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IRIS’ PARIS

Iris is the epitome of the Parisian woman. She only wants the best.
She is well known in the most glamorous places.

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JO’S PARIS

"The yellow eyes of crocodiles" will be released in the States on Tuesday December 31. The main characters of the story live in Paris and i invite you to discover their Paris!

Today: JO’S PARIS
She is a shy and sweet intellectual. Her Paris is a timeless Paris made of old bookshops, museums, gardens…

Want to know more about Jo? Click here

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Your messages have touched me. Very, very much. I had started to respond to each of you one by one…but I would start crying as I wrote. So I stopped. It’s enough that I write the word “Chaussette,” and I start sniffing furiously. 

The other day I went to the Carrefour. I had my shopping list. I searched for peanuts (for Mister George, the squirrel that lives in my garden), sponges, yogurt, detergent, garbage bags, etc. I lifted my head and caught a glimpse of the dog food aisle and I burst into tears! 

I have read each of your letters and have received all of your love.
Thank you for your presence.
Thank you for your stories, your kind and tender words.
I read them and took them like the nuzzles of a dog’s nose.
Okay, enough already, I’m starting to cry again!
This time with a smile...

My Jules...

Books are some of the greatest remedies for sorrow. 
Tell me your ailment, and I will prescribe you an author. La Rochefoucauld, La Bruyère or Barbey d’Aurevilly? 
Excellent for broken hearts, bruised friendships, hiccups. Take two or three pages each day. And let them melt in your head. 
The Correspondence of Flaubert in the Pléiade? Can cure even a heart attack. Consume without moderation. 
Colette? For a stubborn ache that only needs some alleviation. 
Saki? A very light unhappiness. A yawn. 
Etc.  

What am I rereading these days? 
Jules Renard. 
The journal of Jules Renard. Éditions Bouquins.
A delight. 
His intelligence makes you smile. With his formula, he’ll lift you and place you right side up back into your life. He writes about Paris, he writes about the country, about man, about beast. 
An excerpt? 
“Soirée. Des femmes si décolletées que, quand on leur parle d'un peu près, on croit parler à des femmes nues. Et moi pérorant, donnant des consultations à deux vieilles jeunes filles avec qui je ne voudrais pas coucher, tout habillées. D'autres énormes femmes qui se sont fait souffler dans les seins avant que de venir, et, peu à peu, ils fuient et se dégonflent. 
On entendrait voler une montre."
“Evening. Ladies with such cleavage that, when one speaks to them a bit closely, one has the impression of speaking to naked women. And me, orating, giving consultations to two older young girls with whom I would not want to sleep, fully dressed. Other enormous women who have inflated their breasts before arriving, and, little by little, they deflate. One could hear the theft of a watch.” 
Or: 
"Quand une femme vous dit, "un homme comme vous…", c'est une façon de dire "quand vous voudrez, monsieur".
“When a women tells you, “a man like you…,” it’s a way of saying “when you’d like, sir.” I suck on these words like candy. I fall asleep smiling. 
They are my blankies.

Chaussette...

ChaussetteChaussette has died. Friday afternoon. And not a tear is left in my body. My friend Chaussette. 17 years of communal living. He would wake up at the same time and I, take his biscuit—he would walk with it from room to room before taking a bite—while I drank my tea. He would walk around the garden in Normandy or position himself on the balcony in Paris to watch the street and monitor traffic. He barked, stood guard, I read the papers, took notes. Each had his own work. At 2 pm, he would enter my office and curl up at my feet. I would use his fur for slippers, he would sigh. He took long naps and, at 7 pm, he would tickle my leg, signaling that the writing was done for the day. A long walk in the streets of Paris, or in Normandy. I never leashed him. He gamboled. He stopped at red lights. Would wait for me, and take off again. Sniff at he favorite spots. Turn around. Check that I wasn’t too far. We could walk for a while. And we would start again at night around midnight. When everyone was asleep. He was my friend. We spent the last night enveloped in each others’ arms and paws. I breathed with him to chase away his pain. And, I made an appointment with the vet. He was suffering too much. And then, it was finished.