The bizarre, rather non sequitur spotlight on bedbugs in Paris seems to come at a very “convenient” time for a number of reasons. For one thing, everybody wants to see Paris “flop” in a manner that coincides with the Olympics, when all eyes will be on it more than ever, and, for another, people only care about icky and unpleasant “goings-on” when it affects either … Continue reading They’re Trying to Make “Glamorama With Bedbugs” Happen
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A city of romance, a city of trash, a city of tourists, a city perpetually burning. For those who can see and hear the poetry in Paris, no matter what state it’s in, Rufo Quintavalle’s incisive collection, which addresses subjects and towns well beyond la France, is the perfect élixir for enfants terribles and modèles de vertu alike. Enjoy un petit goût of the book via Quintavalle’s Bandcamp here. Buy I Love Paris at … Continue reading The Opiate Books Presents: I Love Paris by Rufo Quintavalle
Hottening endless summer at a pavement café your hand trembles as you sip coffee, “What do you think of me?” You melt back into your world, I float in a dream like a phantom whisper. Paris scent lingers. Chocolates, macaroons and Piaf’s crooning— perfect rendezvous, a mysterious bond between us, and there’s nothing we can do. Continue reading Chocolates, Macaroons and The Little Sparrow by Amy Abdullah Barry
It begins with an itch then another and another– those screaming red eruptions on arms legs and unmentionables (Isn’t life a bitch!) the tell-tale sign of corruption– bloodstains on your pillow the viscous film of wet dream on your shrinking fitted sheets Who are they? these creeps these mites small flat parasites big appetites that live in dark places alleyways hidden spaces who feed off you in excess before they retire to the comfort of your bed where they enjoy easy access Yum while you lay … Continue reading When You Are On the Menu by Antonia Alexandra Klimenko
While France prides itself on being a nation of liberté, the unspoken caveat is that one usually needs to be a man to enjoy such liberté. The feelings of “retro-ness” that women in the country have long felt, whether about gender or racial discrimination (see: Virginie Despentes’ recent comment on the discrepancy between those affected by COVID-19), has reached such a fever pitch that they’ve … Continue reading Moi les hommes, je les déteste: A Confluence of Misogyny-Based Censorship in France
Virginie Despentes and Michel Houellebecq are not really two French writers whose names go hand in hand. In fact, it’s highly likely that the former despises the latter for his unapologetic brand of chauvinism and the latter despises the former for her “feminist bullshit.” And yet, her recent statement on the problem of racism in an open letter called “Lettre adressée à mes amis blancs … Continue reading Virginie Despentes Gives A Michel Houellebecq-Style Statement on Racism in France
Waiting for the gradual process of “deconfinement” to occur, the polarizing French writer, Michel Houellebecq (a more hardcore enfant terrible of literature in terms of his unapologetic “white male” opinions than Bret Easton Ellis), at last decided to weigh in on the matter. The matter in particular being many people’s belief that as the world emerges slowly but surely after coronavirus, it will be an … Continue reading Michel Houellebecq As-t-il Raison? Cette pandémie ne change rien? Enfin, probablement.
It’s a Belmondo day, a morning À bout de souffle — “The Girl” giving away AM New York mumbles French. Disjunct, the sun, double- jointed like a thumb, traces ellipse, bound to the earth by suspicion, uncertain whereabouts, up to something no doubt, lost in thought. But now the tissue of clouds as illusion tears, letting color there be light, sound deafen exposure of black … Continue reading Simulacrum by John Jack Jackie (Edward) Cooper
When she told her boss she was quitting, he didn’t seem surprised, or even worried. Only confused and proud, pretending he knew much more about the situation than she did. “You know your job won’t be available when you get back right?” He asked as if she really didn’t know the answer, his tone somewhere in between condescension and snobbery. “Yes, I know.” He expected … Continue reading Sabbatical by Sean Dolan
