Breakfast, chez moi. Strong coffee with hot milk, two or three delicious warm croissants with sweet butter, and a touch of jam. And with the breakfast a snatch of Sergovia. Set to go. My brain afire. As I walk, I nibble. Turning onto Rue de la Tombe-Issoire, and walking through the small cluster of shops — a boucherie , an alimentaire , the cafe , the restaurant , shops that are usually found at such intersections in Paris — I finally make my way to Rue de Villa Seurat.
The short dead-end street is made of old cobblestones that bump under my feet. This street is also full of color. The air here is cool in the early morning light of spring. I am not here to pay homage to Georges Seurat, the painter, even though that would be a noble enough gesture from one such as me.
Instead, finding myself standing outside of Number 18, I look up to see Henry Miller, taking one last look out of the window, down onto the street, as he readies himself for a day filled with the rapid torrent of words and ideas and memories that he will soon unleash. I see him there as if time were not an issue between us. I see not the ghost, but the man, in black and white and then full color, as he turns to his Remington and begins …. Time has never been an issue for Henry and me. Here at Villa Seurat he found inspiration.
He drank, he ate, he wrote, he screwed, he hungover, and here he lived for three years. Back at the apartment I pull a book out of my bag that I had found earlier in the afternoon in a bookshop in The Marais. Henry Miller discovered Rimbaud when he was in his 40s, after his arrival in Paris. It made sense to me that to connect with Henry, I must read Rimbaud while in Paris.
I plunk down on the couch next to my friend and tell her that I am about to improve my French by reading Rimbaud. So I read aloud. What is so difficult about that? She chuckles even more. I continue. And Henry smiles. I walk the streets of Paris, following in the footsteps of all who came before me, even myself. The enchanted streets of Henry Miller are no longer here. The things that Miller so loved here were things that were volatile, changeable, malleable … replaceable.
