How Proust Can Change Your Life

I do enjoy Alain de Botton's work whenever I get the time to appreciate it. I very much enjoyed The Art of Travel a few years ago. I was sold on How Proust Can Change Your Life from the time I first saw the front cover, and given that it was first published in 1997 that was some time ago. I bought the book a few years ago but it has sat on my shelf patiently waiting its turn although occasionally I would glimpse that lovely cover and hope to read it sooner. 

Happily a couple of recent(ish) events conspired to get me there. My friend Lisa at ANZLitlovers read it in March last year, and I read her review eagerly. And then it came time for Paris in July 2016 and it seemed the perfect time to pop the audiobook in the car CD player. Sadly I've long ago run out of July, and 2016, for the review. Indeed it's nearly time for Paris in July again. Ah, c'est la vie. 

How Proust Can Change Your Life is told in a series of nine lessons.

How to Love Life Today

How to Read for Yourself

How to Take Your Time

How to Suffer Successfully

How to Express Your Emotions

How to Be a Good Friend

How to Open Your Eyes

How to Be Happy in Love

How to Put Books Down

On one level it is a biography of Proust in some detail- his habits, his prodigious tipping, the precarious state of his health. I don't think I ever knew that Proust was self-published!

I haven't read Proust. Well, I did try to once but didn't get beyond the initial 30 pages of the narrator falling asleep, but I have an increasing fascination with him and his work. I want to give it a red hot try at some stage, but until now I'll read about him, and think about him. I've stalked him in his room. 

I couldn't help but wonder what the modern diagnoses for poor old Marcel may have been. He had such problems with his skin, his digestion, his asthma. 

Proust frequently has to suffer distressing insinuations that he is not as sick as he suggests. At the outbreak of the First World War the medical army board call him up for an examination. Though the man has been lying in bed more or less continuously since 1903, he is terrified that the severity of his illness will not be appropriately considered, and that he will be made to fight in the trenches. 

Alain and Marcel also had some helpful suggestions for Reconsidering My Life. Alain de Botton suggests that n'allez pas trop vite could well be a Proustian slogan. Don't go too fast. Wise words I'm sure, but is that even possible in the modern world of a single working mother?

Proust famously did not realise the nature of what he was trying to write until he had begun to write it. When the first volume of The Search of Lost Time was published in 1913, there was no thought of the work assuming the gargantuan proportions that it eventually did; Proust projected that it would be a trilogy [Swann's Way, The Guermantes Way, Time Regained], and even hoped the last two parts would fit in a single volume. 

However, the First World War radically altered the plans by delaying the publication of the succeeding volume by four years, during which time Proust discovered a host of new things he wanted to say, and realised that he would require a further four volumes to say it. The original five hundred thousand words expanded to more than a million and a quarter.

None of which is surprising in the least when you see the pictures that Alain has included of the rewritten manuscripts and the revisions and comments that Marcel poured onto every square millimetre available of the publishers proofs. 

Picture source
From the internet, not from the book

Chapter 7 How to Open Your Eyes, was my favourite chapter, about what would now be labelled gratitude, and of seeing the beauty in the quotidian.  Proust recommended studying the works of Jean-Baptiste Chardin in order to see the beauty in everyday objects. "Chardin's paintings succeeded in being extraordinarily beguiling and evocative."

The Silver Goblet
Jean-Baptiste Siméon Chardin
Musée du Louvre

"A peach by him was as pink and chubby as a cherub, a plate of oysters or a slice of lemon were tempting symbols of gluttony and sensuality." And I'm at least moderately certain that I would have walked past them in the Louvre- another reason to go back to Paris...

Why don't we appreciate things more widely? The problem goes beyond inattention or laziness. It may also stem from insufficient exposure to images of beauty, which are close enough to our own world in order to guide and inspire us.

While I do seem to prefer non-fiction audio books to fiction, the audio format does leave the listener without illustrations, or the rather intriguing layout of the book form of How Proust Can Change Your Life. A layout that I really wasn't expecting from de Botton.

Picture source

Fascinating titbits

Marcel's surgeon brother (gynaecologist, urologist and general surgeon) Robert Proust did indeed introduce radical prostatectomy via a perineal approach in 1901, a "proustatectomy".

Proust spent lots of time at the Ritz entertaining, and was a legendary tipper

Though he was well catered for at home, and had a maid adept at preparing wholesome meals, and a dining room in which to give dinner parties, Proust repeatedly ate out and entertained at the Ritz in the Place Vendôme, where he would order sumptuous meals for friends, add a two hundred percent service charge to the bill and drink champagne from fluted glasses. 

I can't express my relief that I've finally finished this post. I finished listening to the audiobook last August I think. This post has been an albatross around my neck. Now lifted. I can move on. 

Dreaming of France is a wonderful Monday meme
from Paulita at An Accidental Blog  

Flowers for Mrs Harris

I was in the mood for another Paris read after I read The President's Hat recently (see my review). Although I guess I'm quite often in the mood for another Paris read, and happily I had this little novella sitting about the house and knew the time had come.

Flowers for Mrs Harris is the slightly preposterous but rather charming story of a British cleaning lady scrimping and saving for several years to follow her dream to go to Paris and buy a Dior frock.

Up to that magic moment of finding herself hoisted off the face of the earth her life had been one of never-ending drudgery, relieved by nothing more than an occasional visit to the flicks, the pub on the corner, or an evening at the music-hall.

Mrs Ada Harris is a widow in her late 50s who despite her "drab and colourless" existence "had always felt a craving for beauty and colour" which had previously manifested in her "great love for flowers". This was to change dramatically after  after she sees two Dior gowns in the wardrobe of one of her clients, Lady Dant. 

It had all begun that day several years back when during the course of her duties at Lady Dant's house, Mrs Harris had opened a wardrobe to tidy it and had come upon the two dresses hanging there.  One was a bit of heaven in cream, ivory, lace and chiffon, the other an explosion in crimson satin and taffeta, adorned with great red bows, and a huge red flower. She stood there as though struck dumb, for never in all her life had she seen anything quite as thrilling and beautiful. 

I did enjoy Flowers for Mrs Harris, although I suspect that if Paris was not involved I might have not liked it quite so much. While much of it is about Dior and dresses it is also a shrewd study of character.

Mme Colber smiled a thin, sad smile. She might almost have guessed it. 'Temptation' was a poem created in materials by a poet of women, for a young girl in celebration of her freshness and beauty and awakening to the mysterious power of her sex. It was invariably demanded by the faded, the middle-aged, the verging on passé women.

I've come to realise that I've never been to Avenue Montaigne, and clearly I need to remedy this situation on my next trip to Paris tout de suite, even though I'm not going to be coming away with a Dior gown like Mrs Harris. But I could pop in to the Hotel Plaza Athénée  for lunch- a rather long held dream. 

Dior on Avenue Montaigne, so pretty

I do wonder at the timing of the story. Dior famously launched his New Look in 1947, and he was at the peak of his powers in the 1950s. Sadly Christian Dior was to die suddenly on a skiing trip to Italy in October 1957 aged only 52, and Flowers for Mrs Harris was published the following year in 1958. 

In America the book is known as Mrs 'arris Goes to Paris, and there is a 1992 telemovie starring Angela Lansbury as Mrs Harris. I'm going to have to watch it when I can find it, it seems pretty unavailable. There's even a new musical theatrical version this year in the UK!

Dreaming of France is a wonderful Monday meme
from Paulita at An Accidental Blog  

French Bingo 2016

The President's Hat

A break away is a lovely chance to read a book you've been meaning to read for ages and just haven't got to. On my recent trip to the South Coast I took a rather large bag chock full of enticing reads so I could have some choice of reading material when I got there. Of course there is always the hope that you will read lots of books and so need lots of reading material. I only managed to finish one book while I was away, but somehow this most Parisian of stories was perfect for my beachy retreat. I'd seen lots about Laurain's third and most recent book around of late (French Rhapsody), and this shamed me enough to seek out his first.

Hat wearing Parisian Antoine Laurain lost his hat in a cafe one time, and that loss formed the kernel of The President's Hat. French President Francois Mitterrand famously wore a Fedora. He was President of France in the early 80s, and our story is firmly set in this time with multiple music and popular culture references like the seemingly inexplicable Caroline Loeb's C'est la Ouate.

The President's Hat starts with President Mitterrand out to dinner in a stylish Parisian bistro. Sitting at the next table is a rather humble accountant, Daniel Mercier who is treating himself while his wife and son are out of town visiting family. At the end of the evening President Mitterrand accidentally leaves his hat behind at the restaurant. Daniel notices, and decides against trying to return it and instead walks out of the restaurant with Mitterrand's fedora on his own head.

Mitterrand's fedora becomes a talisman for change, Daniel's life is transformed by his contact with the hat, and when he himself misplaces the hat he is beside himself. But while the hat doesn't have nine lives like a cat it does go on to change the lives of other people who also find the hat.

Perhaps, when all was said and done, it was just as easy to leave someone's life as enter it. A stroke of fate and a few words could be enough to start a relationship. A stroke of fate and a few words could end it too. 

There are many delightful French touches. A fair amount of Champagne is drunk. There are lots of familiar Paris locations. Daniel Mercier is greatly disappointed that his six year old son doesn't want to try oysters.

When they got up to their sixteenth-floor apartment in the fifteenth arrondissement, Daniel announced that he'd made supper. Cold meat, chicken, tomato and basil salad, and cheese. Véronique was impressed- her husband rarely made dinner. First they had an aperitif.

I love how the book design incorporates its own bookmark into the back cover! I've never seen that before. Although I couldn't bring myself to use it... 

While it will never win the (recently announced) Nobel Prize for Literature or anything (and who would have predicted that Bob Dylan would?), I did very much enjoy my time with The President's Hat. Perhaps one day I'll be able to reread it as Le Chapeau de Mitterrand? Meanwhile, Mitterrand is in the news again (despite being long dead).

There were many interesting tidbits along the way. The Paris lover in me was fascinated to learn how much of modern day Paris owes to Francois Mitterrand. Mitterrand's Grands Travaux is responsible for many of the highlights of modern Paris. Louvre Pyramid, Musee d'Orsay, the Grand Arche de la Defense amongst them. Similarly I'd never heard of American artist Jean-Michel Basquiat, sadly now a lifelong member of the 27 Club.  Although the notion of French kiddies of the 80s watching Knight Rider makes me so sad, and the reggae version of La Marseillaise even sadder. Not surprisingly it was rather controversial when it was released in  1979.

If you're lucky enough to be in Paris you can check out Antoine Laurain's Best Eats in Paris.

Dreaming of France is a wonderful Monday meme
from Paulita at An Accidental Blog  

French Bingo 2016

Happy People Read & Drink Coffee

I didn't really know anything about Happy People Read & Drink Coffee when I first saw it- but I really liked the cover. An author with a Clearly French name. Picture of a Parisian femme on the cover. Eiffel Tower on cover. And title about Happy People Reading (YAY) and drinking coffee (YUCK). Soon I was buying a copy. And then I saw a none too flattering short review in the Herald. Should I read it? I figured it would be a good travelling read, nice for sitting on buses and around airports. It's fairly short and the font is pretty big.

It's not really the Paris story I was expecting though. More a Parisian story. Thirty something Diane has been widowed for a year. Her husband Colin and five year old daughter, Clara, are killed off in a car accident on page 2. And Diane really isn't coping. She has been unable to work for the past year, and her literary café, Happy People Read & Drink Coffee is being run by her friend and business partner Felix. Instead Diane remains holed up in her Paris apartment- it's been a year and she hasn't changed the sheets on her bed, hoping instead to retain some scent of her husband. I'm sure they have plenty of aroma, none of it his. 

Today, as every day for the past year, utter silence reigned in our apartment. No music, no laughter, no endless conversations. 

Diane decides rather rashly to go to Ireland for a lengthy stay because it was a dream of her dead husband Colin to travel there. He liked a bit of Guinness it seems. She takes a cottage in a remote Irish village and holes herself up there just as she'd done in Paris. She soon meets and instantly dislikes her taciturn and grumpy neighbour Edward. 

I found it really rather difficult to become absorbed by Diane's story. I had some sympathy for her initially, but her developing relationship with Edward is rather unbelievable. The end is rather preposterous. Look away now if you're bothered by spoilers..... Two grown women fighting over such an unpleasant man. Really?

There are no happy people in Happy People Read and Drink Coffee. Perhaps because none of them are reading or drinking coffee. Well there's a bit of coffee drinking, but much more Guinness and wine is consumed. And way too many cigarettes. There is a dog called Postman Pat. I remain rather mystified at the choice of name for the dog, but he seems to be Postman Pat in the French edition too. I wonder what the average French reader made of that. 

I wanted to like this book I really did. Three of the ten chapters do happen to be set in Paris, but they could have been anywhere really. Although I did thrill at the mention of Rue Vieille-du-Temple, as I walked that particular rue many times in 2014. Happy People Read and Drink Coffee was initially self-published (in French, naturally, as Les Gens Heureux Lisent and Boivent du Café), it is being made into a feature film. I'm more than somewhat annoyed that Allen&Unwin didn't bother to change the American spellings in our Australian edition. 

There is a sequel - Don't Worry, Life is Easy ( La Vie est Facile, ne t'inquiete pas). I'm not sure that I'll seek it out. 

French Bingo 2016

Ransacking Paris

Naturally the cover and title of Ransacking Paris was enough to make me snatch it off the bookshop shelf as soon as I saw it last year. I just needed to find the time to read it. Happily that time came recently as I prepared to see Patti Miller speak at the Newcastle Writers Festival. I'd started the book at least by the time I got to take my seat in the We Will Always Have Paris session on the Sunday morning.

Ransacking Paris tells the tale of a year Patti spent living and writing in Paris with her husband/partner. It seems to have been a bit of a while ago, some 15 years ago now. Patti had taken a small apartment in Montmartre on Rue des Trois Frères to write a memoir about her friend Dina who died suddenly leaving her young son Theo. Patti Miller was to look after Theo for 7 years and that book was to become Whatever the Gods Do, published in 2003.

Patti grew up in the Central West of NSW a mere 100 km from where I live now. So I was always very interested in her stories of growing up on a farm near Wellington. Thirteen year old Patti began French lessons in high school and it opened up a new world for her, giving her a "small distinction" amongst her eight siblings. Learning French, and learning that a dog is not just a dog but could also be un chien

hinted at the possibility of another kind of world, the faint beginning of awareness that there was a connection between language and perception. Other words for things created the idea that there was another way of seeing, of thinking, of knowing, that things didn't have to be what everyone agreed they were.

Young Patti started to dream of one day going to Paris, even though she didn't know anyone besides her French teacher who had ever been there. 

It must mean something, a dream that can propel you to the other side of the world.

Six memoirists are her companions on her year long sojourn-  Montaigne, de Sévigné, Rousseau, Stendhal, de Beauvoir and Annie Ernaux. I hadn't read any of the authors she featured, well I did read a bit of de Beauvoir back in the day, but much too long ago to remember anything more than I have actually read her. I have no sense of the books I read, or even which titles they might have been. 

Naturally I thrilled inwardly each time Patti went to somewhere I too had been - Musée Carnavalet, Tuileries, Angelinas on the Rue de Rivoli, the Luxembourg Gardens. All famous places, and not an uncommon shared experience. But I was even more excited to learn that Balzac grew up on Rue Vieille du Temple as I stayed just around the corner on my last visit in 2014. And I dined several times in Cafe des Philosophes where Patti "meets" Madame de Sévigné (a writerly device that didn't work for me- Patti told me that she had had mixed reactions to it), and while I didn't enter Les Éditeurs in the Carrefour de l'Odéon, I ate at two other establishments on the same corner, and know exactly where it is. 

I enjoyed reading her experience of the city, learning the language and making friends. Walking, walking, walking everywhere. Going to concerts every Sunday- that's such a great idea- I've been to three concerts in Paris now, all extremely enjoyable experiences. If I ever get to live in Paris for a good while then maybe I'll go to a concert every Sunday too. Patti also joined a choir which is a brilliant thing to do if you can sing. I'm not sure that I'd be there long enough to brave Shakespeare in French as Patti did though! Just the thought! Patti proclaims the experience "more fun than I'd ever had watching Shakespeare."

There are many layers to Ransacking Paris. The bees are much more than a cover motif, Patti Miller considers much in this memoir- philosophy, death, cafes and of course Paris. The narrative  flips seamlessly back and forth over time.

That was in the future, but I like the way stories thread back and forth over time, connecting things that might otherwise have been lost or left flapping in the wind. It makes time past and time present seem to be, not a line, but arcs of a spiral. 

Patti Miller returns to Paris frequently. She runs memoir writing workshops there each year. 

Why couldn't I have been young in Paris and not a middle-aged woman groping for something that was long gone?

I was hoping to have this review ready for Paris in July, but I ran out of July... Thankfully I'll never run out of Paris. 

UQP Book Club Notes

http://australianwomenwriters.com

Dreaming of France is a wonderful Monday meme
from Paulita at An Accidental Blog 

French Bingo 2016

Letter to D. A Love Story

I like hanging out in used book sales. You never know what you're going to find. I'm always on the hunt for the obscure and out of print titles for my 1001 quest. And sometimes you find little gems like this one. I totally picked up this book and put it in my bag because of the little words, that you can't really see in the image above, in the bottom left corner of the cover. The Love Letter That Captivated Paris. Well, anything that captivates Paris will captivate me. Rummaging around the house recently I found it sitting on a pile of books, and picked it up for a Paris in July read.

I just love this photo of
André and Dorine

André Gorz was a very prominent French thinker and journalist. Born in Vienna as Gerhart Hirsch in 1923, his career took off after the second World War. He was friends with Sartre and de Beauvoir, and published his writings under several names. But he was to become best known for one of his final writings, the beautiful and moving Letter to D, a personal reflection looking back on his 58 year relationship with his wife Dorine.

You're 82 years old. You've shrunk six centimetres, you only weigh 45 kilos yet you're still beautiful, graceful and desirable. 

Gerhart Hirsch met the young Englishwoman Doreen Keir in 1947 at a poker game in Lausanne, Switzerland. He was immediately smitten.

You were striking, witty and clever, beautiful as a dream. 

Even though Doreen's friends warned her off Gerhart "He is an Austrian Jew. Totally devoid of interest", she accepted his offer to go dancing a month later, and they were quickly inseparable.

We were  both children of precariousness and conflict. We were made to protect each other from both. We needed to create together, by being together, the place in the world that we'd originally been denied. 

They lived a fascinating life. Gerhart was to find fame as André Gorz and Michel Bosquet, writing for Paris-Presse and L'Express. The couple moved to Paris in 1949 initially living in a room on the Rue des Saints-Pères (6th) leant to them by a friend for three years. They then moved to "two little attic rooms separated by the landing in an apartment block in the eleventh arrondissement." But they were not as happy there.

Up until then, we'd lived in poverty but never in ugliness. 

Doreen became sad because of their location.

You felt personally like you were in exile in that part of town. When you didn't come in to the paper, you were lonely, cut-off. You didn't see your friends nearly as often, now that they were a good half-hour away by metro. Whenever you left the house, wherever you went, there was nothing but deserted streets, dusty shops. You became sad. 

After a few unhappy years in the 11th they found a "small run down apartment" on rue du Bac (one of my favourite streets from my 2013 visit when we stayed nearby, Jacques Genin was one of the many highlights, although rue du Bac would have been very different in the 1950s). They felt they "lived at the centre of the universe".

André felt that he had left Dorine (Doreen had Frenchified her name- is there a better term than Frenchified? Anglicised seems a proper word, Frenchified not so much) out of his writings, it was "eating away" at him.

Why is there so little of you in what I've written when our union has been the most important thing in my life?

He felt that he had misrepresented her in The Traitor, "an image that disfigures you". Letter to D sets out to correct these perceived short fallings. It was written towards the end of their lives.

You gave all of yourself to help me become myself.

Dorine was unwell for decades having developed painful arachnoiditis following an intrathecal injection of Lipiodol to image her back in 1965.

You could no longer lie down, your head hurt so much. You'd spend the night standing on the balcony or sitting in an armchair. I'd wanted to believe that we were together in everything, but you were alone in your distress. 

Letter to D was published in France in 2006 when Dorine was terminally ill.

At night I sometimes see the figure of a man, on an empty road in a deserted landscape, walking behind a heard. I am that man. It's you the hearse is taking away. I don't want to be there for your cremation; I don't want to be given an urn with your ashes in it. 

André  never did receive that urn as he and Doreen died together of lethal injection at home in September 2007. They left a note on the door for the cleaner. "Warn the police station. Do not go upstairs." Dorine had agreed to the French publication of Lettre à D on the condition that it not be published in English until after her death. In a note by translator Julie Rose she felt that translating Letter to D was harder than many other translations she has done of "difficult, elaborate books by France's leading intellectuals".

It is so simple on the surface, so tight, yet so emotionally complex, that the tiniest false note rings out like a gong. 

She's done a lovely job with it. It's a beautiful read.

Paris in July

French Bingo 2016

Dreaming of France is a wonderful Monday meme
from Paulita at An Accidental Blog 

Me Talk Pretty One Day

I've been meaning to read Me Talk Pretty One Day for the longest time. I understood it to be tales of David Sedaris moving to Paris and learning French. And indeed some of it is, but by no means is that what the book is mostly about, despite the blackboard cover and the Fleur de Lys decorating the back cover.

The first section, titled One, is about David's childhood in a number of Eastern States in America, and some of his time as a young man. They are an odd collection of stories perhaps, entertaining on the whole of course, but I kept waiting for Paris to appear. There was no Paris. But there was family pet stories, tales of the horror at being pulled out of class for speech therapy for a lisp,  non-flushing poos, jobs as a furniture removals and a conceptual artist, and more drug references than I expected.

Speed eliminates all doubt. Am I smart enough? Will people like me? Do I really look all right in this plastic jump suit? These are questions for insecure potheads. A speed enthusiast knows that everything he or she says or does is brilliant. The upswing is that, having eliminated the need for both eating and sleeping, you have a full twenty-four hours a day to spread your charm and talent. 

Sadly there is no mention of Paris whatsoever in the entire first section, although I was waiting for it the whole time. Finally though in the second section we got there! YAY.

But do we really need this?

David meets his future partner Hugh. Hugh has spent six years living in France and has a house in Normandy. He spends his summers in Normandy "visiting friends and working on the house." Which certainly had me wishing that the movement of tectonic plates had landed Australia somewhat closer to France. David and Hugh make their summer visits for a number of years, and David finds it very hard to learn any language on these fleeting visits. He practices ten new words a day.

slaughterhouse
sea monster
witch doctor

By the end of the month, I'd managed to retain three hundred nouns, none of which proved to be the least bit useful. 

An odd approach perhaps. The next summer visit was six weeks, and he added another 420 words. On his fifth trip to France he decides to limit himself to words and phrases that people actually use.

Things began to come together, and I went from speaking like an evil baby to speaking like a hillbilly. "Is them the thoughts of cows?" 

David begins to know as we all do that learning a language as an adult is difficult. It's hard work.

I'd hoped the language might come on it's own, the way it comes to babies, but people don't talk to foreigners the way they talk to babies. They don't hypnotise you with bright objects and repeat the same words over and over, handy out little treats when you finally say "potty" or "wawa". It got to the point where I'd see a baby in the bakery or grocery store, and instinctively ball up my fists, jealous over how easy he had it. I wanted to lie in a French crib and start from scratch, learning the language from the ground floor up.

Then David and Hugh decide to move to Paris for "a year or two" because of construction next door to their New York apartment! Oh, if only that was all it took... David enrols in a French language school with a rather obnoxious French teacher. Fear takes over.

My fear and discomfort crept beyond the borders of the classroom and accompanied me out onto the wide boulevards. Stopping for a coffee, asking directions, depositing money in my bank account: these things were out of the question, as they involved having to speak. Before beginning school there'd been no shutting me up, but now I was convinced that everything I said was wrong. When the phone rang, I ignored it. If someone asked me a question, I pretended to be deaf. I knew my fear was getting the best of me when I started wondering why they don't sell cuts of meat in vending machines. 

I felt very much like that on my last trip to France in 2014. Perhaps it is a sign of progress then? But I was the most uncomfortable speaking French that I had ever been, even though I generally made myself understood. I can only hope for David's next breakthrough when he started to understand every word that someone was saying.

Understanding doesn't mean that you can suddenly speak. Far from it. It's a small step, nothing more, yet its rewards are intoxicating and deceptive. The teacher continued her diatribe and I settled back, bathing in the subtle beauty of each new curse and insult. 

David seems to spend all of his time in Paris watching old American movies, which I find particularly bizarre.

I've been here for more than a year, and while I haven't seen the Louvre or the Pantheon, I have seen The Alamo and The Bridge on the River Kwai.

Really? No, really? Whilst I get that he can rejoice at seeing old movies on the big screen, I can't at all understand living in Paris and going to 6 or 7 old American movies a week. I was rather disappointed that there were no French phrases slipped quietly in to these stories. Indeed they were strenuously avoided.

Since moving to Paris my most often used phrase is "One place, please." That's what one says at the box office when ordering a ticket, and I say it quite well. 

Surely readers who don't speak French could understand simple phrases when they're explained within the text? I've never been to the movies in France, but I might need that phrase one day..

I'm looking forward to seeing David Sedaris in a few weeks as part of his Australian tour. I will be delighted if there are some Parisian tales, but won't be expecting too many.

Dreaming of France is a wonderful Monday meme
from Paulita at An Accidental Blog 

French Bingo 2016

French Bingo 2016

I had a great time participating in French Bingo 2015, although sadly I never got to leap up yelling BINGO even though I read 14 books. Emma from Words And Peace has changed the categories somewhat this year, and I'll give it another crack.

I'm looking forward to French Bingo 2016.You can join in the fun too.

1. Me Talk Pretty One Day January 4. B1, D3
2. Joan of Arc. The Story of Jehanne Darc. April 22. B1, C1, C4
3. Letter to D. A Love Story. Aug 1. B1, C2, E2.
4. Ransacking Paris. Aug 23. A5, B1, B3
5. Happy People Read and Drink Coffee. Aug 31. A5, B5, E2
6. The President's Hat. Oct 17. A5, C4, E2
7. Flowers for Mrs Harris. Oct 31. D3

Coco Chanel

Don't judge a book by it's cover they say. Then why do publishers work so hard on creating delectable covers and silver edged pages? To tempt impulsive people like me, that's why. I saw this pretty little thing in the shops recently and snaffled it immediately. Given that I think I've never seen a single episode of Sex and the City, nor read the books and clearly live under some kind of unfashionable rock I had no idea who Megan Hess was (hint she's a very talented Australian fashion illustrator). Of course even I have heard of Coco Chanel but sadly I have never bought a single Chanel item- although perhaps I need to fix that oversight now? I think I just might.

Coco Chanel is presented in three sections. The Woman. The Brand. The Icon. There is a definite air of legend about the woman of course. It's fascinating to read her back story, and incredible that an illegitimate girl born in 19th century rural France would become such an icon of fashion and elegance redefining the 20th century and having a lasting legacy even now. Is it true that the beige, black and white of the nun's habits of the orphanage where she lived after her mother died when she was twelve would become the cornerstones of the "simple palate" that would define the Chanel look? Actually I didn't know that Chanel used a rather restricted palate of black, white, beige, gold and red. Although I guess that's how you get to be classy.

And Coco Chanel was classy. She liked to pop round to Angelina's each day for a chocolat chaud. Well, why wouldn't you? And as there was no bed in her private apartment above her studio at 31 rue Cambon she maintained a suite at the Ritz. Where she would die in 1971. Stylish to the end really.

I learnt so much about Coco the woman and Chanel the brand. The iconic quilted handbag, recognisable even to me is called a 2.55. Rather annoyingly the book didn't tell me why it had such an odd name, but an easy google search tells me it was because it was released in February 1955. Ah. So obvious when you know. The linked C logo was created in 1921 for Chanel No 5, and camellias have been associated with Chanel since 1933. And that instantly recognisable tweed suit worn by everyone including Marge Simpson dates from 1925.

Most fascinating was that Coco Chanel closed up shop for 14 years! She closed her business with the declaration of war in 1939. "This is no time for fashion". She toughed out the war at the Ritz with her German officer lover. She then fled to Switzerland when Paris was liberated in 1944. She wasn't to resume her fashion activities for another decade.

Chanel never sketched her clothing like other designers, instead she cut straight into them. She would simply throw cloth onto a mannequin, cutting the shapeless mass of fabric until her desired silhouette emerged. Even into her old age, a pair of silver-plated scissors permanently dangled from Chanel's neck so she could make alterations as she made her way around the cutting-room floor. 

While Chanel's story is interesting the standout is Megan Hess's wondrous illustrations. Megan has an iconic style all of her own.

All apparently created with a bespoke Mont Blanc pen called Monty. I have serious case of house envy too.

http://australianwomenwriters.com

Dreaming of France is a wonderful Monday meme
from Paulita at An Accidental Blog 

French Bingo 2015

AusReading Month 2015 at Brona's Books