|The comic genius, Jerry Lewis|
—P. J. O'Rourke
In science, architecture, cuisine, fashion, the French have never failed to make their marks. Stinkin' French even manage to write well, occasionally — the bastards. Not that they can hold a candle to England's trove of literary lights . . . but still, their track record beats America's — so far. As I said, I have been sadly reminded of the lovely side of France lately by several back-to-back encounters. The first was the documentary film, Man on Wire.
Voltaire was bereft: "I've lost the half of myself — a soul for which mine was made." Months later, after Voltaire had abandoned Cirey [the country house they had shared] and moved back to Paris, Longchamp [his assistant] would find him wandering at night in the apartments he'd shared with Emilie, plaintively calling her name in the dark. (p. 281)
Darn French — making me cry with their romantic ways!
That same Flicka mentioned earlier confessed to me today that, deep down in the unexamined recesses of her soul, she fears that she, too, may have an affinity for the French. In fact, she let it slip a while back that she would like to go to Paris someday. And, I am beginning to suspect that I may have to go with her — if only to visit the Musée d'Orsay and give some major props to my man Edouard. It would even be worth it to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous Parisian snootiness to enjoy a glass of red with my BFF while overlooking the Seine. That will be a moment of eating crow, indeed; which, considering what sort of cooking goes on in France, will probably be covered in some sort of heavy cream sauce.