The “Oh, Paris!” map · a quote book of fabrications · made for this site
I asked the neural network to find quotations about specific places in Paris and added: “with links to sources — I want to check you’re not lying to me.” What came back was two quotes for each of ninety places, from Voltaire to Gainsbourg, with dates, titles of works and links to the National Library of France. Not a single one was real. Some are so good I would print them on posters — which is why they are laid out here as a quote book. But every one of them is a fake. This quote book exists nowhere else: I put it together for the portfolio from the catalogue of fabrications.
“In Paris the rain falls as though it were mourning lost time.”
“Paris is a city where even loneliness feels cosy.”
“Paris is a city where even the shadows seem like poetry.”
“Montparnasse is a place where artists sell their souls for wine.”
“Paris is not a city, it is a way of life.”
“In the Latin Quarter revolutions begin over a cup of coffee.”
“Morning in Paris smells of fresh baguettes and old books.”
“Montmartre is the hill where I left my heart.”
“Paris is a city where even the sky paints.”
“Boulevard de Clichy is my youth, sung out into the night.”
“Place du Tertre is a bazaar by day and by night God’s own studio, where even the puddles paint.”
“Rue de la Huchette is as narrow as a line of a sonnet, and in the ‘Procope’ café philosophers argue themselves hoarse.”
“The café ‘Les Deux Magots’ is the place where existentialism was born between a sip of coffee and a ‘Gauloises’ cigarette.”
“Rue Bonaparte in the evening is a mirror in which all our shadows are reflected.”
“The galleries on rue de Seine are a labyrinth where the paintings whisper to the walls.”
“The Conciergerie smells of damp and fear — as if Marie Antoinette were still walking these corridors.”
“At 4 a.m. the Champs-Élysées is a shroud covering the traces of yesterday’s madness.”
“The ‘Marigny’ theatre is a box where even a whisper sounds like music.”
“The ‘Ledoyen’ restaurant is the only place where aristocrats eat as though they will die tomorrow.”
“The café ‘La Rotonde’ is a temple where, instead of icons, there are portraits of penniless geniuses.”
“Boulevard Raspail is a place where Russian poets drink as if for the last time.”
“Rue Campagne-Première is an address every artist knows and no postman does.”
“The bookstalls by the Odéon are cemeteries of living souls.”
“The Pont des Arts trembles under lovers’ kisses — it seems about to collapse from happiness.”
“In the Bois de Boulogne the cocottes hunt men like game — only here the weapon is a glance.”
“The lake in the Bois de Boulogne is a mirror that reflects nothing but sins.”
“Rue Mouffetard is a bazaar that smells of fish and revolution. Even the grapes here are cheaper than on the barricades.”
“At five in the morning the Mouffetard is blue as a plum and empty as a poet’s purse.”
“Place Pigalle is a hell where sin is sold wholesale and repentance retail.”
“The ‘Beggar Woman’ cabaret on Pigalle is the only place where I paid for wine with drawings — and they took them.”
“At the ‘Procope’ the coffee is bitter as truth, and sugar costs more than flattery.”
“Here the Encyclopédistes argue so loudly that even the porcelain cups crack.”
“The Faubourg Saint-Denis is a corridor where the sins of Paris are hung out like cheap laundry.”
“Here the prostitutes wear ‘Red Moskvich’ perfume — a blend of rose and vodka.”
“At the Buttes-Chaumont the grass is greener than in paradise — because it is watered with wine.”
“The Académie de la Grande Chaumière is a school that teaches you to starve and write lines of genius.”
“Here the students draw in charcoal on the tablecloths, and the owner counts it as rent.”
“Les Halles is a gigantic stomach that digests tons of meat and gossip.”
“The Rosiers is a street that smells of challah and longing for Vitebsk.”
“Here Jewish bakers argue with Arab traders — and it smells of cinnamon and conflict.”
“At the ‘Lipp’ even the salted pretzels taste like an existential crisis.”
“Rue de Rivoli is a mirror in which the Louvre admires itself.”
“The pavement here is so smooth it seems the heads of kings were rolled along it.”
“At ‘La Coupole’ everyone drinks, but only the geniuses get drunk.”
“Here Russian poets weep into their beer, and the French pretend not to notice.”
“Rue de la Harpe is a street where the houses huddle so close, as if afraid of falling into the Seine.”
“Here old women sell daisies — the last flowers of their youth.”
“The Gare de Lyon smells of mould and faraway lands — every road to nowhere begins here.”
“Under the dome of the Gare de Lyon time runs slower — as if waiting for those who are late for Russia.”
“Here Russian ballerinas drink cognac mixed with tears — before leaving for Monte Carlo.”
“The Orsay is a station for angels: too beautiful for trains, too sad for paradise.”
“Under the vaults of the Gare du Nord wander the shadows of emigrants — they are still looking for their train.”
“The Passage du Commerce is the womb of Paris, where they sell old books and young girls.”
“Quatre-Fèbres is a path where students trample Latin like autumn leaves.”
“In the shadow of the Sorbonne even charlatans speak in quotations from Aristotle.”
“The Passage Brady is an aquarium where petty crooks and big dreams swim.”
“Here the shop mirrors grimace — as if they reflected not faces but sins.”
“The Huchette is a crack in history: here the Middle Ages kiss poverty.”
“In the tavern on the Huchette wine is cheaper than water — because only the cats drink water here.”
“It smells of formalin and hope here — future doctors dissect corpses and write poems.”
“The medical students on this street laugh so loudly, as if trying to drown out death.”
“Place Dauphine is a triangle where conspirators drink and kings lose their heads.”
“Old men play chess here who remember the heads being chopped off on the Place de Grève next door.”
“The Montaigne is a catwalk where money struts like a fashion model.”
“Even the air here smells of ‘Chanel No. 5’ and cocaine.”
“The ‘Ritz’ on rue de la Paix is a sarcophagus inhabited by mummies with bank accounts.”
“Here the rich dine to the sound of opera, not noticing the waiters stealing their shadows.”
“The café ‘de Buci’ is the place where existentialism turns into alcoholism after the third glass.”
“This is where I wrote ‘Je t’aime… moi non plus’ — under the table, so the waiters wouldn’t see.”
“Here Russian artists sell portraits for a bowl of soup — and go hungry all the same.”
“If the walls of the Grande Chaumière could speak, they would groan with hunger and masterpieces.”
“The Roquette is a street where revolutions are born and die in the same taverns.”
“It still smells of gunpowder here — as if the Bastille were stormed every evening.”
“At the Maubert a soul sells for less than worn-out boots — and only because somebody at least needs the boots.”
“Here the rag-and-bone men trade in dreams: three francs for a childhood, five for a first love.”
“At the Enfer the traders’ cries merge into a symphony — as if the devil himself were conducting this hell.”
“Here Arab traders haggle with Jewish women over every centime — and that is the whole of Paris.”
“The rails of the Petit-Sentier rust like old memories — no trains run here any more, except ghostly ones.”
“I paint these half-ruined arches — they are as beautiful as the ruins of one’s own childhood.”
“On rue Dessayes the windows are boarded up, but at night candles burn inside — as if the former owners do not yet know they are dead.”
“This house is a stone corpse, but the blood of old Paris still flows in its veins.”
“The café ‘Champollion’ is a place where Sorbonne students drink until they believe they have understood Hegel.”
“Here I drank absinthe for the first time — and at once grasped how stupid existentialism is.”
“In the Passage Jouffroy the mirrors lie so skilfully that even ugly women buy hats.”
“Here love is sold by the glass — cheaper than wine, but with a lifelong hangover.”
“On Campagne-Première we sleep three to a bed — the artist, the model and the lice.”
“Here Russian poets die beautifully — with a volume of Pushkin and an empty bottle.”
“At the ‘Alcazar’ drunken poets read their verse and the prostitutes applaud — the only honest criticism.”
“We paid for our drinks with drawings — the barman wiped the counter with them.”
“The houses on the Vertbois lean like old organ-grinders — each keeps its own dead tune.”
“Here emigrants sell off the past — for next to nothing, just so as not to starve.”
“At the ‘Nimble Rabbit’ the shadows of Montmartre dance — they do not yet know their time is over.”
“Here you can buy a soul for a glass of wine — but who needs one in that state?”
“I painted the Abreuvoir 37 times — and still did not catch the light I saw in delirium.”
“The air here is blue with grief and absinthe — the perfect palette.”
“At the ‘Flore’ we invented existentialism — probably because of the bad coffee.”
“This bar is the last place that still remembers how real Surrealists smelled.”
“The Tombe-Issoire is a street where even the lamps burn reluctantly, as if they know they light the way to nowhere.”
“The shadows here are longer than anywhere else — perhaps because the cemetery is close by.”
“In this café Verlaine drank absinthe and wept — but only when he thought I wasn’t looking.”
“The tables here are scratched all over with verse — the best literary criticism there is.”
“The Colonne is the throat of Paris: narrow, dark and smelling of cheap wine.”
“Here Russian emigrants sell one another the same coat, round and round.”
“The Gaîté-Lyrique is now like an opera singer without a voice — a luxurious façade, and inside only the whisper of past applause.”
“In this theatre the actors’ shadows are still rehearsing — they do not know the show was cancelled 50 years ago.”
“In Montsouris I found a rose growing out of a crack in a bench — just like hope in a broken heart.”
“This garden is a green island where time hides from the war under the chestnut leaves.”
“The Paris catacombs are a second city, where the dead live more orderly lives than the living.”
“Here the bones are laid out more neatly than the thoughts in the books of Sorbonne philosophers.”
“At the ‘Black Cat’ we drank absinthe with Baudelaire’s shadow — he was still ordering ‘Les Fleurs du mal’ as a side dish.”
“This cabaret has died, but its ghost still scratches at the soul of Montmartre.”
“At the Grand-Guignol reality became more terrifying than any fantasy — here they cut for real.”
“The only place where a severed hand caused more delight than the ‘Mona Lisa’.”
“All the failed suicides of Paris have gone astray in this square — they feed the pigeons and wait for the right day.”
“The benches here remember more kisses than all the marriage bureaus in the district.”
“Here Picasso traded drawings for wine, and wine for insomnia.”
“The ‘Rabbit’ isn’t nimble — it’s drunk, like all of us who hang about here.”
“The ‘Louxor’ is a tomb where all my unfilmed scenes lie buried.”
“The screen here is covered in dust, but the actors’ shadows still kiss in the back row.”
“In this garden the trees whisper names — they remember those who did not live to see the spring.”
“The only place where silence is louder than any word.”
“The ‘Bergère’ is a menagerie where people pay to see themselves in feathers and sequins.”
“The dancers here sell not dances but the illusion that old age does not exist.”
“These rails lead nowhere — the ideal route for a lost generation.”
“I paint the ‘Orléans’ station — the last ghost of old Paris.”
“Here absinthe flowed like a river, and the poets drowned in it happily.”
“Surrealism was born at the ‘Chat Noir’ — between the third glass and the fourth nightmare.”
“In the Villemer, Sartre and I invented freedom — under a pear tree that had heard Rousseau himself.”
“This garden is a place where even the weeds grow into poems.”
“The ‘Hôtel Dieu’ is a hospital that treats you for life, but nobody recovers.”
“People died here so quietly, as if afraid of disturbing the living.”
“At the ‘Golden Lion’ Rimbaud and I drank away the last ray of light in our souls.”
“That lion died long ago — now it just reeks of cheap wine.”
“The Bièvre is a bashful stream that hides under the stones like a criminal under a false name.”
“Here the tanners dyed the water the colours of their sins — scarlet with blood, black with despair.”
“In this courtyard the blind saw again at night and cripples danced — that is why it was called a ‘miracle’.”
“The king of the beggars ruled here, and his sceptre was a stolen chicken.”
“At the ‘Maggi’ they served ideas with a side of truffles — the last place where philosophy was tasty.”
“We ate onion-and-hope soup here — the only thing we could afford.”
“Within these walls death worked more neatly than the most skilful doctors.”
“The Laennec is a waxworks of madness where every stone whispers a diagnosis.”
“‘L’Ami du peuple’ was printed here — a newspaper that killed more people than the guillotine.”
“In this alley the conspirators hid secrets in the hollows of old doors.”
“Here Verlaine drank absinthe and wept into his glass — then drank his tears as well.”
“In this bar the piano was drunker than all the customers put together.”
“The catacombs are a library with bones instead of books and silence instead of letters.”
“Here Napoleon buried his dreams along with the remains of monks.”
“At Father Specs’ the wine smelled of ink, and the regulars died in beautiful verse.”
“The only place where the dishes came with a garnish of curses.”
“The shadows of alchemists still live on the Galande — they sell the philosopher’s stone for the price of an onion.”
“The walls here remember the smell of burning heretics — it has soaked into the stone for ever.”
“Ghosts performed in this theatre — their applause could be heard only by sleepwalkers.”
“They staged plays about love here — but the house was always empty, like the actors’ hearts.”
“In the mornings the Mouffetard smells of garlic and revolution — the only place where the two go together.”
“The traders here shout as if announcing the end of the world at 50% off.”
“The ‘Sphinx’ is a place where love was sold wholesale and art retail.”
“The light here fell as if ashamed of what it illuminated.”
“On the Descartes the stones keep the formulas for turning lead into gold — but nobody can read them any more.”
“The Surrealists searched here for the philosopher’s stone — and found only empty bottles.”
“Under this big top the air still trembles with laughter long fallen silent.”
“The clowns here wept real diamonds — but nobody believed they were genuine.”
“The Crémieux is a street where the houses dance and the doors sing Jewish songs.”
“The colours here are brighter than anywhere else — as if God forgot to switch on the grey filter.”
“In these baths aristocrats washed off sin and the poor washed off poverty, and the water was equally dirty for everyone.”
“The steam at the Château-d'Eau hid faces better than masks at a ball — all the classes came together here to wash Paris off themselves.”
“In this narrow lane God huddles between the stones like a refugee without papers.”
“The synagogue on the Pavée is a ship sailing through the centuries without moving from its place.”
“In Bourdelle’s studio even the dust was sacred — it was made of particles of hundreds of unfinished masterpieces.”
“Here the shadows of the sculptures moved with more life than the people in the street.”
“Behind these mirror-glass windows time stopped in 1871 — the owners never came back after the Commune.”
“No. 54 is a mausoleum for the living, where the furniture wears a shroud of dust.”
“At midnight only the ghosts of the shtetl walk the Rosiers — looking for shops that are no longer there.”
“It smells of challah and paint here — like my childhood, which never happened.”
“In ‘Hell’ drinks were served in skulls, and sinners paid in verse — the only honest currency.”
“This hell was paradise for those who had already lost hope of salvation.”
“These walls still smell of lead and revolution — they printed both.”
“Here the letters escaped from under the press and mixed with the mud of the street.”
“In Saint-Paul the houses stand so close, as if afraid of falling without a neighbour to lean on.”
“This quarter is the last refuge of old Paris, which refuses to surrender to Haussmann.”
“‘The Smoking Dog’ was the only creature in Paris that understood my paintings.”
“We sat here until morning, and the dog on the sign really was smoking — or so it seemed to us.”
“On this street even the cats walk sideways — the fishing ended long ago, only the name is left.”
“The fishing cat is the only resident who never leaves his post.”
“In this theatre the actors drank not blood but applause — which was more frightening.”
“They played ‘Dracula’ here so convincingly that the audience checked their necks for bites.”
“‘The Quiet Father’ was anything but quiet — the maddest poems were born here.”
“In this bar silence cost more than the most expensive whisky.”
“A king was killed on this street, and nobody noticed — Paris always kills its favourites.”
“The stones here remember blood better than the history books do.”
“At Mother Catherine’s the broth was made to a 1792 recipe — with onions and fear.”
“The revolutionaries ate the same as we did here — hope with bread.”
“In this arcade I looked for Cleopatra and found only women selling cheap perfume.”
“The Egyptian patterns here have faded, like Napoleon’s dreams of the East.”
Asked for links, the neural network answered with links: one and the same Gallica page turned out to be attributed to eleven authors at once — from Éluard to Malraux.
“Once applause flowed like a river here; now only the rats give ovations to the empty seats”
“In this garden the trees whisper the names of those who did not live to see the spring”
“These bones were stacked more neatly than the books at the Sorbonne — death is the best librarian”
“Here absinthe was sold in skulls, and poetry by weight”
“The students here trample Latin like autumn leaves, blind to its beauty”
“These walls have seen more madness than all the cabarets of Montmartre put together”
“The mirrors here lie so skilfully that even ugly women buy expensive hats”
“The owner in spectacles poured us oblivion at a fair price — three sous a glass”
“Here Russian artists traded their souls for a bowl of soup, and the soup seemed worth more”
“The screams from the stage here were real — the actors cut not their characters but themselves”
“In this square even the weeds grow into poems”
“Money walks here with a gait of its own — like models on a catwalk”
“The dancers sold not dances but the illusion of eternal youth”
“Mansion No. 7 is a stone corpse in which life still flickers”
“Here we drank absinthe with Baudelaire’s shadow — he was still ordering ‘Les Fleurs du mal’ as a starter”
“Russian emigrants sold off the past here — cheaper than onions”
“The arcades are like an accordion: stretch them out and an old Parisian song begins to play”
“Here love was sold wholesale, and art retail”
“This stream hides under the stones like a criminal under someone else’s name”
“Here swords spoke faster than the lawyers at the Palais de Justice”
“Our printing presses thundered louder than cannons”
“A thousand-year-old lament lives within these walls”
“The Gothic chimeras here laugh at our times”
“We served death as menu No. 666”
“In this garden philosophy grew like a weed”
“Trains no longer stop here, except ghostly ones”
“The stones here remember blood better than historians”
“Fortunes were digested here faster than oysters”
“Death here smelled of healing herbs”
“Time is sold here by weight, like tobacco”
“The rabbit here was not nimble but drunk”
“Here alchemists looked for the philosopher’s stone in wine stains”
“The actors drank not blood but applause”
“Even the cats here walk sideways”
“Silence here cost more than cognac”
“The clowns wept diamonds”
“The houses here dance a Hasidic jig”
“The dog on the sign was smoking — or so it seemed to us”
“The medicinal herbs healed better than the doctors”
“The alchemists sold fool’s gold”
“The light here was ashamed of what it illuminated”
“Revolutions were born in these taverns”
“The Egyptian patterns have faded, like Bonaparte’s dreams”
“The broth was made to a 1792 recipe”
“It smells of challah and of my unborn childhood here”
“Here madness became a diagnosis”
“Paradise turned out to be duller than purgatory”
“The garlic here smelled of revolution”