Point of view on Paris
Par Pierrot Cabale, Friday 15 June 2007 à 15:12 :: Stories About Paris :: #170 :: rss
The Finger of God
Honoré de Balzac in Paris
Between the barrier of Italy and that of the Santé (Health), on the inner boulevard which carries out to the Garden-of-Plants, there is a worthy prospect to charm the artist or the traveller. If you reach a light eminence, you see in front of you a valley populated of village factories, a little greenery, sprinkled by brown water of the Bièvre or the Gobelins. On the opposed slope, a few thousands of roofs, pressed like the heads of a crowd, conceal miseries of the Saint-Marceau suburb. The splendid cupola of the Pantheon, the dull and melancholic dome of the Val-de-Grâce proudly dominate a whole city in amphitheatre whose steps are oddly drawn by tortuous streets. From there, the proportions of the two monuments seem gigantic; they crush the frail residences and the highest poplars of the small valley . On the left, the observatory seems a black and emaciated spectrum. Then, in the distance, the elegant lantern of the Invalides blazes between the bluish masses of the Luxembourg and the gray towers of Saint-Sulpice. Around you, the curving trees, the country paths. On the right, by a broad cutting out of this singular landscape, you see the long white tablecloth of the Saint Martin channel bordered by real Roman constructions.There, on the last plan, the vaporous hills of Belleville, charged with houses and mills, confuse their accidents with those of the clouds.However there is a city, which you do not see, between the line of roofs which borders the small valley and this horizon as vague as a memory of childhood. Immense city, lost as in a chasm between the summits of La pitié (Pity) and the ridge of the cemetery of the East, between suffering and death. It makes hear a deaf rustle similar to that of the Ocean which thunders behind a cliff as for saying: I'am here. From there you will admire one of these eloquent fairyhoods that imagination never forgets.There is no harmony missing this concert.There, murmur the noise of the world and the poetic peace of loneliness, the voice of a million beings and the voice of God. There is a capital laid down under the peaceful cypresses of the Père-Lachaise.
Honoré de Balzac in Paris
Between the barrier of Italy and that of the Santé (Health), on the inner boulevard which carries out to the Garden-of-Plants, there is a worthy prospect to charm the artist or the traveller. If you reach a light eminence, you see in front of you a valley populated of village factories, a little greenery, sprinkled by brown water of the Bièvre or the Gobelins. On the opposed slope, a few thousands of roofs, pressed like the heads of a crowd, conceal miseries of the Saint-Marceau suburb. The splendid cupola of the Pantheon, the dull and melancholic dome of the Val-de-Grâce proudly dominate a whole city in amphitheatre whose steps are oddly drawn by tortuous streets. From there, the proportions of the two monuments seem gigantic; they crush the frail residences and the highest poplars of the small valley . On the left, the observatory seems a black and emaciated spectrum. Then, in the distance, the elegant lantern of the Invalides blazes between the bluish masses of the Luxembourg and the gray towers of Saint-Sulpice. Around you, the curving trees, the country paths. On the right, by a broad cutting out of this singular landscape, you see the long white tablecloth of the Saint Martin channel bordered by real Roman constructions.There, on the last plan, the vaporous hills of Belleville, charged with houses and mills, confuse their accidents with those of the clouds.However there is a city, which you do not see, between the line of roofs which borders the small valley and this horizon as vague as a memory of childhood. Immense city, lost as in a chasm between the summits of La pitié (Pity) and the ridge of the cemetery of the East, between suffering and death. It makes hear a deaf rustle similar to that of the Ocean which thunders behind a cliff as for saying: I'am here. From there you will admire one of these eloquent fairyhoods that imagination never forgets.There is no harmony missing this concert.There, murmur the noise of the world and the poetic peace of loneliness, the voice of a million beings and the voice of God. There is a capital laid down under the peaceful cypresses of the Père-Lachaise.
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