New York and Voyage au bout de la nuit

Yesterday, I let you into my Sorbonne world a little bit; I nearly decided to write about something else today, but I know that there’s no better way to write well than to write about something you care about, and what I care about right now is my French Novels professor.

Not in that way. He’s the sort of person I’d like to take out to coffee and sit and listen to for hours, but I have no desire to learn his first name. I just want him to tell me everything he likes and everything he cares about, because when he talks about something he loves, it makes me fall in love with it as well. His tastes change as quickly as mine do; the author of the week is not only in his lesson plans but in his heart, his “favorite” for two hours as he discusses them.

A few weeks ago, this favorite was Céline. He read aloud from Voyage au bout de la nuit, and I spent half of class clinging to his words drippily and wide eyed and the other half scribbling down passages I wanted to remember, because, you see, Voyage au bout de la nuit is about the opposite voyage from the one I’ve taken: this one from Paris to New York.

I wasn’t sure whether I would share these passages with you. After all, they’re in French, and while I know that some of my readers speak French, I also know that not all of you do. I considered translating them, but translation, as I learned today, is the work of a traitor–“traduttore traditore“–and at any rate, I doubt I could do it any justice.

Instead, I offer a compromise: the original words of Céline, for you Francophones, and my interpretation of what was said, one expat’s version of another expat’s vision.

What struck me first and foremost was the narrator’s first impression of my hometown. First impressions are everything, or so goes the saying, and for the narrator, New York struck as a city that was debout–standing–as opposed to the European cities, which languish at riverbanks or by seasides or ports. Perhaps New York does seem towering to some–to me, it’s normal until I come back here and remember that there are some places where you don’t need to crane your neck to see.

Figurez vous qu’elle était debout leur ville, absolument droite. New York c’est une ville debout. On en avait déjà vu nous des villes, bien sur, et des belles encore, et des ports et des fameux même. Mais chez nous, n’est-ce pas, elles sont couchées les villes, au bord de la mer ou sur les fleuves, elles s’allongent sur le paysage, elles attendent le voyageur, tandis que celle-là, l’Américaine, elle ne se pâmait pas, non, elle se tenait bien raide, là, pas baisante du tout, raide à faire peur.

His second impression was with regards to American–especially New Yorker–reverence for money. He personifies Dollar as God, says that wandering into a Manhattan bank is like walking into a Church. Yet another impression of my own country and city that I’ve never had, but not one I’m sure I can honestly refute.

Ils ne veulent recevoir chez eux en somme que les curieux qui leur apportent du pognon, parce que tous les argents d’Europe, c’est des fils à Dollar(…)C’était le quartier précieux, qu’on m’a expliqué plus tard, le quartier pour l’or : Manhattan. On n’y entre qu’à pied, comme à l’église.

The last description has to do with New York’s light… it’s one that I can understand, perhaps best of all. He describes it as a sickly light, a grey light that filled the streets like a giant mass of dirty cotton. Living in New York, even last year, even after all of my time in Paris, I never would have agreed, but now, when I see the light in Paris–even on grey days like today–I realize that he’s right. New York has a greyness about it that’s not altogether bad, but I can only imagine what a newcomer to the city I left from the city I’ve adopted must think of us.

Nous on avançait dans la lueur d’en bas, malade comme celle de la foret et si grise que la rue en était pleine comme un gros mélange de coton sale.

Then again… we do have Central Park. Say what you wish, but there’s nothing like crisp winter days in Central Park.

Because it was made in New York, because Italian-American food is inextricably intertwined with the life of a New Yorker, because there’s nothing better after a day of grey light–be it in the City of Lights or the Big Apple–than a warm bowl of soup.

Straccietelle Soup (adapted from Giada di Laurentiis)

6 cups reduced-sodium chicken broth
2 large eggs
2 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan
2 tablepoons chopped fresh basil leaves
1 cup lightly packed spinach leaves
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Bring the broth to a boil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. In a bowl, whisk the eggs, cheese, parsley, and basil to blend.

Reduce the heat to medium-low. Stir the broth in a circular motion. Gradually drizzle the egg mixture into the moving broth, stirring gently with a fork to form thin strands of egg, about 1 minute. Stir in the spinach, then season the soup, to taste, with salt and pepper.