Silverstein in Paris

Shel Silverstein has visited and sketched some Iore-and-legend-haunted ports of call for these pages: Tokyo, Scandinavia and London are all atmospheric places packed with color, flavor and historic grandeur, and the antic Silverstein spirit responded to them with whimsy and warmth. But, to twist an old ballad, "no place on earth does he love more sincerely" -- than Paris.

The same city that inspired Toulouse and Zola, Villon and Voltaire, Dumas, both père and fils; the city of Nostradamus and Notre Dame, Baudelaire and Brigitte Bardot, Fontaine and Fernandel -- this city inspired Silverstein as well, and no wonder, for Paris (which more than one man has called the place good Americans go to when they die) is a city steeped in seductiveness, richly redolent of romance, a city few fellows of taste have been able to resist -- not even sour Nietzsche who said, "As an artist, a man has no home in Europe save in Paris."

As an artist, Shel Silverstein had a wonderful time creating the labor of love that begins on this page -- a pleasureful portfolio of zestful, winsome, finely funny impressions of a 2000-year-old city that captured his heart and swept him off his feet.

"Well, that depends, monsieur ... If you face east, this is the left bank ... If you face west, that is the left bank ... If you face south..."

"With all the American tourists arriving, monsieur, these small, dark, dingy garrets are quite expensive. However, if you'd consider a large, clean, well-lit room on the first floor..."

"A bottle of absinthe ... a checkered tablecloth ... a candle in a wine bottle..."

Shel takes part in a spirited conversation with two French wine merchants.

"Fellows, meet Shel Silverstein from Chicago. Shel, shake hands with Eddie Bell from Los Angeles, Charley Petersen from Boston, Steve Zimmerman from St. Louis and Jim Albright from New Jersey."

"Ten copies of 'Tropic of Cancer,' twelve copies of 'Tropic of Capricorn,' seven copies..."

"Tomorrow I'll take you to the bohemian quarter..."

"Listen to this: 'Good-bye Paris, old friend, old comrade, old drinking companion, with your flaky green trees and your warm, playful sun and your friendly open-arm cafés, with your busy Seine and buzzing streets and bustling shops and children's laughter and lovers ... lovers ... lovers ... You'll not miss me, Paris, although you were a good friend. The publishers doubted me, Paris, and the landlords and shopkeepers rejected me ... and Arlette ... Arlette ... Arlette deserted me. But you remained loyal ... you were a good friend, Paris ... adieu ... mon ami ... adieu ...' Man, that's what I call writing!"

"Er ... darling, je vous aime beaucoup ... je ne sais pas what to do ... morning, noon and nighttime, too ... toujours wondering what to do ... er ... chérie..."

Assuming the famous hat, cane and stature (by kneeling on his shoes) of another artist inspired by Paris, Shel makes striking Toulouse-Lautrec.

"You let Gene Kelly dance in the street ... you let Fred Astaire dance in the street ... you let Audrey Hepburn dance in the street ... you let..."

"Look at this place, Paul--no heat, no electricity, crawling with bugs, no icebox, no ventilation, no bathtub, no toilet, nothing to eat but a few scraps of bread and cheap wine. Frankly, I don't see how you manage to stay alive, Paul ... Paul? ... Paul?..."

Silverstein makes friends easily. Here a long-tressed Parisienne kibitzes as he sketches in street cafe.

"What is this thing called an American kiss?"

"--Your American women -- they think of sex as something dirty -- something to be ashamed of -- they hide their desires -- they frustrate their instincts -- they deny that they are human. We French-- we realize that sex is good and clean and natural and beautiful -- we follow our instincts. When I feel like going to bed with a man, I go to bed with him!" "--Well, how about it??" "I don't feel like it."