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The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter: Scenes de la Vie de Boheme

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Henri Murger

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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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“Then, at last, Madeleine’s luck turned. She came across Montmartre. With its windmills, its clear air and the old-fashioned, village feel of its higgledy-piggledy houses perched on a slope, few places recalled the Limousin countryside so vividly as Montmartre. It was up to 129 metres above sea level at the highest point. Why, with its narrow, winding streets and alleys, and its cottages clinging to the hillside, a person could have believed themselves in Le Mas Barbu. The bustling Rue Lepic and the Place des Abbesses readily called to mind Bessines’ town square on a busy market day. And all around, steep, grassy banks rose up protectively, hillside homes bloomed with flowers, old men installed in wrought iron chairs sat outside doorways and set the world to rights, children played in the street and women chatted and gossiped as they made their way to fill baskets with provisions. At last, Madeleine had found somewhere familiar, reassuring, comforting. Montmartre felt like home.”

ParisMontmartre
Book:Renoir's Dancer: The Secret Life of Suzanne Valadon
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“Increasingly, a new generation of artists were finding the creative projects which so excited them systematically rebuffed by the official art bodies. It was exasperating. Did the jury of the Salon, that ‘great event’ of the artistic world, never tire of the tedious repertoire of historical events and myths that had formed the mainstay of Salon paintings for so long? Did they not feel ridiculed being sold the blatant lie of highly finished paint surfaces, of bodies without a blemish, of landscapes stripped of all signs of modernity? Was contemporary life, the sweat and odour of real men and women, not deserving of a place on the Salon walls? Young artists huddled around tables in Montmartre’s cafés, sharing their deepest frustrations, breathing life into their most keenly held ideas. Just a few streets away from the Cimetière de Montmartre, Édouard Manet, the enfant terrible of the contemporary art world, could be found at his regular table in the Café Guerbois surrounded by reverent confrères, who would in time become famous in their own right. When Manet spoke, his blue eyes sparkled, his body leant forwards persuasively, and an artistic revolution felt achievable. The atmosphere was electric, the conversation passionate – often heated, but always exciting. The discussions ‘kept our wits sharpened,’ Claude Monet later recalled, ‘they encouraged us with stores of enthusiasm that for weeks and weeks kept us up.’ And though the war caused many of the artists to leave the capital, it proved merely a temporary migration. At the time Madeleine and her daughters arrived in Montmartre, the artists had firmly marked their patch.”

ParisMontmartre
Book:Renoir's Dancer: The Secret Life of Suzanne Valadon
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“Rodolphe Salis was a tall, red-headed bohemian with a coppery beard and boundless charisma. He had tried and failed to make a success of several different careers, including painting decorations for a building in Calcutta. But by 1881 he was listless and creatively frustrated, uncertain where his niche might lie. More pressingly, he was desperate to secure a steady income. But then he had the ingenious idea to turn the studio which he rented, a disused post office on the resolutely working-class Boulevard de Rochechouart, into a cabaret with a quirky, artistic bent. He was not the first to attempt such a venture: La Grande Pinte on the Avenue Trudaine had been uniting artists and writers to discuss and give spontaneous performances for several years. But Salis was determined that his initiative would be different – and better. A fortuitous meeting ensured that it was. Poet Émile Goudeau was the founder of the alternative literary group the Hydropathes (‘water-haters’ – meaning that they preferred wine or beer). After meeting Goudeau in the Latin Quarter and attending a few of the group’s gatherings, Salis became convinced that a more deliberate form of entertainment than had been offered at La Grande Pinte would create a venue that was truly innovative – and profitable. The Hydropathe members needed a new meeting place, and so Salis persuaded Goudeau to rally his comrades and convince them to relocate from the Latin Quarter to his new cabaret artistique. They would be able to drink, smoke, talk and showcase their talents and their wit. Targeting an established group like the Hydropathes was a stroke of genius on Salis’s part. Baptising his cabaret Le Chat Noir after the eponymous feline of Edgar Allan Poe’s story, he made certain that his ready-made clientele were not disappointed. Everything about the ambience and the decor reflected Salis’s unconventional, anti-establishment approach, an ethos which the Hydropathes shared. A seemingly elongated room with low ceilings was divided in two by a curtain. The front section was larger and housed a bar for standard customers. But the back part of the room (referred to as ‘L’Institut’) was reserved exclusively for artists. Fiercely proud of his locality, Salis was adamant that he could make Montmartre glorious. ‘What is Montmartre?’ Salis famously asked. ‘Nothing. What should it be? Everything!’ Accordingly, Salis invited artists from the area to decorate the venue. Adolphe Léon Willette painted stained-glass panels for the windows, while Théophile-Alexandre Steinlen created posters. And all around, a disorientating mishmash of antiques and bric-a-brac gave the place a higgledy-piggledy feel. There was Louis XIII furniture, tapestries and armour alongside rusty swords; there were stags’ heads and wooden statues nestled beside coats of arms. It was weird, it was wonderful and it was utterly bizarre – the customers loved it.”

ParisPoeMontmartreLe Chat Noir
Book:Renoir's Dancer: The Secret Life of Suzanne Valadon
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“The kids in the League knew about the camps-vaguely. There were only a few of us who had actually lived in one and experienced the life firsthand, but there was an unspoken rule we didn't talk about it. Everyone knew the truth, but the truth didn't live inside them the same way it did for us. They'd heard about the sorting machines, the cabins, the testing, but most of their stories were gossip, completely wrong. These kids had never stood for hours on end in an assembly lime. They didn't know fear came in the shape of a small black camera lens, an eye that followed you everywhere at all times.”

Ruby DalyThe Darkest MindsThurmond
Book:Never Fade
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“His grip on the wheel tightened as we left the limits of DC and reached the beltway. Through the blur of rain pelting the windows, we could just make out the shapes of the new highway lights and cameras that would be installed over the next few months. Right now, though, our only real sources of light were the car itself and the glow of the capital's light pollution. "Did I really always side with him?" I wondered aloud "I swear I didn't mean to...." Chubs risked a quick glance at me, then fixed his eyes back on the road. "It's not about choosing sides. I shouldn't have ever said that. I'm sorry. You know how I get when my blood sugar is low. He's Lee–he's funny and nice and he dresses like a walking hug." He does wear a lot of flannel," I said. But you're those things, too. Don't make that face just to try to prove me wrong. You are." "I don't feel that way," he admitted. "But I always got that you guys had something different. I respect that. I've never been... It's harder for me to open up to people." The headlights caught the raindrops sliding off the windshield and made them glow like shooting tars. He was making it sound like one friendship was better or more important than the other. That wasn't true. They were just different. The love was exactly the same. They only difference was that Liam had lost a little sister; a part of me had always felt like he wanted to prove to himself that he could save at least one of us. "I always understood you," I told him. "Just like you always understood me.”

FriendshipDystopiaZuChubsPg 180
Book:The Darkest Legacy
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“I think.. I just want to look different.' ... 'Is that ridiculous?' Priyanka came toward me, her expression contemplative. 'No, it's not. The only way to live is by following whatever message your heart is beating out for you.' 'Did you read that on a greeting card?' I asked. 'No, on some kind of medication ad,' she admitted, 'but it doesn't make it any less true.' I turned back to the mirror and picked up the scissors again.”

DystopiaZuFineitsamakeoverscenegetoveritIts A Good ScenePg 298
Book:The Darkest Legacy
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