistro, a bordeaux blanc is still a bordeaux blanc and un demi is still un demi and fine is fine, for all the attacks of "whiskey", gin, "pal-al", and grog americain—not to mention the Ligue Nationale Contre l'Alcoolisme (O, mores!). Albeit employed nightly as an advertisement for Citroen automobiles, that ultra-Freudian symbol which is known as le tour Eiffel smites the sunlit heavens as aforetime. A foire goes full blast at Porte Vincennes, with its "toboggan" and its "steam swings" and its games and shooting galleries and wrestlers and stomach-dancers and bodiless ladies and lion tamers. The Tout Est Bon cafe of Porte Saint Denis still observes the Tout Va Mieux cafe, just across

the street, with a scornful smile. At Auteuil and Longchamps there are still hooves and colours. Defying uncounted films americains, the ancient and honourable theatre du Chdtelet promulgates its honourable and ancient brand of three-dimensional melodrama —the Fratellinis have moved to the Cirque d'Hiver, but a cirque is still a cirque and they are still the Fratellinis. "Miss" appears in a super-Follies concoction, but still does the sacred Mistinguette stuff—the Moulins are all turning. Always, the Jardin du Luxembourg has its wooden horses to ride and its tiny ships to sail; and in the Elysian Fields guignols twinkle like fireflies. Barges and bateaux mouches glide (and will forever glide) through the exquisite river; from which old gentlemen, armed with prodigious poles and preternatural patience, will forever extract microscopic fish. Beneath "Paree", beneath the glittering victory of "civilization", a careful eye perceives the deep, extraordinary, luminous triumph of Life Itself and of a city founded upon Life—a city called "Paname", a heart which throbs always, a spirt always which cannot die. The winged monsters of the garden of Cluny do not appear to have heard of "progress". The cathedral of Notre Dame docs not budge an inch for all the idiocies of this world.

Meanwhile, spring and summer everywhere openingly arrive.

Lovers capture the Bois.

In crooked streets young voices cry flowers.