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Not surprisingly, in L'Horreur Economique she has produced a work of political economy with all the economics, and most of the politics, left out. Unburdened by pie charts, statistics, or much else in the way of argument or evidence, the book is written in a tone of steady, murmuring apocalyptic dissent, with an occasional perky nod to a familiar neoliberal argument.

The total effect is of a collaboration between Robert Reich and Rimbaud.

Her book is a pure expression of the old French romance of a radical alternative, with the ancient Catholic prejudices against usury, simony, and the rest translated into a curious kind of dinner party nihilism. Of course, the trouble with reviving the romance of the radical alternative is that the only radical alternative remaining is the extreme right-winger Jean-Marie Le Pen, who isn't romantic at all.

Laurent Joffrin, the editor of the left-wing daily Liberation, likes to say that Forrester's book is a "symptom. He himself is a kind of neo-Keynesian, and like many other sensible people here, he thinks that for all the hysteria, the economic crise is not really very deep and could be soothed by a little deficit spending. But the Keynesian medicine is forbidden by the rules of the Maastricht Treaty, which is to lead to European economic union and which, for the sake of German confidence, prohibits new deficit spending.

In any case, there's something emotionally unsatisfying about the Keynesian message. In America, and even more so in England, the triumphant free market has a rhetoric, and even a kind of poetry, of its own, visible in the Economist and the Spectator and the Telegraph: witty, trumpet-sharp, exuberant, hardhearted. In France there is a knack of small shopkeeping and a high rhetoric of the state, but there will never be a high rhetoric of shopkeeping. By the end of February a new social movement was sweeping the papers and the streets.

This one came from the left, in reaction to a new bill that attempted to appease Le Pen supporters by jumping up and down on illegal immigrants. Famous artists and directors announced theatrically, and as a dare-you-to-do-something-about-it principle, rather than as actual fact that they were lodging illegal immigrants. A massive demonstration was held, drawing as few as thirty thousand people the government counting the marchers or as many as a hundred thousand the marchers counting themselves.

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The provision was immediately withdrawn, but everyone agreed it was depressing that the government had been swayed by Le Pen's absurd notion that France's economic problems have to do with the presence of immigrants, legal or illegal. Many people, including numerous petition signers, also thought there was. This struck even many sympathetic watchers as being in mauvais gout. On a recent Saturday, at the first children's concert of the season at the beautiful new Cite de la Musique, the union of part-time artists, which had been threatening to strike over their pension predicament, decided instead to educate the audience.

The five-year-olds listened respectfully and then gave him a big hand. In the midst of the economic gloom Bill Gates came to France. Bill Gates came here with a masterpiece, the Leonardo Codex, and it has gone on display in the Musee du Luxembourg, but his visit seems unlikely to produce a masterpiece, as Wilbur Wright's did.

He is a symbol divorced from his invention, an aviator without an airplane. Nonetheless he is presumed to know something. Habermas is the last of Europe's "master thinkers," and he gave a series of lectures at the College de France. It seems that Habermas has replaced his old theory of the state, which was that there is no natural basis for it outside of a bunch of human conventions, with a new theory, which is that the natural basis for the state is the human habit of arguing about whether or not it has one.

Some people just get fed up waiting. After five days in mostly happy captivity at Credit Foncier, Jerome Meyssonier decided that he'd had enough. Curiously, he had become, in the interim, a kind of hero to the very people who were keeping him locked up. Later in the week they added to that slogan an even better one: "The semipublic will never surrender!

Meyssonier is fifty-five. I have been brooding a lot lately on what I have come to think of as the Two-Cafe Problem. My problem looks simpler, because all it involves is the interaction of a couple of places in Paris where you can eat omelets and drink coffee. I began to brood not long ago, on a beautiful Saturday in October, when I arranged to meet my friend Nicole Wisniak at the Cafe de Flore, on the boulevard Saint-Germain, for lunch.

Nicole is the editor, publisher, advertising account manager, and art director of the magazine Egoiste and is a woman of such orig-. The two cafes are separated only by the tiny, narrow rue Saint-Benoit. I turned to Nicole. A smile, one of slight squeamishness mixed with incapacity, passed across Nicole's face.

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She couldn't say why, but she knew that it was impossible. A taboo as real as any that Malinowski studied among the Trobriand Islanders kept us out, though why it existed and how it kept its spell I had no idea. In Paris explanations come in a predictable sequence, no matter what is being explained. First comes the explanation in terms of.

Monday 24 July 2000

We were sitting, as it happened, at the Flore, eating good, wildly overpriced omelets. The downstairs room was as pleasantly red and melancholy as it always is, with its square, rather than round, tables, which give the impression that all the tables are corner tables.


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In the week or so since my first inquiry I had been doing some reading. The Deux Magots and the Flore had, I knew, existed be-. The Flore had long had a white marquee with green lettering, the Deux Magots a green marquee with gilt lettering. But I had only just learned that like so many timeless things in Paris, they got timeless right after the horror of the Franco-Prussian War.

The Deux Magots is the modest inheritor of a silk lingerie store of that name that stood on the spot for decades, until the s, when the growth of the big department stores across the river drove it out of business. The owners eventually rented out the space to a cafe liquoriste, which kept the name and started serving coffee. Then, in , Leonard Lipp, an Alsatian who had fled the German occupation of his province, opened a brasserie across the street, and the basic topography of the new square was in place.

For many years the Deux Magots was the more famous and fashionable of the two cafes. It was there that Oscar Wilde went to drink after he left England; he died about five blocks away.


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And it was there that Joyce went to drink Swiss white wine, with everybody except Hemingway, with whom he drank dry sherry, because Hemingway wasn't everybody. That's how Hemingway tells it, anyway.

NewspaperSG - The Straits Times, 22 September

In Paris it isn't, not because the past is so hallowed but because it doesn't seem to be there. History keeps wiping the table off and asking you, a little impatiently, what you'll have now. The odd thing is that the cliche is almost entirely true. He comes toward the patrons with a step a little too quick. You might not see this at once. At the Flore the fashionable people are spread out among the tables rather than concentrated in one spot or area; they occupy the place clandestinely, following the law of Inverse Natural Appeal.

The terrasse of the Flore, even on a sunny and perfect day especially on a sunny and perfect day , is off limits; the inner room, with its red moleskin banquettes, is acceptable; but by far the most OK place to sit is upstairs I was sitting there now, with my friend , and the banquettes are made of an ugly tan leatherette. This produced, in the fifties, a natural compact, a kind of family feeling between the two places.

The owner of the Deux Magots was a much more timid fellow.

He was left out of the compact. There it was, the explanation in terms of the romantic indi-. Charles Maurras, the founder of Action Francaise, used the Flore as his home base. His most famous polemic was even named after the cafe: 'Au Signe de Flore. Enthoven went on to say, "This meant that by the time of the occupation, when Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir came to Saint-Germain and began their resistance, they had to avoid the Flore like a plague, since it had been contaminated by Maurras.

But then the tourists began to crowd into the Deux Magots in order to look at Sartre and de Beauvoir. So they went across the street and have never returned. Like so many lovely things in Paris, the two cafes were given shape by the first German invasion and then in one way or another were deformed by the second. It's necessarily arbitrary. If you place any two things side by side, one will become fashionable and the other will not. It's a necessity determined by the entire idea of fashion. A world in which everything is fashionable is impossible to imagine, because it implies that there would be nothing to provide a contrast.

And what was the chooser's name? C'est normal. My fax machine, which was made by the French state, always blames someone else when things go wrong. You even have to go to a government telephone outlet to buy a new ribbon for it.