Paris

I have nothing original to say about Paris.

This is not to be confused with having nothing to say about Paris.

Of course I have things to say about Paris, how could one not.

Dull would he [read: they] be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty, etc.*

In fact, that's the point.

So conducive is Paris to having things said about it that everything original that you could ever say has been said, by someone, somewhere, sometime, built up over centuries of songs, plays, films, books, art, radio, Instagram.

I am left to live like a magpie, stealing other people's pretty fragments, picking through a great lego-box of literature for a few roof tiles and window frames.

I am not ashamed of my newfound role as an Artful Dodger**, in truth I am at peace. I sat in Les Deux Magots on the Boulevard Saint-Germain and waited for shiny words of wisdom from its esteemed previous (and probably present) clientele to come pouring out of my €5 coffee.

None came, though if they had I probably wouldn't be here writing to you.

Seemingly, Paris can sustain the daily waves of selfie sticks, TripAdvisor critics and youthfully exuberant bloggers. This city lives on, undefeated by sticks, stones, words, bullets...

And so what, forever? We come, we see, we write. We pay our respects to those who've come before us, and strive for a single high moment where clarity of expression meets meaning, that we might outdo them all.

But not I, not yet. I shall content myself with magpies and lego bricks.

*Admittedly this was written about London.

**Another London reference, but at least Dickens wrote A Tale of Two Cities, so we're getting warmer?