Proust's Overcoat

I haven't read Proust. There. I've said it. Now, having read Proust's Overcoat I'm not sure that I want to read him. Perhaps I'm just not old enough to read him yet. 

I was vaguely aware of this book having read newspaper reviews when it came out I think, so pounced when I found it in a remainder store on a recent trip to Canberra.

Unlike James Joyce's Ulyssess, which I don't expect to ever read, I do still harbor vague notions that I might get to reading Proust one day. Til then I'll read about reading Proust I guess. 

But this book isn't just about Proust. It's also about Jacques Guerin, a perfumier, who was to amass "one of the most important personal libraries of all time." He had books and papers by Apollinaire, Baudelaire, Cocteau, Genet, Hugo, Picasso, Rimbaud and Proust. His collection was so important that he was twice visited by Francois Mitterand to try to secure the collection for the Biblioteque Nationale. Sadly, Mitterand left empty handed and the collection was eventually sold at a public auction at the Hotel George V in Paris in the 90s. 

I was a bit surprised to learn that Proust died so young (aged 51 in 1922). He had asthma from a young age and was quite sickly. He was a rather fascinating character- he lived in a cork-lined room on boulevard Haussmann, and worked at a frantic rate night and day "to bring his great work to completion in an incessant race against death."

The book starts with the author visiting Proust's coat itself at the Musee Carnavalet in Paris (another reason to visit next year). Although Proust's coat is stored away in a box and not on public display. It is a threadbare, dark gray wool otter-lined double-breasted coat. It is shabby and worn. 

Proust wore his coat year round. He used it as a blanket whilst lying in his brass bed in his cold, unheated room frantically composing his magnum opus. Indeed, the descriptions of Proust's obsession with his coat made me wonder about his sanity. He arrived at his brother Robert's wedding in 1903 not having slept for three nights and his "appearance was frightful. He was dressed astoundingly, swaddled in multiple layers of clothing; he wore three sweaters underneath a jacket, and three coats on top of that. He had wrapped his chest and neck in flannel, bits of which poked out from the collar of his shirt." I can only imagine that his coat still smells despite the cleanings. 

This is a rather fascinating little book, a mere 120 pages, but it spins a web containing Paris, Proust, his unusual family and Guerin's world of literary obsessions and perfume. 

Paris in July is cohosted by Karen at BookBath 

and Tamara at Thyme for Tea 

Tour de France

I'm certainly not a sports fan, but every July I start watching tv sport quite frantically and obsessively. But not just any tv sport. The Tour de France. It's quite a commitment to watch the Tour in Australia. The time difference is a killer. The SBS telecast only starts at 10pm each night, and goes til about 2am. That's a tough schedule to keep up for 3 weeks! Jobs, family and sleep all suffer.

It's not just about the cycling though.

Although the cycling is fascinating enough in itself, and there are certainly interesting characters racing each day. These men are astonishing warriors, as they undertake riding 3,000 km all over France (and occasionally in neighbouring countries) in 3 weeks- an almost impossible feat it would seem.

I love the scenery too of course. It's extraordinary.

 I may squeal out loud when I've been there!

They make special efforts to show us every church and chateau near the route, as well as the natural beauty of the countryside.

Or sigh if it makes my feet itch just a little

SBS also goes to great lengths to give us a taste of the areas the cyclists move through. At the start of each broadcast Gabriel Gate highlights the food of the region, and then cooks a typical dish.

Pink lentils!

It's the whole package, and why I'll be up late again tonight. And as many nights as I can until it all ends in Paris next Monday morning Australian time.

Paris in July hosted by BookBath and Thyme for Tea

Parvana's Journey

Parvana's Journey is a harrowing tale of children living in Afghanistan under the Taliban. This is not the sort of story that I would normally seek out. Which is one of the great things about reading from a list that you didn't create yourself- your boundaries are stretched.

Deborah Ellis is a Canadian writer, she is a mental health counsellor and anti-war campaigner. Her books often deal with children displaced by war, poverty or disease. They have been very successful. She has donated all her royalties from Parvana's Journey, and I presume at least some of her other books, to the charity Women for Women in Afghanistan. 

Parvana's Journey is actually the second in a series of 4 books depicting Parvana's life- Parvana (also titled The Breadwinner), Parvana's Journey, Shauzia (aka Mud City), My Name is Parvana. All rather confusingly titled I think.

Parvana's Journey starts with 11 year old Parvana struggling to find enough rocks to bury her father. Her family had become separated during the war in Afghanistan in the late 90s- she was with her father; her mother with her 3 siblings are somewhere else. But Parvana's father becomes increasingly frail, and dies in an unfamiliar village. Parvana is left on her own, and journeys on in a rather random way. She doesn't know where to go, or who to trust to help. 

Given the setting some of the content is rather depressing. The senselessness and arbitrary nature of death in war. Hunger. Poverty. Disease and dispossessed people. In fact all the flavours of human suffering. 

"My uncle had an orchard," Asif said. "He grew peaches, mostly, and rows of berry bushes. He accused me of stealing berries from him. Is it stealing to take food when you're hungry?"

When everything was quiet except for the crying of people who had lost loved ones, and the screaming of those who had been injured, the children got up and started walking again. They couldn't help anyone, and no one could help them.

Is this it? She wondered. Have I come so far, just to be here? Is this really my life? 

I think as an adult reader the earnestness of purpose of the writer, and the sociopolitical view is a bit too obvious. Which isn't to say that the book is bad, I enjoyed reading it. I was just aware that I was being taught something. Not that it's a bad lesson, it's not, but I can see the teaching. That may not be as apparent to younger readers who have not sat through quite as many news broadcasts as I have. I'd love to share this book with my 11 year old son but would struggle to convince him that there might be dragons, time lords or magic within the covers. 

The Toys of Paris

It's an intriguing notion to realise that children in Paris grow up with a totally different imaginary world than children in English speaking countries. Of course it seems quite natural that this is so when you think about it, but their childhood world is peopled by rather different characters. A visit to the toy section of Galleries Lafayette makes it rather obvious. 


Of course you have to stop gazing upwards at the magnificent dome.

And then keep going upwards past the floor of Seduction Fashion

Smurfs are still a big deal in France. Or, Les Schtroumpfs, as the French call them. Not really surprising when you find out that they were originally Belgian creations, and that the original name was actually Les Schtroumpfs. Their English name Smurf is actually borrowed from their Dutch name. Thanks wiki. 

Elmer is there. An English elephant.

Finally, a French classic.  Le Petit Nicolas.

 T'choupi too.

Le Petit Prince action figure sets. 

Of course not everyone is unfamiliar. 

Saturday Snapshot, is a wonderful weekly meme from at home with books

Paris in July is cohosted by Karen at BookBath and Tamara at Thyme for Tea 

French Milk

French Milk is a lightning fast read as it is a comic memoir, a new format for me. Lucky Knisley was 21 at the end of 2006 when she was lucky enough to go to Paris for a month. She shared an apartment with her mother on a trip to celebrate two birthdays. Her mother was turning 50, and Lucy herself would turn 22 while she was away. Lucy had already been to Paris when backpacking as a 17 year old with friends. What an amazing thing to have your second trip to Paris and only be 21.

Lucy is coming towards a bit of a crossroads in her young life. She will be finishing college in a few months and embarking on her adult life. She seems rather distressed about all this and caught up with anxiety about these upcoming changes. So much so that they get in the way of her enjoyment of Paris, and my enjoyment of her month in Paris. Too much near teenage angst for this reader at times. I suspect that many readers looking for a nice Paris memoir don't want this much angst and self loathing.

Paris does win her over at times, but she is still quite self-absorbed. The book is at it's best when Lucy describes her wanderings in words and pictures. I've never been to the Grand Mosquee, and didn't know that you could have lunch there, but it sounds a rather fascinating thing to do. She is somewhat obsessed with Oscar Wilde (as am I), and visits his very famous grave, and then has a drink at the hotel where he died.

Being an art student Lucy is keen to immerse herself in the myriad art and cultural activities available to the visitor to Paris. I was surprised at the length of the queues that she struck visiting Parisian monuments in the dead of winter. Lucy and her mother also watched movies with a Paris flavour, including Funny Face. They were very brave and went to the cinema in Paris, again something I'd never thought of doing. Perhaps it is possible?

I liked French Milk most when Lucy was describing and drawing her meals and excursions into Paris. A tagine at the Grande Mosquee, the hot chocolate at Angelina's (surely the best hot chocolate in the world), simple meals of cheese and wine in the aparment, or bistro fare. Although she did drive me a bit crazy by constantly referring to macarons as cookies.

The French Milk of the title comes indeed from Lucy's love of actual French milk. She gushes over it several times. I don't believe I've ever tried it myself, although I have done my best with other French milk products- yoghurt, cheese and butter. All are magnificent, but ooooh, the butter, the glorious, glorious butter. Pale. Sweet. Heavenly. Perhaps I can call my "I travelled to France and ate a lot of butter" memoir French Butter?

Paris in July is cohosted by Karen at BookBath 

and Tamara at Thyme for Tea 

Wondrous Words Wednesday 11/7/12

Wondrous Words Wednesday is a fabulous weekly meme hosted by Bermuda Onion, where we share new (to us) words that we’ve encountered in our weekly reading.  

Keeping with the Paris in July theme this month here are some words from my recent reading of Paris in Love.

1. Reliquary (Noun)


In an art gallery: tiny, ornate reliquary boxes, the kind that house a saint's finger bone. 


A receptacle or repository for relics, esp relics of saints. The Free Dictionary. 


2. Chasuble (Noun)


Back in New Jersey, Father Mahoney wore a black cassock over his majestic stomach, occasionally adding a purple chasuble. 


A long sleeveless vestment worn over the alb by a priest during services. The Free Dictionary. Hmmm, alb. 


3. Polly Pockets (Noun)


My favourite item at Musee Lambinet were two 'surprise' Easter eggs, given to Princess Victoire, daughter of Louis XV. They are essentially, Polly Pockets, but made with real heans' eggs. 


It took me a while to work this out. I think the picture needs to tell the story here. I'm sure the real thing at the Musee is amazing. 

Picture source

4. Curlicue (Noun)


At least three usages.


We found a furniture store in the Marais that features curlicues: lampshades with elaborate cutouts; a cabinet with wrought iron overlay; a sofa whose arms spiral around and around, like a snail's shell. 


A fancy twist, or curl, composed usually from a series of concentric circles. It is a recurring motif in architecture, calligraphy and in general scrollwork. Wiki

Picture source

5. Louche (Adj)


Today, Carrie, Charlotte, Anna and I tumbled into Le Dome, a cafe on rue de Rivoli, and were driven by loud music into the back room, which turned out to be fascinating: a louche setting of velvet couches and low tables with metal lanterns that sent out twinkling spills of light. 


Shady, shifty, disreputable. From the French word for squinting. 

Paris in July is cohosted by Karen at BookBath and Tamara atThyme for Tea 

Paris in Love

Paris in Love seems to be the must read Paris title of 2012. For some reason we Paris fanciers in Australia got to have this rather awful cover, instead of the more stylish cover available elsewhere. 

Eloisa James has written a nice, jaunty memoir about living in Paris for a year. A dream that I'm sure many of us share. Written in little snippets, filled with often small observations of Parisian life- how someone is dressed on the street, how they act. The pages just seem to turn themselves.  

I love how her wine seller needs to know what she's eating for dinner, how she's planning to cook it and the size of the potatoes that she'll be having before recommending a wine to match. She includes a handful of recipes in the book, her Lemon Barley Chicken Soup sounds quite delicious actually. I loved how she still reads outloud to her 11 year old (as I read to my 11 year old) because she can't bear to think that there may be a last book. 

The French walk slowly. They amble down the street, meet friends and spend two minutes kissing, then plant themselves, chatting as if the day were created for this moment. 

I loved her passion for the small, lesser-known museums of Paris. There are so many it seems. I described my love for Musee Victor Hugo and Musee Rodin for Paris in July 2011. I have so many more to visit next time already. And now can add even more to the Musee wishlist..... Musee Carnavalet, Musee Jacquemart-Andre and Musee Nissim de Camondo. James likes these museums so much that she's included a short guide to some of them at the back of the book. She also has a guide to some of her favourite food sources- a salmon shop with 10 types of salmon, confisseries, chocolatiers and salons de the. All of these would be worth a visit. 

I was somewhat disappointed to learn in the introduction that this is basically her facebook updates from the year. Some had been rejigged or lengthened for the book. Noone wants to publish my facebook updates. Perhaps I'm just jealous. I did enjoy the writing, her writing experience shines through, and her academic background peeks through in the usage of words such as happenstance.

And then there's the whole living in Paris for a year thing. I've only managed to spend three weeks of my life in Paris- so far. Do people really have a life that they can just transport to Paris? Are people really Professors of Shakespeare, and romance writers of note on the side, with a portable husband and children? Sure Eloisa James had some troubles in life before she up and left to spend a year in Paris- her mother died, and she battled breast cancer herself. These are big life-changing events. No doubt about it. 

Perhaps lots of my enjoyment of this book came about because I want to live in Paris for a year too. I want to see the seasons change. To see it snow in Paris. To welcome each new season, to buy a bunch of lilly of the valley on May 1st, to buy the first peach of the season. I've been to Paris in May, June and July, and so have seen her early spring blossomed beauty, and felt the heat of her summer. But I long to see her other moods too. The silver skies, to feel the chill of a Parisian winter enter my bones, to see her streets covered in snow. To eat the chevre only produced for Christmas. I certainly dreamed that dream as I read this book, and that's not a bad thing. 

Paris in July is cohosted by Karen at BookBath and Tamara atThyme for Tea