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Le renvoi de Necker confirme, selon la population parisienne, les pires craintes qui circulent depuis quelques jours. Dans Keith Michael Baker dir. Dans Bruno Benoit dir. Violence, vengeance, terreur, Paris Fayard. Paris, PUF. Essai sur la Terreur et le terrorisme, Paris, La Fabrique. His doctoral dissertation was on the imaginary of conspiracy in the French Revolution.

Sommaire - Document suivant. Plan La prise de la Bastille et les origines de la nation. For in rendering the triangulation of time, space, and text, revolution suggests the decisive context for thinking about the city in nineteenth-century France. A three-way definition of self, society, and political identity is always at work in the nineteenth-century authors who write about Paris, and the controlling frame of reference is invariably the place that each constructs in a revolutionary tradition.

Whether present or repressed, implicit or explicit, revolution determines what Benjamin calls the "time-space" and the "dreamtime" that define nineteenth-century Paris. Any appreciation of revolution as paradigmatic chronotope must be an interdisciplinary process. Literary criticism, historical interpretation, and sociological placement join in any realization of the symbol system that is constructed in and around nineteenth-century Paris, and it helps to keep these disciplines in play in our own awareness of nineteenthcentury conflations.

The genres that work out these historical and spatial interconnections most fully are the journalistic essay and the novel, which together constitute something of a "collective autobiography" of Paris and Parisians as they confronted a rapidly changing world for which they were often ill prepared. These profoundly urban genres make the city itself into a revolutionary text. To speak of an "urban genre" or a "revolutionary text" is to do more than indulge in metaphor. Or rather, this particular metaphor takes on a theoretical life of its own.

If reading the city has become a commonplace, we do well to remember that we are able to undertake such readings, as Michel de Certeau reminds us, only because of the properties the urban text shares with written or more specifically literary texts. Each exhibits the contest between fabrication and interpretation; each exemplifies the shifting affinities between text and intertexts.

Moreover, reading urban space in terms of a literary narrative comes easily to nineteenth-century Parisians who struggle with the vitality of revolution in order to represent, to explain, and, finally, to make sense of their city. The power of what is in sum a political aesthetic lies precisely in the expression these works give to a collective memory or tradition.

At the same time, these texts anchor and thereby perpetuate that memory. They provide a "social frame," to take Maurice Halbwachs' term, on which society hangs its beliefs and its practices. But, as Halbwachs also argues, the social memory—in this case, revolution—remains alive only to the extent that it is reactivated by and through current social structures.

Revolution was contemporary in nineteenth-century France not only because of the recurrent political conflict and the repeated changes of regime but also because so many texts supplied a continuous social frame and literary narrative for the revolutionary tradition. These works were not the only means of communication, and it is certainly true that they rely on other kinds of social frames that also kept revolution alive.

Even so, I shall argue, the power of these texts lies in their capacity to mobilize revolution in the present—even, at far remove, today. In the construction of revolution and in the elaboration of the symbol system attached to Paris, the texts examined in Paris as Revolution played a critical role for contemporaries, and to the extent that these texts are read still, they perpetuate revolutionary Paris a century and more later. To the degree that the Revolution remains a touchstone in French culture a matter of much current debate , these texts will resonate within that culture.

They, in turn, will have something to do with keeping revolution alive. Much of the power of these works derives from the sense of authority that they radiate. These writers are confident that they can know Paris. For them, the city is readable, and they write within this conviction of legibility. But this faith—and it is indeed a faith—makes all of these writers figures of the nineteenth century. There is, of course, much criticism, both of individual writers and of nineteenth-century fiction more generally, that rightly stresses the complexity of representation and the awareness of these writers of that complexity.

The urban narrative that I identify in effect mediates between the necessarily simplifying perspective of the controlling author the "bird's-eye view" of the omniscient narrator and the muddled, fragmentary perspective from within the labyrinth of the city the incomplete, obscure point of view of the protagonists in these works. For the writers of revolutionary Paris, the possibility of knowledge of the city, its fundamental knowability, is a requisite article of faith. When Paris ceases to appear knowable, as it does by the end of the century, when revolution no longer offers an explanatory principle but becomes one of many available images in the cultural archive, this revolutionary tradition comes to an end.

At that point, revolutionary energies turn in other directions, twentieth-century journalists and novelists look to other models and other aesthetics, and they imagine other cities. Paris as Revolution follows these urban narratives from the First to the Third Republics, from the expansion of the city beginning in the First Empire to the demolition and reconstruction during the Second Empire, from the political triumphs of and to the revolutionary defeats of and , and to the Dreyfus affair at the end of the century.

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The political parallels are not fortuitous. Each of these major events redefined Paris, its topography, its soci-. Each of the chapters below analyzes this nexus of the political, the cultural, and the iconographical at a particular historical moment. I shall not have much to say about the actual alterations of the topography or the political or social landscape of Paris over the nineteenth century because I am concerned above all with the means by which that landscape was understood and with the rhetorical frame that conveyed this understanding.

I want to know how Paris was represented and how Paris was known. The most obvious change in Paris appears in urban iconography, and particularly in the names by which the city represented itself. As the monarchy had claimed symbolic authority over the city by imposing its favored names, so the revolutionaries of the s contested that authority by proposing their own politically correct names and images to control the stage upon which revolution was to play itself out. The strident battles over nomination and representation, which recurred at every stage of revolutionary change in Paris, underline the issue of ideological control that will emerge in a more muted form in literary and journalistic writing.

The literary guidebooks that proliferated from the beginning of the century worked to secure the transformed and ever-transforming social landscape. A crucially important genre in the writing about the city in the nineteenth century, these proto-novels of the city responded to the new Paris that demanded to be named, defined, and explored, enterprises that became increasingly problematic as the city itself was reconfigured.

VII Eighteenth Century

The guidebooks of nineteenth-century Paris reached for images that would render a larger meaning in narratives that were consciously partial and soon outdated. Whereas the guidebooks wander about Paris and ramble over the text, the novel aimed for rhetorical control. To clarify how the novel commanded the revolutionary city, I have focused on a number of classic writers and texts, each of which confronted Paris at a moment of political crisis, at a time when revolutionary hopes fell.

Finally, Zola, in the novel named simply, but superbly, Paris, confronted the city as it faced the twentieth century. These times of political crisis accentuate the inevitable disparity between the vision of a city and urban realities, between the dream of political change and the actuality of politics. Representations of the city, too, are caught in discrepancy, between the emblems that work to fix the image of the city and the narratives that endeavor to capture its movement. For nineteenth-century Paris, revolution afforded a dynamic principle, at once a principle of explanation and of representation, simultaneously vision and reality.

Static representations of the city—the names, the seals, the icons—remain locked in the past, attached to a particular moment in time and to a particular definition of revolution. The great works of urban narrative, however, conceive revolution as an active narrative force. For these writers revolution did not pose a problem so much as challenge their powers of representation. They needed, and they created, the kind of narratives in which Benjamin's time-space and dream-time could become one.

In the process, they gave artistic force to the legendary verdict handed down by Emperor Charles V in that Paris is not a city but a world. Victor Hugo, Paris-Guide. For close to a century, this number has preoccupied the human race. It contains the whole phenomenon of modernity. The Revolution made Paris unique among the great cities of the world. Other cities may be more impressive, more important, more beautiful, but none can claim revolution as its very principle. For the whole of the nineteenth century, Paris could make that claim, and it did. The storming of the Bastille in the northeast corner of the city on the 14th of July announced the first modern revolution, and the perception of the modernity of the phenomenon has a great deal to do with the decidedly urban character of the most central events of the s.

The Revolution played out in an urban spectacle of unparalleled and willful drama. Revolutionary governance took place in public, in the street, in the square, in the assembly hall. Its urban setting—from the trial and execution of the king to officially staged ceremonies like the Festival of Reason—set the tone of the Revolution at the time and for the century to come.

Urbanity was not ancillary to the Revolution. Quite to the contrary, the role that devolved upon Paris turned out to be absolutely crucial to the profound reconceptualization of French society that followed. Neither the English Revolution of the seventeenth century nor the American Revolution of the s sought to redefine the individual and the whole understanding of society with anything like the fervent conviction that animated the entire political spectrum of the first French republic.

Still more significant in the long term, the concentration of people and the intensification of energies in the city merged revolutionary ideals into the practice of everyday life. The language of the urban center set the standard for the rest of the. Taking over cultural as well as political supremacy from Versailles, Paris determined the course of the Revolution by always being the place of revolution.

Paris could represent the Revolution because the Revolution, in its turn, remade Paris in its image. The dramatic temper of revolutionary events fixed powerful new images and associations in the city, associations that shaped public perception for the better part of a century. Paris bore the conspicuous marks of its monarchical origins. The monuments, buildings, palaces, churches, the very streets of this revolutionary city, kept in full view a social order that the new age worked so sedulously to consign to the past.

It was inevitable that revolutionaries should seek to remake the city in the image of their revolution, a Paris that reached beyond its most obvious role as the site of revolutionary incidents. The new Paris would constitute the space in which the Revolution was inscribed. In a word, Paris was meant to signify the Revolution. Altering topography offered the most evident answer to the dilemma of imposing the new city on the old, and a number of buildings besides the Bastille were in fact destroyed.

Yet, despite the visions of barbarians sacking Rome raised by the neologism vandalism, Paris saw far less destruction than some had feared and others had desired. In any case, short of building a new capital altogether the route followed by the American Republic or razing the city and starting from the ground up such a suggestion was, indeed, ventured , reconstructing Paris as the pure signifier of revolution was quite out of the question, even if one could achieve agreement on what that signifier should look like. By shifting topography to toponymy, from the relatively fixed to the inherently mobile, revolutionary fervor converged on phenomena particularly susceptible to modification.

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Energies were not directed at things themselves so much as at the ways those things were conceived, perceived, and used. Rather than destroy aristocratic pal-. With their inscription of the revolution on the cityscape itself, words, names, and eventually texts, offered an immediate and economical means of turning urban space to revolutionary account. The many texts of a revolutionary urban discourse produced in effect a new, revolutionary landscape.

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Every regime thereafter followed this paradigm of redefinition. Each of the major political revolutions of the nineteenth century—, , —reconfigured the landscape to fit the altered structures of power. Writers joined architects, urban planners, and government officials in molding the distinctive cultural practices of the new city. For the city was at once text and pre-text as it engaged writers in a concentrated effort of reinterpretation and re-presentation. In the very act of bearing witness to the transformations of the city, writers and their texts pushed those transformations further.

The insistent rewriting of the city was at once the result of the experience of modernity and an agent of that modernity. For the city was far more than the place where central revolutionary events occurred. Paris became the archetypical city of revolution not because the Bastille fell in one corner of the city and the guillotine rose in another but because so many different kinds of texts infused this space with an aura of revolution. The urban discourse that evolved over the nineteenth century in the novels, the articles, and the literary guidebooks that poured into the literary marketplace sought to contain revolution and to fix change.

The names bestowed on the city over the century continually revised and in revising retold the neverending tale of Parisian revolution. To create is to name. The reverse also holds. To name is to create, since nomination presupposes as it signifies the right no less than the privilege of creation. Whatever form it takes, nomination makes a primal gesture of appropriation.

The Book of Genesis accordingly. Adam's naming of God's creatures including Woman is the act that places them under his dominion. Genesis similarly insists upon the intrinsic connection between language and space. Although Adam names the creatures of the earth, God alone names the earth and does so before every other creation. Bestowed before the Fall in both instances, the first names given by God and Adam bespeak a perfect world, and every nomination since harks to this harmony between the creator and the work.

The biblical vision of nomination, with its power justified and sustained by unimpeachable authority, haunts every act of nomination. It is especially relevant to the naming of space. For spatial nominations express as they formulate a certain sense of the collectivity. More or less obviously, they fit within a larger system of representations through which the collectivity defines itself, to itself and to the world beyond. Names crystallize identity. But the space that they create can open into conflict as well as community.

Whose space for whose community? These names play out the tensions between the individual and the collectivity, between the ideal and the real. While these tensions play out in every spatial nomination, they are, perhaps, most pronounced in cities. Small enough to make the whole visible and large enough to accommodate a multiplicity of parts, the modern city articulates its history in the network of names that signal possession of space. Cities require names for many purposes. They need to name the whole, and they need to name the parts.

But a single name cannot comprehend the polyphonic, polymorphous, polysemic city. If it identifies, the single name offers no entry into the intricate urban text. The ordinarily fixed name of the city contrasts sharply with the mobility, and the volatility, of the names for the parts within a city. In one sense, the single name comprehends all the others. But these others do not project an image. They tell tales, the tales of the city. Names within the city recount its history, its heroes, its battles, its culture.

They spin the threads of the evolving urban narrative, woven over many years, decades, centuries. There is perhaps no better single gauge to the larger significance of these nominatory connections than city street names. Like the other signs of urban civilization—from obvious icons like statues, monuments, and buildings to the grid of streets and districts—street. Obvious signs to the city, street names are at the same time signs of the city. Certainly, the naming of streets affords a crucial opportunity to affirm, or to contest, control of the city.

It arrogates the authority to fashion the city. Beyond identifying location, names on streets socialize space and celebrate cultural identity. They historicize the present and preserve the past. They mediate between local and ambient cultures, between individuals and institutions; they play politics and articulate ideologies; they perpetuate tradition; and they register change.

In sum, street names offer a privileged field to examine the continual process of recording and interpreting the city. In the extensive notes he made for his unfinished magnum opus on nineteenth-century Paris, Walter Benjamin stressed precisely this kind of linguistic definition of space. The city, for Benjamin, accumulated a privileged class of words, a nobility of names. Through language, the ordinary—the street—becomes extraordinary. The city thus becomes a universe of language or, in Benjamin's dramatic conception, a linguistic cosmos. A linguistic cosmos? Or, more modestly, a text to be read metaphorically as well as literally?

Names narrativize the environment and in so doing concur in the construction of a properly urban text. To speak of the "urban text" is to do more than indulge in metaphor. Or, rather, the metaphor makes good theoretical sense. We can read the city because of the properties the urban text shares with other texts. The one and the others display the never-ending dialogue between author and text, between text and reader. Each exhibits the contest of fabrication and interpretation; each exemplifies the shifting relations between text and intertexts.

Should we object that the city has no author, we would see that the commonsensical dichotomy is open to question. Although cities themselves are the work of many hands, planned cities have authors of sorts, and urban planners certainly have ambitions that can only be seen as authorial. Meanwhile, for the written text, contemporary criticism directs us away from the author to the many different intertexts.

Written texts, like cities, unfold through long, and often painful, processes of creation. In both cases the text changes. With cities, the basic text has to change to accommodate the requirements of new users—a dynamic not always present for the new reader of an old written text.

Names make important connections between these two kinds of texts. For names appropriate the urban text much as an author marks. As the biblical model makes clear, nomination presumes authority, and it supposes as well an agent to exercise that authority. Its many names make the city a striking illustration of the multivocality, or heteroglossia, that Bakhtin assigns to prose and, particularly, to the novel.

The basic contours of the urban text as of the written text are determined by the tensions between the authority of the nominator and the interpretations continually fabricated by the users of those texts. The heteroglossia of the text contests the authority of the author. Every reading of any text must balance the competing claims of authorial constraint and interpretive freedom. Reading the city is no exception to that rule. La ville est un langage. Jean Duvignaud, Lieux et non lieux. To inhabit Athens, Corinth, Siena or Amsterdam is to inhabit a discourse.

The city is a language. That streets should have names is not self-evident. For centuries, most villages and towns felt no need to name their streets, and even today a major urban center like Tokyo manages to do without them. The rethinking of urban space entailed by the naming of streets suggests a relatively extensive geographical area, a population of a certain density, and a varyingly complex array of social and commercial activities.

Street names were one outcome of this re conceptualization of the urban whole. The debates over street names during the Revolution became so strident because the monarchy had so strongly marked the Parisian text. Rewriting that text to make the city consonant with revolutionary ideals was an enterprise all the more fraught with conflict because the monarchical text proved impossible to efface.

Contrary to the way the American revolutionaries were able to proceed at about the same time when they built a capital city from the ground up, French revolutionaries had to contend with the past on every corner. No other city at the time came close to the population of Paris. By the end of the thirteenth century, the city could boast over two hundred thousand inhabitants and over three hundred streets—three hundred ten "real streets" according to the testimony of Guillot's poem Le Dit des rues de Paris.

How were these early streets designated? As in older cities generally, streets in medieval Paris bore "local" or descriptive names, that is, names that made some sort of connection to the site. Consider the following names in Paris and their often tangled origins:. Inhabitants—Anglais English scholars in the Latin Quarter , Mauvais Garcons "bad boys" or ruffians , Grande Truanderie big-time ruffians and criminals.

These often colorful names satisfy on several levels. The evident link between name and space renders the name essential, a manifestation, as it were, of the space. The name justified the space, which in turn authorized the name. In the perfectly harmonious world these connections implied, signifier corresponded to signified, sign coincided with referent.

The evident connection between name and place enabled another, between place and history. In their original form, such names were so many features of a genuine popular culture. The users, that is, the inhabitants, took care of the names. But when another generation of users took over, street names shifted to reflect their use of the space. Orality makes popular culture singularly unstable, so that until street names entered the written record, they were subject to the vicissitudes of population movement and topographical alteration and to the vagaries of human memory.

Semantic corruption set in almost as soon as the original basis for the name vanished. The name that we see on the street today may have no connotative connection to the original, despite the tales that may be and usually are advanced to sustain a connection. Egyptienne, taken from the chapel of Sainte-Marie l'Egyptienne, became Gibecienne and later Jussienne; and among the most savory, Pute-y-muse Whores' Walk became the Petit-Musc Little Musk that we come upon in the fourth arrondissement today.

The list could go on and on. Moreover, so strong was the sense of placement, so powerful the belief that word and object ought to correspond, that early chroniclers of Paris made a point of tracing back through topographical and semantic changes to reestablish the authentic connection. By the early fifteenth century there was already a need to set the record straight. The historian Guillebert de Metz, for example, had frequent recourse to the phrase "properly speaking" to disentangle the subsequent narratives and establish what he determined were the true origins of certain Paris street names.

The expansion of Paris occurred along with the consolidation of the French monarchy. Indeed, royal appropriation of the city marked the entry of Paris into the modern age. Street names were its insignia, yet another sign of royal power, a means of impressing dominion on topography itself. The force of the revolutionary reaction on the streets a century and a half later was very much a function of this initial exercise of what can be taken as symbolic eminent domain, the creation of a "sacred geography" designated by and dedicated to the monarchy.

This sacred geography was at the same time a "landscape of power" that inscribed the power relations of the larger society. In the impecunious king notified his "Very Dear and Well Loved Friends" in the rich municipality that his intention from then on was to reside in "our good city of Paris" more than in any other part of the kingdom. To this effect, the Louvre was to be repaired and made fit for royal habitation.

Fittingly, it was Henri IV who introduced the honorific model of topographical nomination, which removed nominatory powers from the users to the government, where they have resided ever since. As it reached further and further into the quotidian, the state assumed the expression and almost the constitution of a collective consciousness.

In the eighteenth century, the municipality added city officials the rues Vivienne and Feydeau, the quai d'Orsay. But though those honored came to include "lesser" individuals, dispensing that honor remained a royal prerogative. It is logical, Mercier agreed, that the streets sur-. But as he foretold the brouhaha, Mercier confidently insisted that the scandal would not last. The royal practice of urban nomination found its clearest expression not in any site or name that we can recall today but in Henri IV's extraordinarily ambitious project for the Porte and Place de France. In this vast semicircular place to be located immediately inside the northern city wall, each of twenty-four approaching and connecting streets was to bear the name of a province.

Perhaps the Place de France represented royal hegemony too perfectly; or perhaps its conception of toponymical relations was too abstract for the early seventeenth century. In the event, Henri IV was assassinated before he could proceed, and his successors let the venture drop. The plan was not even printed for another thirty years. But it is a remarkable document, striking for the modernity of its conception; for the Place de France, in effect, reduced to a single text the political program that concerned all of the regimes over the nineteenth century.

It was, to take the exalted terms of a nineteenthcentury commentator all but overcome with patriotic fervor, "the most national, the most French idea that any French sovereign had ever conceived. Whether these pedagogical considerations were those of the first Bourbon monarch or, more likely, those of a nineteenth century fairly obsessed with creating national unity, the moral and political idea that drove this experiment was indubitably the integration of France and its capital.

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The Place de France made synecdoche visible, since it, like the honorific model of nomination more generally, tied the street to ideology. As a consequence, the Place broke the link of street to site and severed the connection between toponymy and local urban practices and personages.

The Revolution changed the ideology, but the first rebaptism of a Paris street in followed the principle of symbolic control established by the monarchy over a century and a half before. In turning into an act of state, the naming of streets reverted to the adamic model. Nomination presupposed creation. Presumably, usage followed. But how do city dwellers know their streets other than through usage? Registration of street names entered them into the public record, but those early records were unlikely to affect many users directly.

Moreover, the scarcity of reliable maps and their lack. The Swiss visitor to Paris in who took three hours to reach his destination was neither the first nor the last to find himself in such a predicament. The colorful, striking store signs helped only after one reached the right street. Hence, the single most important measure for the integration of the street and the neighborhood into the city, and the first step toward rationalizing use of the urban text, was the decree that the name be fixed on the street itself. The first real street sign dates from , when the Dominicans requested permission to mark the street on which their convent was located "Rue Saint Dominique formerly Cow Street.

The often vehement resistance to the decree revealed the still very weak sense of the city as a whole to which individuals subordinated their personal affairs. To foil the recalcitrant owners who tore off the metal plaques nailed onto their houses, an ordinance in directed that the name of the street and the number of the quartier be chiseled in a stone set into the wall itself. Many of these inscriptions can be seen still today, some with the same name as on the contemporary sign, others with names that invoke the older city.

In metal plaques with white letters on a black background replaced the names in stone, and beginning in , enamel plaques with white letters on a blue background replaced the first plaques. The current signs in Paris are flimsy metal imitations of these blue and white enamel plaques. The formal street sign dealt the final blow to popular nomenclature.

Although registration tended to sanction usage, in the long term it was inscription that decided usage. The written language fixed the urban text, quite literally writing that text. The evident disdain for and fear of popular culture come to the fore in the "sanitizing" of some of :he earthier appellations.

The Dominicans did away with the cows that had once pastured in the area, and some two hundred years later Voltaire campaigned to no avail to replace cul-de-sac with impasse. Tire-vit Pull-Prick had already been euphemized to Tireboudin Pull-Sausage by the fourteenth century, but some found even that unseemly. Obscene names were, first of all, unworthy of a civilized society.

From his position as a spokesman of the Age of Enlightenment, Mercier peremptorily declared that the obscene names of the older streets "attest to the turpitude of our ancestors. The Revolution made the divide between past and present even more absolute, for the old regime was not simply the past, it was a past that had been repudiated.

Pujoulx, man-about-town and all-purpose man of letters. More anxious than Mercier to break with the inappropriate past and more aware of the larger mission of Paris in the world beyond France, Pujoulx worried that from the "obscene names that dirty the corners of certain streets" visitors would infer the immorality of the present inhabitants. Tire-Boudin soon became the rue Marie Stuart.

Thus modernizing Paris went about the task of civilization, of making itself into the image of the new world fit for the new century. As Norbert Elias argues in The History of Manners, such measures demonstrate that the march of "civilization" compelled dissociation from the inferior past and eradication of practices that did not measure up to the standards of the present. The present day was clearly superior in the eyes of contemporaries, and every precaution had to be taken to make that superiority evident to all. Pujoulx, good son of the Enlightenment that he was, deplored the "incoherence" and "bizarreness" of Paris street names as a whole even more than he did the indecency of one or another street.

They were a "ridiculous assortment," a "salmagundi," and the present name was almost always at odds with the present situation or destination of the street. To straighten out the streets by providing "reasonable" names, Pujoulx endorsed turning all of Paris into a geography lesson.

All the streets would bear the names of major towns and cities in France. The size of the street would correspond to the size of the city, with the longer streets running through several quartiers reserved for the major rivers. Through its street names, Paris would be France, and topography would once again signify as it had in the medieval, descriptive names. The difference was crucial. Henceforth, the city would signify not as nature but as ideology. The eighteenth century transformed this preoccupation with coherence into a system for the entire city.

Pujoulx's proposal of stands as a clear demonstration of the strength of these convictions and the force of this vision of the city as an integrated, intelligible whole, as a distinctive testimony to the forward march of civilization. Pujoulx, apparently unwittingly, reiterated a project a half century old. Pujoulx admitted that an acquaintance had made the connection between his plan and another "about like it," but disavowed any knowledge of such a project. Still, he readily conceded that the basic idea was so elementary that it might have occurred to a good many others. He was, in any case, less interested in being first than in being the one to bring a rational system of nomination to public notice.

Perhaps his plan would work. Hendrik sets out to write an expose a year in the life of his care home in Amsterdam, revealing all its ups and downs—not least his new endeavor the anarchic Old-But-Not-Dead Club. The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen will not only delight older readers with its wit and relevance, but will charm and inspire those who have years to go before their own expiry date. Ce livre est fait pour vous! Un graphisme virtuose, des aquarelles aux couleurs intenses et vibrantes.

Includes dozens of new recipes. When David Lebovitz began the project of updating his apartment in his adopted home city, he never imagined he would encounter so much inexplicable red tape while contending with the famously inconsistent European work ethic and hours. Lebovitz maintains his distinctive sense of humor with the help of his partner Romain, peppering this renovation story with recipes from his Paris kitchen.

In the midst of it all, he reveals the adventure that accompanies carving out a place for yourself in a foreign country—under baffling conditions—while never losing sight of the magic that inspired him to move to the City of Light many years ago, and to truly make his home there. With the referendum on the horizon, things are even more hysterical than usual. When the Brexit result comes in, Paul has to make a decision. If he wants to work in Europe, should he apply for a French passport? But can an Englishman really become French?

And as Paul contemplates his own personal Brexit, the whole of Brussels seems to be going into meltdown. Publisher : Century, Penguin Random House. Le but de ces pratiques universelles? Doorways of Paris is a portal to Parisian life that will have readers longing to find a doorway to call their own. Construire une nouvelle vie? Certes, sa boss est un cauchemar. Y compris se faire virer. Pas question de se laisser abattre. Their accomplishments are etched in history but their personal story of friendship is not.

Struggling against patriarchal dominance and Nazi terror in their historic rise to fame, their friendship , both tender and tumultuous, places this novel among those that grip the heart and keep us turning the page. Elles sont riches, artistes, philanthropes. Le coffret contient : — Un livre qui comporte la transcription des dialogues ainsi que des listes de vocabulaire. Et pourtant, il ne supporte plus sa vie. Une seule solution : la fuite. Hortense a un peu peur… Heureusement, avoir une amie comme Polka, cela donne beaucoup de courage!


Publisher : Editions Ouest-France. Now he moves beyond the City of Light to skewer the many idiosyncrasies that make modern France so very unique. In France, the simple act of eating bread is an exercise in creative problem solving and attempting to spell requires a degree of masochism. Pourquoi les courtisans portent-ils la perruque? Ils sont porteurs de valises, manutentionnaires, boxeurs, mais aussi avocats ou musiciens de jazz. Publisher : Larousse.

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Au soleil ou sous la pluie, le mercredi, le week-end ou pendant les vacances, profitez en famille de la vie et de Paris! We have included with each expression a delicious recipe, illustrations and anecdotes. There is something here for everyone: a pinch of humor, language games, clever drawings and artwork and the delicious and surprising associations of French cuisine with a few personal touches.

The book is in two languages: English and French. Un livre magistral et qui fera date. The first guide published in Paris in English, to help visitors to discover the City of lights as if they were being led by the hand! Compiled from over twenty years of hard-won knowledge and personal experiences, the more than tips found in this guide will help you to move around, shop, eat, explore, discover or get to know the city of Paris, both inside and out, as good, if not better, than many of the people living in it! The dozens upon dozens of QR codes in the guide will also provide you with instant access to the kind of up-to-date information that most people need when either planning their trip or especially while they are on it.

Acadie, Canada, Louisiane. Fascinating story! Our former ambassador lead a full life and was the life of the party. Pamela always got what she wanted, but was she happy? Hard to say. Le peuple sera-t-il dupe? A play that is still pertinent today years later. Seems that people and politics never change. Cet ouvrage rassemble recettes de la cuisine traditionnelle.

Des rumeurs courent, les gens fuient. This book is a unique guide to France for lovers of classic and modern cars. Love cars, love France? Then make the most of your next trip with this essential guide! Enjoying a special journey across the channel with friends or a club? Looking to include automotive-themed locations in your family holiday? Full of practical, clear, easy-to-find information, this is the ideal companion when planning a trip, or as an on-the-road reference book.

With sections on museums, classic and modern car shows, automobilia, buying car parts, historic and modern motorsport events, and race circuits, each entry is illustrated in full colour. This unique guide, now in its 2nd edition, has been fully updated for , and provides you with all you need to know to enjoy a visit to France with a motoring twist — when to go, how to get there, and where to find out more.

Publisher : Veloce Publishing. This is where he and his painting of the Mona Lisa spent his last three years.