|
Ah! The French!
One of the places to go when you’re in Paris is the cemetery, the Père Lachaise cemetery. It is quiet and landscaped and you can see some of the finest sculptures anywhere. It seems that the relatives of many of the deceased spent tons of money to honor their dearly departed with a monument often classical but sometimes creative and original, and it makes you stop and look the way you might not do so in an art gallery. The solemnity of the place makes one reflective, the better to contemplate the finely carved marble of a winged angel or a pensive cherub.
And as you walk on the cobble-stoned paths, along the chestnut lined alleys, among the many tombstones there’s Edith Piaf, and Oscar Wilde, and Frederick Chopin, and all of French history and literature and music is there, written in stone in the names you read Marcel Proust, Alexander Dumas . . .
And there are cults that have grown up around a few of these tombstones. The one of Jim Morrison of The Doors for instance. There’s graffiti everywhere and plastic flowers and kitsch. And often there are some young people sitting around burning candles or incense and smoking dope. Some strange mysterious force seems to bring these young people there to worship, in their own way, what they see as the expression of complete freedom regardless of the cost.
Ah! But that isn’t the only cult. There’s the cult of The Magician, I forget his name, but he lies buried there with the others and his magic still attracts all sorts of people to his grave.
And then there is the Don Juan, the Casanova, and I don’t remember his name either, but he lived in the mid-19th century and died rather young. On his grave, the monument is not erect. It is a life-size bronze of the lover, lying on his back, all decked out in his fine tailored suit, his hair neatly parted and combed, his pants neatly pressed with . . . and I couldn’t believe it at first but it definitely was . . . an erection. The monument wasn’t erect but the dearly departed Don Juan had a large swelling in his bronze pants that was unmistakably . . an erection. What’s more the monument, having weathered more than a century, had a green oxide patina, dull and well-worn. But the bulge in his pants was shiny bronze, gleaming as if it had been done last year. This Casanova’s erection was the object of a cult as well, some mystical belief that it could impart sexuality, perhaps fertility, perhaps enrich one’s love life. So it would not be unusual to see some young woman standing there and, looking around to make sure she was alone, reaching over and rubbing the shiny bronze erection up and down several times before crossing herself rapidly and walking away. Ah! the French, they know how to live!
The Don Juan’s name was Victor Noir - 1848-1870 - Killed
The Magician was Allan Kardec - 1795-1883 (Founder of Spiritism)
Jay Frankston was raised in Paris, and came to the U.S. in 1942. He became a lawyer and practiced in New York for 20 years reaching the top of his profession and writing at the same time. In 1972 he gave up law and New York and moved to California where he became a college instructor. He is the nationally published author of several books some of which have been condensed in Reader’s Digest and translated into 15 languages. His book A Christmas Story, a true story, has been read by millions and included in numerous anthologies from Germany to Korea and beyond. His latest book is a short epic novel about Spain with an authentic historical background. It is called El Sereno took ten years and two trips to Madrid. Whole Loaf Books
Email: Jay Frankston
Return to Table of Contents
|
