Book Review: Seven Ages of Paris
By And now for something completely different. . .
I’ve undergone a bizarre intellectual journey over the past couple of years. Talk to me in 2001, and you would find a staunch Francophobe, always willing to think the worst of the French, even when they clearly didn’t deserve it. Now, I’m on the edge of Francophilia; not quite ready to try to learn the language, but certainly more appreciative than I once was. One of the reasons for this journey is political; I very sincerely believe that the French were in the right regarding the Iraq War, and I admire how France stood its ground against this repugnant administration. Patriotism and a respect for the decent opinions of mankind are not contradictory values.
Perhaps more important, I had the opportunity to visit Paris in spring of 2003. For those who’ve never been, the word “magnificent” does not do the city justice. I had an entire week to wander the city, taking in the major sites, castles, museums, and monuments. I’m not certain I could live in Paris, for the same reason I would be reluctant to live in Las Vegas or New Orleans; I don’t know if I could handle feeling like my home was constantly “on display.” Nonetheless, I came away deeply, deeply impressed. I have spent only a short time in London, and I have never visited Rome, Berlin, or (gasp!) Washington D.C., but I found that the grandeur of Paris touched me.
I wish that I had found Alistair Horne’s Seven Ages of Paris before visiting Paris. Horne gives a history of the city, its monuments, and its relation to the rest of France from the reign of Philippe Auguste to that of Charles De Gaulle. He places each monument and palace within a political context; the rulers of France typically didn’t build these things for their health. He shows how Paris rebuilt and reinvented itself time and time again, from Henri IV to the Sun King to the Baron Haussman. He describes the destruction wrought by invaders and Parisians alike, in 1789 and 1871 and 1940. Horne pauses to deliver endlessly fascinating anecdotes; one tall, gangly King of France died after bumping his head while walking through a low doorway.
Horne presents a Paris that is both magnificent and infuriating, which is only appropriate. He describes how Parisians overthrew Louis-Phillipe, the popular final King of France, almost on a lark, thus opening the door for Louis Napoleon and the Second Empire. In 1870, Parisians forced the continuation of a hopeless war with Prussia, ending in a devastating siege and the long suicide of the Paris Commune. In 1940, Parisians were only too happy to submit in order to avoid the destruction of their city by the same Germans. In 1968, Paris went farther than any other Western city down the road of revolution for its own sake. For all this, the rest of France seems unable to forsake Paris; for all of the difficulties it creates, Paris still inspires love.
I would love to read a similar book about Rome or London or New York, and I’m sure that such volumes are out there. Each has its own fascinating history, in Rome’s case much longer and more interesting than that of Paris. Of course, I need to spend some time in each city, and more time in Paris, as well. I heartily recommend the Horne book, and I plan to read several more of his works. I’m now in the midst of Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being, which I will refrain from reviewing; anything I could say would reveal more about me than about the book.