París era una festa

Març 2016. Després del terratrèmol que ho ha sacsejat tot, París... Un pelegrinatge pendent: la primera casa de Hemingway a París, al carrer Cardinal Lemoine, 74, un matí assolellat i fred de primavera. Aquell començament: “Then there was the bad weather. It would come in one day when the fall was over. (…) The leaves lay sodden in the rain and the cold wind would strip the leaves from the trees in the Place Contrescarpe. (…) The Café des Amateurs was the cesspool of the rue Mouffetard, that wonderful narrow crowded market street which led into the Place Contrescarpe”. Aquella lliçó: “Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know”. Aquell final, el de París era una festa/A moveable feast, el de la ciutat dels somnis d'aquell poeta de disset anys: “París was never to be the same again although it was always. Paris and you changed as it changed. (…) There is never ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. (…) Paris was always worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it. But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy”.  

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