Winter 1939 • Vol. I No. 1 Nonfiction |

A Paris Letter

There is one spot in Paris—it is in the center of a footbridge—that you must visit before the freedom and rest of the City can confer themselves on you. So that you might imagine one would run there straight from the Gare St. Lazare. One never does. One has first to find out if this city stands where, sempiternally, she has always done, at the center of our Mediterranean civilization, as the eternal elder sister of her northern brothers. She so stands. You read in the New York papers of a rightish complexion that the Dôme is closed down for lack of Anglo-Saxons and you say: "Dear, dear." But merely walk past that seething sardinecan to get a prescription made up at the drugstore around the corner and you will find yourself pursued by all the fifty accents of the States and all the dialects of the Empire and Dominions, hurrying after you, holding out welcoming hands and breathlessly exclaiming that Paris is not what she was. . . She is, however. A fall in the franc brings Ang

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