Best 533 quotes in «paris quotes» category

My Illusionist, will you take me into a world filled with timeless magic?

My wife and I had called on Miss Stein, and she and the friend who lived with her had been very cordial and friendly and we had loved the big studio with the great paintings. I t was like one of the best rooms in the finest museum except there was a big fireplace and it was warm and comfortable and they gave you good things to eat and tea and natural distilled liqueurs made from purple plums, yellow plums or wild raspberries. Miss Stein was very big but not tall and was heavily built like a peasant woman. She had beautiful eyes and a strong German-Jewish face that also could have been Friulano and she reminded me of a northern I talian peasant woman with her clothes, her mobile face and her lovely, thick, alive immigrant hair which she wore put up in the same way she had probably worn it in college. She talked all the time and at first it was about people and places. Her companion had a very pleasant voice, was small, very dark, with her hair cut like Joan of Arc in the Boutet de Monvel illustrations and had a very hooked nose. She was working on a piece of needlepoint when we first met them and she worked on this and saw to the food and drink and talked to my wife. She made one conversation and listened to two and often interrupted the one she was not making. Afterwards she explained to me that she always talked to the wives. The wives, my wife and I felt, were tolerated. But we liked Miss Stein and her friend, although the friend was frightening. The paintings and the cakes and the eau-de-vie were truly wonderful. They seemed to like us too and treated us as though we were very good, well-mannered and promising children and I felt that they forgave us for being in love and being married - time would fix that - and when my wife invited them to tea, they accepted.

Ndege ya Kolonia Santita, Grumman Gulfstream III, tofauti na ndege alizokuwa akitumia Panthera Tigrisi na makompade wake wa karibu, ilifanya kazi kubwa katika mgogoro wa Kolonia Santita na Tume ya Dunia. Dar es Salaam Grumman ilipomchukua kachero Giovanna Garcia wa Kolonia Santita, baada ya ndege hiyo kutumwa na makamanda wa Kolonia Santita wa Copenhagen, ilimpeleka Paris nchini Ufaransa kuhudhuria kikao cha siri cha CS-Paris. Katika kikao hicho yeye na wenzake wakapanga mauaji ya Kamanda John Murphy Ambilikile, kwa kusuka mbinu kamambe za kumteketeza, kabla ndege yake haijafika Copenhagen. Giovanna akashiriki pia kupeleka taarifa za Murphy duniani kote katika matawi yote ya Kolonia Santita, Urusi ikiwemo, ambapo Murphy alitekwa nyara na CS-Moscow. Baada ya 'mauaji' ya Murphy, Grumman iliwapeleka baadhi ya maadui waliohusika na mauaji hayo Mexico City katika makao makuu ya Kolonia Santita; kisha ikarudi Copenhagen kumchukua kiongozi wa CS-Copenhagen, Regner Steiner Valkendorff, na Kachero wa Kolonia Santita Delfina Moore.

Ne cherche jamais l'amour, laisse que celui-ci te cherche. Rappelle toi qu'on est 7 milliards

Nell looks at the label and comes to. "Oh, I'd never wear it. I like to buy things on a cost-per-wear basis. This dress would probably work out at like...thirty pounds a wear. No. I couldn't." "You don't ever do something just because it makes you feel good?" The assistant shrugs. "Mademoiselle, you need to spend more time in Paris.

Nell walks what feels like the length of Paris. She walks through the numbered arrondissements, meandering through a food market, gazing at the glossy produce, both familiar and not at the same time, accepting a plum at a stallholder's urging and then buying a small bag in lieu of breakfast and lunch. She sits on a bench by the Seine, watching the tourist boats go by, and eats three of the plums, thinking of how it felt to hold the tiller, to gaze onto the moonlit waters. She tucks the bag under her arm as if she does this all the time and takes the Metro to a brocante recommended in one of her guidebooks, allowing herself an hour to float among the stalls, picking up little objects that someone once loved, mentally calculating the English prices, and putting them down again. And as she walks, in a city of strangers, her nostrils filled with the scent of street food, her ears filled with an unfamiliar language, she feels something unexpected wash through her. She feels connected, alive.

Never run upstairs when someone’s chasing you. Don’t try to quick-draw a man who already has his gun out. Never light a match in the dark in a strange building. Half of staying safe is just keeping your head and being prudent.

Next to the assignment of the yellow star, the decision to arrest children between the ages of two and 16, then separate them from their parents, was probably the most significant public relations mistake of the Vichy government and their German partners...the sight of youngsters in busses, roaming the streets alone, or holding their mothers hands as they mounted police vehicles made an impression on gentile Parisians. Police reports following the round-up were especially sensitive to public opinion...'The measures taken against the Israelite have profoundly troubled public opinion. Though the French population is generally anti-Semitic, it nonetheless judges these specific measures as inhumane. It is the separation of children from their parents that most affects the French population and that provokes strong criticism of the government and of the occupying authorities...In general, our measures would have been well-received if they had only been aimed at foreign adults, but many were moved at the fate of the children...

Night has settled over Paris. The streets have cleared of the crowds, and the city has been lit up. I set my book down, deciding to go for a walk. The Eiffel Tower is only a few blocks away. Now that there aren't many people out, I can walk there without having to fight my way through mobs of gawking tourists.

N'importe quoi pouvait donc m'arriver, comme à n'importe qui : quelle révolution! C'est tellement étonnant d'être soi, justement soi, c'est si radicalement unique, qu'on a peine à se persuader que cette singularité se rencontre chez tout le monde et qu'on relève des statistiques. Maladie, accident, malheur, ça n'arrive jamais qu'aux autres : mais sous les yeux des curieux, l'autre brusquement, c'était moi; comme tous les autres, j'étais pour tous les autres une autre.

Non puoi scegliere chi amare, non puoi scegliere per quanto farlo, non puoi scegliere se lei, o lui, ricambierà» «Cosa si può scegliere, allora?» «Di lasciarsi andare, nonostante tutto

No one said finding Paris would be easy; I only said it would be worth it.

Now you are walking in Paris all alone in the crowd As herds of bellowing buses drive by Love's anguish tightens your throat As if you were never to be loved again If you lived in the old days you would enter a monastery You are ashamed when you discover yourself reciting a prayer You make fun of yourself and like the fire of Hell your laughter crackles The sparks of your laugh gild the depths of your life It's a painting hanging in a dark museum And sometimes you go and look at it close up

On a trip to Paris one day, little Sophie Met a giant lady lighting up the night sky "What's your name, you magical monster?" "My many visitors call me the Eiffel Tower." "In all your attire, don't your sometimes tire Of being seen only as a humdrum tower? You, a dragon, a fairy watching over Paris, An Olympic torch held aloft in grey skies?" "How you flatter me! So few poets these days Ever sing the praises of my Parisian soul, As did Cocteau, Aragon, Cendrars, Trénet and Apollinaire... Since you're so good At seeing beneath the surface, you could -If you like, when you're back from France- Take up your pen and write down Why you like me -it would be nice and fun!" "You can count on me! There's so much to say! I'll write twenty lines... but who will read them?" "Well, I know a man who'll read your verse." "Really? Who?" "The President of France

Oh Paris From red to green all the yellow dies away Paris Vancouver Hyeres Maintenon New York and the Antilles The window opens like an orange The beautiful fruit of light ("Windows")

On a Parisienne’s Bookshelf THERE ARE MANY BOOKS ON A PARISIENNE’S BOOKSHELF: The books you so often claim you’ve read that you actually believe you have. The books you read in school from which you remember only the main character’s name. The art books your parents give you each Christmas so you can get some “culture”. The art books that you bought yourself and which you really love. The books that you’ve been promising yourself you’ll read next summer … for the past ten years. The books you bought only because you liked the title. The books that you think makes you cool. The books you read over and over again, and that evolve along with your life. The books that remind you of someone you loved. The books you keep for your children, just in case you ever have any. The books whose first ten pages you’ve read so many times you know them by heart. The books you own simply because you must and, taken together, form intangible proof that you are well read. AND THEN THERE ARE THE BOOKS YOU HAVE READ, LOVED, AND WHICH ARE A PART OF YOUR IDENTITY: The Stranger, Albert Camus The Elementary Particles, Michel Houellebecq Belle du Seigneur, Albert Cohen Bonjour Tristesse, Françoise Sagan Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert L'Écume des jours, Boris Vian Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov Les Fleurs du Mal, Charles Baudelaire Journey to the End of the Night, Louis-Ferdinand Céline À la recherche du temps perdu, Marcel Proust “How to Be Parisian Wherever You Are: Love, Style, and Bad Habits” By Anne Berest, Audrey Diwan, Caroline de Maigret, and Sophie Mas

Old Hubert must have had a premonition of his squalid demise. In October he said to me, ‘Forty-two years I’ve had this place. I’d really like to go back home, but I ain’t got the energy since my old girl died. And I can’t sell it the way it is now. But anyway before I hang my hat up I’d be curious to know what’s in that third cellar of mine.’ The third cellar has been walled up by order of the civil defence authorities after the floods of 1910. A double barrier of cemented bricks prevents the rising waters from invading the upper floors when flooding occurs. In the event of storms or blocked drains, the cellar acts as a regulatory overflow. The weather was fine: no risk of drowning or any sudden emergency. There were five of us: Hubert, Gerard the painter, two regulars and myself. Old Marteau, the local builder, was upstairs with his gear, ready to repair the damage. We made a hole. Our exploration took us sixty metres down a laboriously-faced vaulted corridor (it must have been an old thoroughfare). We were wading through a disgusting sludge. At the far end, an impassable barrier of iron bars. The corridor continued beyond it, plunging downwards. In short, it was a kind of drain-trap. That’s all. Nothing else. Disappointed, we retraced our steps. Old Hubert scanned the walls with his electric torch. Look! An opening. No, an alcove, with some wooden object that looks like a black statuette. I pick the thing up: it’s easily removable. I stick it under my arm. I told Hubert, ‘It’s of no interest. . .’ and kept this treasure for myself. I gazed at it for hours on end, in private. So my deductions, my hunches were not mistaken: the Bièvre-Seine confluence was once the site where sorcerers and satanists must surely have gathered. And this kind of primitive magic, which the blacks of Central Africa practise today, was known here several centuries ago. The statuette had miraculously survived the onslaught of time: the well-known virtues of the waters of the Bièvre, so rich in tannin, had protected the wood from rotting, actually hardened, almost fossilized it. The object answered a purpose that was anything but aesthetic. Crudely carved, probably from heart of oak. The legs were slightly set apart, the arms detached from the body. No indication of gender. Four nails set in a triangle were planted in its chest. Two of them, corroded with rust, broke off at the wood’s surface all on their own. There was a spike sunk in each eye. The skull, like a salt cellar, had twenty-four holes in which little tufts of brown hair had been planted, fixed in place with wax, of which there were still some vestiges. I’ve kept quiet about my find. I’m biding my time.

#Outlander QOTD Claire and Master Raymond. Snapped abruptly to a realization of how rudely I had been staring, I blushed and said without thinking, "I was just wondering if you've ever been kissed by a beautiful young girl?" I went still redder as he shouted with laughter. With a broad grin, he said "Many times, madonna. But alas, it does not help. As you see. Ribbit.

On my walks to the village, I got to know some of the villagers a little better. It didn’t take very long before they became friendlier and so I took the opportunity to stop and chat with them. Since I had many of their children in school we had a mutual interest but I still couldn’t get used to their immodest bathroom practices. Once while talking to a young man and his new bride, he felt the sudden urge to relieve himself. Not wanting to interrupt the conversation he simply turned his back on us and urinated directly onto the pavement, never skipping a word! I soon discovered that it wasn’t just here, but without very many public restrooms available, it was customary for people to do so in many parts of Europe, during that time.

One did not turn down an invitation from Saint Cloud. At least, one didn't if one wanted to continue living contentedly in Paris. Vampires took offense so easily - and Parisian vampires were the worst of all.

One of his hands move away from my face to flatten against my back, pulling me closer to him as he deepens the kiss. He parts my lips under his as my mind seems to sign quietly in content. I kiss him back as fiercely as he kisses me, unable to control the infatuation that rushes through me - feeling almost like fireworks. Not so careful anymore. Little shivers of urgency shoot through me. I push off the window, pressing closer to him. The rush of sensation that is coursing through me feels like I've drunk a gallon of coffee. It feels like an electric buzz is flooding between us.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another woman sitting over in a wing chair, a pleasantly attractive lady wearing the tasteful clothes of a senior redactrice, or senior civil servant, the stylish black skirt, the dark stockings, the black pumps, and the starched white linen blouse of her caste. The dark hair was swept up in a chignon, elegant and functional, dark eyes glistened as she smiled at him in a professional manner. He could see that she was a woman who met men in a highly assured way—serene, and expert at creating a proper distance.

Paris’in tarihi var, sanatı var, harika mimarisi var, edebiyatı var, fakat bütün bunlardan çok daha önemlisi özgürlüğü var! Eğer bir şehir kendi sakinlerine özgürlük veremiyorsa bütün öteki güzellikleri anlamsız olacaktır!

Paris was the cross-roads of the world.

Parisians take their work quite seriously, but they take their enjoyment of the little moments just as seriously. Sometimes sitting in a café with close friends or family and enjoying a shared plate of macarons is just as important as sitting in an office working. You know, some Parisians start their morning with a mug of hot chocolate. Really? Emilia asked, taking a fourth and fifth sip. The chocolate is like medicine to take away your troubles and help you see that life is sweet.

París no se acaba nunca, y el recuerdo de cada persona que ha vivido allí es distinto del recuerdo de cualquier otro... Y eso es muy cierto aunque lo haya dicho Hemingway, que ha sido el escritor más ególatra y narcisista del siglo.

Parisians were not easy to engage in conversation. Perhaps that was why the Resistance had been so successful.

... Paris was no more Babylon than it was New Jerusalem. All cities worthy of that name were both: they were one because they were the other...

Paris and Fashion. Books and Art. What would one be ... without the other?

Paris has history, it has art, it has wonderful architecture, it has literature, but much more important than all these, it has freedom! If a city cannot offer freedom to its dwellers, all its other beauties will be meaningless!

Paris, however―because of her purely fortuitous beauty, because of the old things which have become a part of her, because of her entanglement of buildings and tenements―Paris yields herself in discovery as an attic beloved in our childhood gave up its secrets.

Paris is narcotic for a man alone, a never-ending labyrinth where the anxiety of freedom is relieved.

Quantunque Plutarco dica: "Il tiranno non invecchia mai", Roma, sotto Silla come sotto Domiziano, si rassegnava e metteva volentieri l'acqua nel vino. Il Tevere era un Lete, se si deve credere all'elogio un po' dottrinario che ne faceva Varo Vibisco: "Contra Gracchos Tiberim habemus. Bibere Tiberim, id est seditionem oblivisci". Parigi beve un milione di litri d'acqua al giorno, ma ciò non gli impedisce, all'occasione, di battere la generale e di suonare a stormo.

Pero nestes tempos e nestas latitudes, cada vez hai máis xente que non é rica nin pobre: soñan coa riqueza e poderían facerse ricos: é aí onde empezan as súas desgracias.

Piano Man put up a fight but his resistance was futile. Hell hath no fury like a drunken girl at her bachelorette party in the mood to sing.

Quand on aime vraiment quelqu'un, il faut accepter sa part de mystère... et c'est pour ça qu'on l'aime...

¿Quiere que vaya a la iglesia y me confiese? ¿Cree que los detectives nos rebajamos a hablar con sacerdotes? No existe para nosotros el arrepentimiento, la reconciliación ni el perdón. Somos filósofos de la acción, y solo nos miramos en el espejo de nuestros actos.

Random acts of kindness show that even amidst the hustle and bustle, Paris inhabitants are more welcoming that their reputation gives them credit for.

...Quando Isabelle alzò lo sguardo ebbe l’impressione che il cuore le si fermasse. Stava risalendo insieme a Jeanne la scalinata che dall’Orangerie riportava al castello dopo avere verificato che per loro quella poteva essere la via di fuga perfetta la sera dello spettacolo. Era emozionata e non vedeva l’ora di fare ritorno alla locanda per potere parlare liberamente dei dettagli del piano che aveva in mente con l’amica, quando all’improvviso si era trovata a guardare un uomo il cui sguardo avrebbe riconosciuto in mezzo a mille. Jacques. Lui era lì a pochi passi da lei e quell’incontro non aveva senso. Perché mai Jacques si trovava lì a Corte,a Versailles e per giunta vestito da aristocratico? No, c’era qualcosa di sbagliato. L’uomo che aveva amato e che ancora non riusciva a dimenticare non era un semplice borghese che rientrava da un viaggio all’estero? Forse però quella era semplicemente l’idea che lei si era fatta di lui, dopotutto Jacques non le aveva mai detto chi fosse realmente. «Cosa c’è?» domandò Jeanne vedendo l’amica ancora immobile e visibilmente sconvolta. Poi alzò lo sguardo anche lei e vide quel giovane bellissimo e riccamente vestito che fissava l’amica. Se però a lei quel volto non diceva nulla, diversamente fu quando il suo sguardo si spostò sull’altro uomo che intanto aveva raggiunto Jacques e si era fermato accanto a lui. «Oh mio Dio» mormorò Jeanne. La situazione che si era creata aveva qualcosa di surreale. Isabelle, Jacques, Jeanne e Nicolas che si fissavano l’un l’altro lì, immobili su quella scalinata e con le prime fredde gocce di pioggia che cominciavano a cadere sui loro visi. Il rombo del tuono annunciò che il temporale era ormai arrivato. Sembrava che il tempo fosse congelato. Nessuno osava fare un gesto o pronunciare una parola. Infine fu Isabelle a parlare per prima. «Tu...qui?» riuscì a dire. Gli occhi azzurri di Jacques puntati in quelli verde smeraldo di lei. “Dio quanto è bella” pensò l’uomo avvicinandosi alla giovane che aveva lasciato due mesi prima. Vedere quegli occhi, quei lunghi capelli corvini legati in una treccia come ricordava di averli visti quella prima sera insieme alla locanda… e poi quel semplice vestito bordeaux che metteva in risalto il colore ambrato della sua pelle nonché le sue forme che ancora ricordava così bene. Il ricordo di loro due insieme era ancora troppo forte, troppo vivo in lui e quell’incontro non aveva fatto altro che riaccendere i suoi sentimenti e il suo desiderio. «Isabelle» fu tutto quello che l’uomo riuscì a dire. Aveva sceso gli ultimi gradini della lunga scalinata che ancora lo separavano da lei e se avesse allungato un braccio avrebbe potuto sfiorarle il viso con la mano...

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.

Religion, a mediaeval form of unreason, when combined with modern weaponry becomes a real threat to our freedoms. This religious totalitarianism has caused a deadly mutation in the heart of Islam and we see the tragic consequences in Paris today. I stand with Charlie Hebdo, as we all must, to defend the art of satire, which has always been a force for liberty and against tyranny, dishonesty and stupidity. ‘Respect for religion’ has become a code phrase meaning ‘fear of religion.’ Religions, like all other ideas, deserve criticism, satire, and, yes, our fearless disrespect." [I Stand With Charlie Hebdo, as We All Must (Wall Street Journal, January 7, 2015)]

Reticence was clearly a national characteristic, even if the other person spoke French.

Returning to Paris the day after the empire’s fall, Hugo was greeted by a huge crowd at the Gare du Nord. Never one to shy from an audience, he pushed his way through the mob and into a café, where he spoke from a balcony: “Citizens,” he told them, “I have come to do my duty.” He had come, he added, “to defend Paris, to protect Paris”—a sacred trust, given Paris’s position as the “center of humanity.”6 After that, he climbed aboard an open carriage, from where he spoke again to the fervent crowd before making his way to the house of a friend, near Place Pigalle. There the young Montmartre mayor, Georges Clemenceau, warmly welcomed him.

Rylin’s arms fell to her sides as she turned slowly to face him. You can stop this, she reminded herself, but she didn’t, she couldn’t, or maybe she just didn’t want to. It seemed to Rylin that she was in a sort of trance, that time had halted and the whole world was holding its breath. Cord’s lips on hers felt like fire. Without another thought she was rising on tiptoe to kiss him back, clinging tight to his shoulders as the only solid thing in a dizzying world. She knew this was wrong, but everything else felt so far away, like something she’d imagined in another life. A splash sounded in the water behind them, as another pair of lovers tossed a key off the bridge and into the night.

Sandrine opened her eyes to the soft gray light of early dawn. Recollections of sensual pleasure seemed to caress her body, bringing a smile to her lips. She lay back in the pillow and listened to the breathing of Philippe beside her. She lingered in the memory of the previous night, a memory that was like a warm and tender embrace, an evening of small intimate harmonies. As it should be.

She is my morning, she is my evening; we have a love that blooms over and again, more beautifully each time than the last.

She had to lift both hands to illustrate what she meant, but he just let her carry his hand with her, not about to let go. She pushed the free hand toward the one he held, apparently trying to gesture closeness. "Warm," she said again. And then she did something that undid him to the last faint whisper of his soul: she gave his hand a squeeze with fingertips that could just barely reach around his, apparently using him to indicate what she wanted to say. He meant warmth. He meant this word she couldn't find.

She throws her jeans at me and dives into the pellucid lake, slicing through the water almost without a splash. A church bell rings out in the distance, echoing in the quiet aftermath of Everly’s quick jump into the unexpected.

She loves filming and taking photographs. I can imagine her making beautiful films in France or India or somewhere with a gorgeously colourful culture. She somehow reminds me of my favourite place in the world, she and Paris I can romanticize and immortalize in ceaseless poetry for the rest of my life.

... she was a pudding of immaturity and precocious wisdom that had not yet set into a stable mold.