Life is a carnival of extremes. That much Rufo Quintavalle seems to be aware of, as he makes apparent in his latest poetry collection, I Love Paris. Not only regaling us with truthful and haunting visions, but also showing us that existence is rarely black and white. Particularly in Paris. Where it’s more like a rain-soaked panoply of hues muted in gray. 

Masterfully tracing the undulating freedoms and constraints of the urban setting, the poet takes readers on a voyage through Paris and beyond, ostensibly longing for an escape from the tribulations and pressures of contemporary life, filled with its dependence, delusion and disillusionment. For as hardened as Quintavalle might come across, though, I Love Paris is ultimately a touching combination of vulnerability and intense intimacy. 

Full of contradictions (e.g., “I love Paris and its musical feast/the worst will be first and best will be least”), Quintavalle’s poetry is a place where the cynical meets the divine; the pressures of Parisian self-image find the redemption of love. More than that, the visceral use of the body maintains its dynamism while, at times, bordering on the repulsive. As it does in the indelible “The Salami Asylum, wherein Quintavalle paints the vivid image: 

In the salami asylum
it’s electrodes à gogo and Château D’Yquem
it’s Thorazine spritzers, Betelgeuse
and a cardboard kidney dish of phlegm.

It might be difficult to look at salami (or any other cured meat) the same way after that… Meanwhile, the tongue-in-cheek titular poem balances its straightforward style with droll, shrewdly-perceived descriptions of people-watching, Parisian (pseudo)intellectual expectations and political demonstrations: 

I love Paris and I simply love art
if I buy enough it will make me smart

and:

I love Paris when the yellow vests
do their weekly thing with the CRS

I love Paris when the bombs go off
I love it when the churches burn

While Quintavalle easily adopts the blasé attitude of the quintessential Parisian for his eponymous poem, he allows himself to be more daring—further stretching his poetic legs, so to speak—in “Permutations,” a sweeping five-part poem that unfolds over the course of several pages with verses like: 

Euclid, Sappho
The fun
is above
us

her music,
Chaos;
the tuning
all wrong

Wellbutrin
Halo, hell’s 
dull climax:
hope

These glimmers of optimism (or something like it) intermix seamlessly with Quintavalle’s biting wit that never fades throughout the collection, showing up more prominently in certain moments to jolt readers back to attention.  

One such prime example of that occurs in “My Bowery Loft” (perfect for the New York fans), when Quintavalle describes:

Well here I am in my Bowery loft
start the day with a start-up
and end it with a Zoloft
there on the wall is a Damien Hirst
John Lennon’s head and Yoko Ono’s purse
when I open the window I can hear the sound
of Joey Ramone turning underground

The sense of confinement in this poem is especially palpable, with Quintavalle harkening readers back to the lockdowns of 2020. However, there are instances when Quintavalle turns away from the oppressiveness and claustrophobia of the proverbial city, and instead towards landscapes featuring “sand in dunes” or “earth [that] smells sweet” (as in “Cold Salt Waves” and “Out in the Forest,” respectively) with an almost superstitious veneration…understandable to anyone living beneath a densely packed skyline. 

No matter what setting Quintavalle takes us to in this keenly-observed collection, the journey is an unforgettable one. And for those who are unfamiliar with Paris, but particularly for those who are, I Love Paris offers a rich, almost tangible experience, certain to leave you wanting to book your next trip to the City of Light. That is, if you don’t live there already.

Audrey Vinkenes is a writer based in Helsinki. She currently runs the publication Eller Hur on Substack.