"Even after each of the trips that have taken me almost everywhere I wished to go, I have returned to my native city to feel the same rush of wonder every time."
Julian Green's "Paris" takes you on a stroll around Paris, which exists only in his memories and his writing. It is the kind of book I am always on the lookout for whenever I travel to a new town or city, but the first of that kind that I have actually managed to get a hold of (hopefully, not the last!). I crave these books for them to give me a certain perspective and a guide for how to approach and encounter the city, and it helps when it is written by someone who is so enamoured by the city he writes about. "There is something to which words can only allude," and Green has a particular talent for capturing an extraordinary essence of Paris through his descriptions of the mundane.
It is also a book about war, and I do not think that I would have enjoyed it as much as I did had I not known the war in my own home city, which I, too, loved dearly. Having spent WWII years away from Paris, where he grew up, he writes about his city with the yearning and fondness that you can have for a home from a great distance. It is also anxious; when he eventually returns, Green does not seem to be able to shake off his discontent about the changes that Parisians themselves subject their city to, and the fear of destruction, if war were ever to return. At some points, the reader might get tired of this agonising on the pages, yet in the final chapter, "Invetory of the future", he finds peace and finally lets go of the desire to halt the change. I want to extend grace to the author for his way of processing the loss of home. There is a particular Lviv that exists in my memories, and the one that has probably never again existed. Whenever I return, I am shocked to see how much it has changed, how different the reality is from a very real Lviv that occupies my mind. It has been a while since I have been back, and I do not know when I will return, but I await this homecoming fondly someday.
Reading the book, I was also reminded of L'Orangerie I visited in Paris this past summer. Green's vision of Paris reminds me of Monet's intended idea of what L'Orangerie for his Nymphéas was meant to be: a place of refuge, where society can come, put its worries to rest, and find tranquility in the peaceful waters of the lilies. But the war has changed that society, and rearranged the very fabric of its soul. When L'Orangerie was completed, people did not demand Monet's Lilies. Green's Paris faded. Traumatised by the war, society does not perceive or appreciate beauty. In fact, finds it hypocritical and cruel, the contrast so staggering to the ugly brutality of the war, so it rejects it. It seems perverse and out of touch to acknowledge, to seek out, to create beauty in a grotesque world.
But, to choose to see it, to get yourself to experience joy, to seek out pleasure in the world that makes it seem morally impermissible in these grim circumstances - THAT is radical. That is what one must do.