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Paris

Book by Edward Rutherfurd · 7 quotes · Montmartre, Attention, Catholicism

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Paris Quotes

“The hill was mainly composed of the soft stone material known as gypsum which possessed two qualities: first, it would slowly dissolve in water and was thus a poor foundation for any large building. Second, when heated, after giving off steam, it could easily be ground into the powder from which white plaster was made. For that reason, men had been burying into the hill of Montmartre for centuries to extract the gypsum. So famous had these quarrying's become, that now, even across the ocean, white plaster had come to be known as Plaster of Paris. When the builders of Sacre Coeur began their task therefore, they found that the underlying terrain was not only soft, but so honeycombed with mineshafts and tunnels that had the great building been placed directly upon it, the entire hill would have surely collapsed, leaving the church in a stupendous sinkhole. The solution had been very French, a combination of elegant logic and vast ambition: 83 gigantic shafts were dug, each over 100 feet deep filled with concrete. Upon these mighty columns, like a huge box, almost as deep as the church above, the crypt was constructed as a platform. This work alone had taken almost a decade, and by the end of it, even those who hated the project would remark with rye amusement: 'Montmartre isn't holding up the church, it's the church that's holding up Montmartre'.”

MontmartreSacre Coeur
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“The charm of a city, now we come to it, is not unlike the charm of flowers. It partly depends on seeing time creep across it. Charm needs to be fleeting. Nothing could be less palatable than a museum-city propped up by prosthetic devices of concrete. Paris is not in danger of becoming a museum-city, thanks to the restlessness and greed of promoters. Yet their frenzy to demolish everything is less objectionable than their clumsy determination to raise housing projects that cannot function without the constant presence of an armed police force… All these banks, all these glass buildings, all these mirrored facades are the mark of a reflected image. You can no longer see what’s happening inside, you become afraid of the shadows. The city becomes abstract, reflecting only itself. People almost seem out of place in this landscape. Before the war, there were nooks and crannies everywhere. Now people are trying to eliminate shadows, straighten streets. You can’t even put up a shed without the personal authorization of the minister of culture. When I was growing up, my grandpa built a small house. Next door the youth club had some sheds, down the street the local painter stored his equipment under some stretched-out tarpaulin. Everybody added on. It was telescopic. A game. Life wasn’t so expensive — ordinary people would live and work in Paris. You’d see masons in blue overalls, painters in white ones, carpenters in corduroys. Nowadays, just look at Faubourg Sainte-Antoine — traditional craftsmen are being pushed out by advertising agencies and design galleries. Land is so expensive that only huge companies can build, and they have to build ‘huge’ in order to make it profitable. Cubes, squares, rectangles. Everything straight, everything even. Clutter has been outlawed. But a little disorder is a good thing. That’s where poetry lurks. We never needed promoters to provide us, in their generosity, with ‘leisure spaces.’ We invented our own. Today there’s no question of putting your own space together, the planning commission will shut it down. Spontaneity has been outlawed. People are afraid of life.”

UrbanismConviviality
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“Onion soup, the food of the poor, but delicious for all that. Fresh baguettes from the bakers. Madam Gascon's ragout would usually consist of pig's trotters, vegetables, and whatever seasonings she had. Food that was as cheap as it was healthy. But today, there were morsels of beef swimming in a sauce that was thicker than they had tasted in a long while, Then, there was a camembert and a goat cheese and a hard gruyere, all washed down with cheap red wine.”

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“Seen from a distance, the hill of Montmartre hadn't changed much since Roman times. For centuries, old vines had grown there tended by local nuns in the Middle Ages, though the vineyards nowadays had either been built upon or lapsed into waste ground. But one pleasant change had occurred, a number of wooden windmills had gathered near the summit, their lumbering sails turning in the wind, giving the hill a picturesque appearance.”

Montmartre
Book:Paris
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