Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

“That Paris exists and anyone could choose to live anywhere else in the world will always be a mystery to me.”
― Woody Allen, Midnight in Paris: The Shooting Script

“Parfois, quand la symphonie de la ville frappe à ma porte au petit matin, je descends dans la rue et me mets en chemin, enveloppé dans mon manteau noir, le long des avenues bondées de la rive droite. Ce sont ces sombres jours d’hiver où le spleen de Paris tourmente les âmes et incite les esprits libres à une longue dérive sans but ni destination.”
― Federico Castigliano

“Paris est la drogue du solitaire, un labyrinthe inépuisable où l’angoisse du possible s’apaise.”
― Federico Castigliano, Flâneur: L'art de vagabonder dans Paris

“When it rains in Paris, it bleeds
into swift little gutters.
You can see your reflection
over its mercury embryo.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“I wore the scent of weather inside
my body like a sacred love.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“Within the hour, I'll land, and strangely enough I'm in no hurry to have it pass. I haven't the slightest desire to sleep. My eyes are no longer salted stones. There's not an ache in my body. The night is cool and safe. I want to sit quietly in this cockpit and let the realization of my completed flight sink in. Europe is below; Paris, just over the earth's curve in the night ahead - a few minutes more of flight. It's like struggling up a mountain after a rare flower, and then, when you have it within arm's reach, realizing that satisfaction and happiness lie more in the finding than in the plucking. Plucking and withering are inseparable. I want to prolong this culminating experience of my flight. I almost wish Paris were a few more hours away. It's a shame to land with the night so clear and so much fuel in my tanks”
― Charles A. Lindbergh, The Spirit of St. Louis

“Ah! I am told that New York is very beautiful. Is it more beautiful than Paris?'
'Oh, no,' I said, 'no city is more beautiful than Parisâ€�.”
― James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

“And if you wish to receive of the ancient city an impression with which the modern one can no longer furnish you, climb—on the morning of some grand festival, beneath the rising sun of Easter or of Pentecost—climb upon some elevated point, whence you command the entire capital; and be present at the wakening of the chimes. Behold, at a signal given from heaven, for it is the sun which gives it, all those churches quiver simultaneously. First come scattered strokes, running from one church to another, as when musicians give warning that they are about to begin. Then, all at once, behold!—for it seems at times, as though the ear also possessed a sight of its own,—behold, rising from each bell tower, something like a column of sound, a cloud of harmony. First, the vibration of each bell mounts straight upwards, pure and, so to speak, isolated from the others, into the splendid morning sky; then, little by little, as they swell they melt together, mingle, are lost in each other, and amalgamate in a magnificent concert. It is no longer anything but a mass of sonorous vibrations incessantly sent forth from the numerous belfries; floats, undulates, bounds, whirls over the city, and prolongs far beyond the horizon the deafening circle of its oscillations.

Nevertheless, this sea of harmony is not a chaos; great and profound as it is, it has not lost its transparency; you behold the windings of each group of notes which escapes from the belfries. You can follow the dialogue, by turns grave and shrill, of the treble and the bass; you can see the octaves leap from one tower to another; you watch them spring forth, winged, light, and whistling, from the silver bell, to fall, broken and limping from the bell of wood; you admire in their midst the rich gamut which incessantly ascends and re-ascends the seven bells of Saint-Eustache; you see light and rapid notes running across it, executing three or four luminous zigzags, and vanishing like flashes of lightning. Yonder is the Abbey of Saint-Martin, a shrill, cracked singer; here the gruff and gloomy voice of the Bastille; at the other end, the great tower of the Louvre, with its bass. The royal chime of the palace scatters on all sides, and without relaxation, resplendent trills, upon which fall, at regular intervals, the heavy strokes from the belfry of Notre-Dame, which makes them sparkle like the anvil under the hammer. At intervals you behold the passage of sounds of all forms which come from the triple peal of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Then, again, from time to time, this mass of sublime noises opens and gives passage to the beats of the Ave Maria, which bursts forth and sparkles like an aigrette of stars. Below, in the very depths of the concert, you confusedly distinguish the interior chanting of the churches, which exhales through the vibrating pores of their vaulted roofs.

Assuredly, this is an opera which it is worth the trouble of listening to. Ordinarily, the noise which escapes from Paris by day is the city speaking; by night, it is the city breathing; in this case, it is the city singing. Lend an ear, then, to this concert of bell towers; spread over all the murmur of half a million men, the eternal plaint of the river, the infinite breathings of the wind, the grave and distant quartette of the four forests arranged upon the hills, on the horizon, like immense stacks of organ pipes; extinguish, as in a half shade, all that is too hoarse and too shrill about the central chime, and say whether you know anything in the world more rich and joyful, more golden, more dazzling, than this tumult of bells and chimes;—than this furnace of music,—than these ten thousand brazen voices chanting simultaneously in the flutes of stone, three hundred feet high,—than this city which is no longer anything but an orchestra,—than this symphony which produces the noise of a tempest.”
― Victor Hugo, The Hunchback of Notre Dame

“He thanked me, looked at his watch and blew air through his closed lips--a national gesture acknowledging that life is and will always be this way.”
― Alexander Maksik, You Deserve Nothing

“The shape of remembrance etched
in the body's exertion, first leaf,
then foliage. Even the cathedral
with an empty backyard at night
clad in gossamer light from the moon.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“Most people haven't been to Paris at all."
"Not unless you're counting Paris, Texas."
"Or Paris, Illinois."
"Paris, Maine," Neil countered.
"Paris, Idaho," I added with a nod. "And Paris, Arkansas."
"There's a Paris, Arkansas?" Neil asked, eyebrows high.
"Yup. Kentucky, too. And a couple others..."
"How do you know this?"
"A potent blend of Where in America Is Carmen Sandiego?, curiosity, and the Internet."
"Who said technology never offered anything useful?"
"I'm guessing victims of e-mail scams.”
― Hillary Manton Lodge, Reservations for Two

“maintenant tu ne peux plus m'offrir ni joies, ni douleurs. Adieu, Paris ! adieu !”
― Alexandre Dumas, Le Comte de Monte-Cristo II

“But it's the life of Paris, that's the thing. Ah, there's no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement...”
― James Joyce, Dubliners

“A paris on trouve moyen de vous assassiner un homme en disant " il a bon cÅ“ur". Cette phrase veut dire " le pauvre garçon est bête comme un rhinocéros”
― Honoré de Balzac, Eugénie Grandet

“You see, for an American, whisky is sweeter in Paris.”
― Drue Grit

“Sûrement la Seine était rouge ce jour-là, de nuit on voyait pas”
― Leïla Sebbar, The Seine Was Red: Paris, October 1961

“L'analyse typo-morphologique opérée par classification selon le dimensionnement et les caractères endogènes de ce patrimoine est comparable au travail d'un entomologiste ou d'un archéologue. Le corpus est ainsi appréhendé par le dessin et la classification afin de déceler les règles et de révéler les invariants qui en régissent la forme, tandis que l'analyse dimensionnelle et comparative cherche à en restituer la logique et l'efficience. Ce travail mené à toutes les échelles - tracés urbains, îlots, immeubles, jusqu'au langage ou vocabulaire de composition des bâtiments - révèle la logique fractal qui gouverne la fabrication de la forme urbaine haussmannienne.”
― Benoit Jallon, Paris Haussmann: A Model's Relevance

“Le ³¾´Ç»åè±ô±ð urbain parisien/haussmannien offrant un indice de marchabilité notablement élevé, les spécificités des tracés parisiens génèrent ainsi un urbanisme propice aux pratiques piétonnes, de courte distance. Pourtant, l'une des ambitions premières du ³¾´Ç»åè±ô±ð haussmannien était, par les percées, de créer un urbanisme de longue distance, C'est donc par le maintien d'une maille au découpage fin 'malgré' les percées, et par la hiérarchisation des voies de circulation, que le ³¾´Ç»åè±ô±ð haussmannien répond simultanément à un urbanisme de longues et de courtes distances.”
― Benoit Jallon, Paris Haussmann: A Model's Relevance

“À l'instar de Joël de Rosnay qui appelait en 1975 à la définition d'un nouvel outil pour observer et comprendre l'infiniment complexe, il nous semble opportun de développer un instrument de fabrique urbaine, à la fois conceptuel, méthodologique et opérationnel, pour mettre en musique ces différentes valeurs et répondre à cette exigence de 'faire ville'. À la question 'Citez un ³¾´Ç»åè±ô±ð de ville durable ou de bâtiment durable', que répondrions-nous? Très certainement, pour la ville, irions-nous chercher du côté du nord de l'Europe ou au Canada (avec Vancouver) et, pour le bâtiment, irions-nous puiser dans les projections idéalisées d'archétypes de bâtiments écologiques: une construction à 100% en bois, un bâtiment qui produit son énergie et recycle son eau, un immeuble sur lequel pousse une végétation luxuriante ou qui produit la nourriture nécessaire à ses occupants, etc Qui penserait à donner pour réponse 'le centre de Paris'? Qui penserait à l'immeuble haussmannien? Pourtant, il nous apparaît comme une évidence que le tissu parisien et l'immeuble constituent des sources d'inspiration pertinentes pour l'outil à concevoir.”
― Benoit Jallon, Paris Haussmann: A Model's Relevance

“My black literary hero's and I had these two places in common. Harlem NYC, and Paris France.”
― Tim Storrs, Ripped Pages the unedited Writing of Tim Storrs

“In Paris long enough, I befriend
curled tresses of the cul de sac
on the road below my lodging.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“I heard the voice in Rilke's throat
in Paris.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“It was November. The trees were
full with smells of oncoming smoke.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“I recited segments of Rilke's verses
as psalm interludes for a woman
without a map, welcomed by blurry
mornings with fogged windowpanes.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“I stitched the name of my love
as Paris, the anatomy of bone-sepal
into untainted skin. A window in the
room opened into a pastel-blue
sculpture of a woman who looked
like she was still in love after she had
been in love, after the sun burned
anew, an orb of xanthous filament.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“Rilke spoke of the moving space
between trees.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“Landscape is loving.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“Celebrating Valentine's Day is like falling in love with Paris all over again.”
― Anthony T. Hincks

“You see, for an American, whiskey is sweeter in Paris.”
― Drue Grit

“Maybe, in the end, the romantics dreaming about Paris see the same thing in the city that I do: that empty stage. A place where the rough edges are sloughed off behind the scenes, where the pain disappears behind pale pink smiles and satin, where the stage lights erase all shadows as they illuminate you with an otherworldly glow.”
― Rachel Kapelke-Dale, The Ballerinas