Samstag, 28. Juni 2014

Wiener Zeitung, 28. Juni 1914. Quelle: wienerzeitung

Die „Princip-Brücke“ in Sarajevo 1936, in deren Nähe Gavrilo Princip am 28. Juni 1914 das Attentat auf Thronfolger Franz Ferdinand und seine Gemahlin verübte. Heute heisst die Brücke wieder „Lateiner-Brücke“. Quelle: etheritage

Mittwoch, 11. Juni 2014

A Good Café on the Place St-Michel


Then there was the bad weather. It would come in one day when the fall was over. We would have to shut the windows in the night against the rain and the cold wind would strip the leaves from the trees in the Place Contrescarpe. The leaves lay sodden in the rain and the wind drove the rain against the big green autobus at the terminal and the Cafe des Amateurs was crowded and the windows misted over from the heat and the smoke inside. It was a sad, evilly run cafe where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness. The men and women who frequented the Amateurs stayed drunk all of the time, or all of the time they could afford it, mostly on wine which they bought by the half-litre or litre. Many strangely named aperitifs were advertised, but few people could afford them except as a foundation to build their wine drunks on. The women drunkards were called poivrottes, which meant female rummies.

The Cafe des Amateurs was the cesspool of the rue Mouffetard, that wonderful narrow crowded market street which led into the Place Contrescarpe. The squat toilets of the old apartment houses, one by the side of the stairs on each floor with the two cleated cement shoe-shaped elevations on each side of the aperture so a locataire would not slip, emptied into cesspools which were emptied by pumping into horse-drawn tank wagons at night. In the summer time, with all windows open, we would hear the pumping and the odour was very strong. The tank wagons were painted brown and saffron colour and in the moonlight when they worked the rue Cardinal Lemoine their wheeled, horse-drawn cylinders looked like Braque paintings. No one emptied the Cafe des Amateurs though, and its yellowed poster stating the terms and penalties of the law against public drunkenness was as flyblown and disregarded as its clients were constant and ill- smelling.

All of the sadness of the city came suddenly with the first cold rains of winter, and there were no more tops to the high white houses as you walked but only the wet blackness of the street and the closed doors of the small shops, the herb sellers, the stationery and the newspaper shops, the midwife - second class - and the hotel where Verlaine had died, where I had a room on the top floor where I worked.

It was either six or eight flights up to the top floor and it was very cold and I knew how much it would cost for a bundle of small twigs, three wire-wrapped packets of short, half-pencil length pieces of split pine to catch fire from the twigs, and then the bundle of half-dried lengths of hard wood that I must buy to make a fire that would warm the room. So I went to the far side of the street to look up at the roof in the rain and see if any chimneys were going, and how the smoke blew. There was no smoke and I thought about how the chimney would be cold and might not draw and of the room possibly filling with smoke, and the fuel wasted, and the money gone with it, and I walked on in the rain. I walked down past the Lycee Henri Quatre and the ancient church of St-Etienne-du-Mont and the windswept Place du Pantheon and cut in for shelter to the right and finally came out on the lee side of the Boulevard St-Michel and worked on down it past the Cluny and the Boulevard St-Germain until I came to a good cafe that I knew on the Place St-Michel.

It was a pleasant cafe, warm and clean and friendly, and I hung up my old waterproof on the coat rack to dry and put my worn and weathered felt hat on the rack above the bench and ordered a cafe au lait. The waiter brought it and I took out a notebook from the pocket of the coat and a pencil and started to write. I was writing about up in Michigan and since it was a wild, cold, blowing day it was that sort of day in the story. I had already seen the end of fall come through boyhood, youth and young manhood, and in one place you could write about it better than in another. That was called transplanting yourself, I thought, and it could be as necessary with people as with other sorts of growing things. But in the story the boys were drinking and this made me thirsty and I ordered a rum St James. This tasted wonderful on the cold day and I kept on writing, feeling very well and feeling the good Martinique rum warm me all through my body and my spirit.

A girl came in the cafe and sat by herself at a table near the window. She was very pretty with a face fresh as a newly minted coin if they minted coins in smooth flesh with rain-freshened skin, and her hair was black as a crow's wing and cut sharply and diagonally across her cheek.

I looked at her and she disturbed me and made me very excited. I wished I could put her in the story, or anywhere, but she had placed herself so she could watch the street and the entry and I knew she was waiting for someone. So I went on writing.

The story was writing itself and I was having a hard time keeping up with it. I ordered another rum St James and I watched the girl whenever I looked up, or when I sharpened the pencil with a pencil sharpener with the shavings curling into the saucer under my drink.

I've seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if I never see you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil.

Then I went back to writing and I entered far into the story and was lost in it. I was writing it now and it was not writing itself and I did not look up nor know anything about the time nor think where I was nor order any more rum St James. I was tired of rum St James without thinking about it. Then the story was finished and I was very tired. I read the last paragraph and then I looked up and looked for the girl and she had gone. I hope she's gone with a good man, I thought. But I felt sad.

I closed up the story in the notebook and put it in my inside pocket and I asked the waiter for a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine they had there. After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, as though I had made love, and I was sure this was a very good story although I would not know truly how good until I read it over the next day.

As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture,
and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.

Now that the bad weather had come, we could leave Paris for a while for a place where this rain would be snow coming down through the pines and covering the road and the high hillsides and at an altitude where we would hear it creak as we walked home at night. Below Les Avants there was a chalet where the pension was wonderful and where we would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright. That was where we could go. Travelling third class on the train was not expensive. The pension cost very little more than we spent in Paris.

I would give up the room in the hotel where I wrote and there was only the rent of 74 rue Cardinal Lemoine which was nominal. I had written journalism for Toronto and the cheques for that were due. I could write that anywhere under any circumstances and we had money to make the trip.

Maybe away from Paris I could write about Paris as in Paris I could write about Michigan. I did not know it was too early for that because I did not know Paris well enough. But that was how it worked out eventually. Anyway we would go if my wife wanted to, and I finished the oysters and the wine and paid my score in the cafe and made it the shortest way back up the Montagne Ste-Genevieve through the rain, that was now only local weather and not something that changed your life, to the flat at the top of the hill.

'I think it would be wonderful, Tatie,' my wife said. She had a gently modelled face and her eyes and her smile lighted up at decisions as though they were rich presents. 'When should we leave?'
'Whenever you want.'
'Oh, I want to right away. Didn't you know?'
'Maybe it will be fine and clear when we come back. It can be very fine when it is clear and cold.'
'I'm sure it will be,' she said. 'Weren't you good to think of going, too.'



Ernest Hemingway: A Moveable Feast, Erstes Kapitel

Folie Bergère, Paris





Detail der Oper von Lille. Quelle: cafemarquardt

Le Petit Journal vom 22. Februar 1914. Quelle: Markt in der Vieille Bourse von Lille

Carl van Vechten: Grace Moore, 1933. Quelle: cedarrpaidsmuseumofart

Carl van Vechten: Lois Moran. Quelle: warmasjam

Carl van Vechten: Anna May Wong, 1935. Quelle: evakamm

Dienstag, 3. Juni 2014

Durch das Paris von Joseph Roth


Unter der Leitung von Dr. Heinz Lunzer spazierten am 30. Mai 2014 Mitglieder der Internationalen Joseph Roth Gesellschaft, der niederländisch/flämischen Joseph Roth Genootschap sowie Vortragende und Teilnehmer der Joseph Roth Tagung in Paris durch die für Roth wichtigsten Straßen von Paris.

Hier ein paar ausgewählte Fotos. Weitere Fotos hier.

Über das Programm der Joseph Roth Tagung haben übrigens schon berichtet (hier).
Théâtre de l'Odéon.
Das Hotel am Place de l'Odéon, in dem Joseph Roth bei seinem ersten Paris Aufenthalt verweilte. Der Name des Hotels wurde seither verändert.
Place de l'Odéon.


Joseph Roth in den 1920er Jahren am Place de l'Odeon mit den oben gezeigten Gebäuden im Hintergrund

Place de l'Odéon.



Joseph Roth am Place de l'Odeon. Die Statue existiert heute nicht mehr.

Eingang zur Rue de Tournon.
Blick durch die Rue de Tournon bis zum Sénat.
Café Tournon
Im Inneren des Café Tournon.

Haus 31, Rue de Tournon. An diesem Platz stand einst das von Roth oft bewohnte Hotel Foyot.


Dr. Heinz Lunzer zeigt eine Ansicht des ehemaligen Hotel Foyot.
Eugène Atget: Hôtel Foyot, 1909. Quelle: literaturhauswien

Im Deux Magots, Paris. Quelle: cafemarquardt

M. G. Loppé: Der Eiffelturm am 3. Juni 1902 um 21:20 Uhr. Quelle: maimano

Montag, 2. Juni 2014

Joseph Roth Hommage im belgischen Fernsehen

Das belgische Fernsehen Focus/WTV brachte einen Bericht über die Joseph Roth Hommage am 1. Juni 2014 in Ostende. Der Link zum Film hier.

Vierhonderd mensen hebben eer betoond aan Joseph Roth in Oostende.

Dat ging gepaard met een lezing van internationaal bekende auteurs en de onthulling van een gedenkplaat in Café du Parc. Jozef Roth was een Joods Oostenrijks Hongaars schrijver en journalist. In de jaren 30 verbleef hij als balling in Oostende. Hij staat bekend voor zijn prachtig literaire werk, zijn tragische leven en zijn berooide dood door alcohol in Parijs.

In Oostende heeft hij een belangrijk deel van zijn leven doorgemaakt.  In det stad rest nagenoeg niets van Joseph Roth. Het hotel waar hij woonde langs de Vindictivelaan is weg, maar in Café du Parc is nu wel een gedenkplaat onthuld.


Ausserdem widmete Guido Lauwaert Joseph Roth einen Artikel. Zu finden hier.

Zum Grab von Joseph Roth


Weit, ganz weit entfernt vom Zentrum der Stadt liegt der Friedhof. Fern vom linken Ufer der Seine und vom Café Tournon und dem Platz, auf dem einst das Hotel Foyot stand, den man nach dem Abriss des Hotels mit ein paar Bäumen und einem ausdruckslosen  Gebäude gefüllt hat. Wie eine schmerzende Zahnlücke mit einer billigen Plombe.

Zu diesem weit entfernten  Friedhof führt eine Linie der Métro. Auf dem Plan ist sie ein langer, schnurgerader Strich Richtung Süden. Fast scheint sie bis Marseille zu reichen, und endet doch in einem Pariser Vorort. Viele kleine Kreise auf der Linie stehen für viele Stationen. Man muss nicht aufpassen, wann man aussteigen muss, denn man fährt bis zur Endstation.

Dort steigt man in die neue Straßenbahn, die silbern und stromlinienförmig einem Train à Grande Vitesse gleicht, und doch nur eine Haltestelle nach der anderen durch die Vorstadt abklappert. Vorbei an Wohnhäusern, Tankstellen, niedrigen Wohnblöcken, Lagerhallen, Autohändlern und Einfamilienhäusern.

Man steigt beim McDonald’s aus, gegenüber dem Friedhofseingang. Nicht ein Kreuz auf einem Kirchturm wacht über die Toten, sondern ein riesiges, meilenweit in den Himmel ragendes und golden strahlendes „M“.

Um in den Friedhof zu gelangen, muss man einen Wächter und einen Schlagbaum passieren. Wie an einem Grenzübergang. Kontrolliert und instruiert spaziert man durch eine breite, lange Allee. Wäre sie nicht so ausgestorben, könnte man sich im Wiener Prater wähnen. Ein Stück Heimat für den in der Fremde Verstorbenen.
 
Das Grab ist leicht zu finden. Mit seinem grünen Eibenbäumchen sticht es aus dem See aus grauen Gräbern mit schiefen oder umgefallenen Grabsteinen und eingebrochenen Grabdeckeln. Es ist ein maßloses, überdimensionales Bäumchen, das aus dem Fußende des Grabes das aufgewühlte, wogende Gräbermeer überschaut.

Der Stein des Grabes ist glatt und schwarz-grau-weiß gesprenkelt und sogar noch charmeloser wie das Haus, das man an die Stelle des Foyot gesetzt hat. Zwei Mal schon hat man das Grab erneuert. Dennoch ist die Inschrift verblasst. In gravierten Buchstaben aus erlöschendem Gold steht geschrieben:

JOSEPH ROTH

ECRIVAIN AUTRICHIEN

MORT A PARIS EN EXIL

2.9.1894 – 27.5.1939

- - -


Es ist eine Ironie des Schicksals, dass ein falscher Geburtstag in den Stein graviert wurde. In der stümperhaften Ausbesserung des Fehlers sind noch die falschen Zahlen zu erkennen. Einem Mann, der aus seiner Herkunft ein Leben lang eine Legende gemacht hat, hat man ein undeutliches Geburtsdatum geschenkt.

Vor 75 Jahren wurde hier gebetet und gestritten. Juden und Katholiken, Kommunisten und Monarchisten wollten alle einen Anteil am Ruhme Roths. 2014 trennt uns Besucher des Grabes nichts, sondern sind wir vereint in der Verehrung eines ganz wunderbaren Schriftstellers und Journalisten.


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Hier einige ausgewählte Fotos des Besuchs von Joseph Roths Grab am Cimetière Parisien de Thiais mit der Internationalen Joseph Roth Gesellschaft am 28. Mai 2014. Die ganze Serie findet sich hier.