Some evening of mid-June, in 2006, I had dinner with RF. Somewhere near Bercy, I think– I remember seeing the bibliothèque nationale on the way to the restaurant. At some point RF mentioned the Pont Mirabeau, or Apollinaire. He tried to recall the words to the poem of the Bridge, but could not remember. So, on the way back, we stopped by the bridge and read the plaque– then the words were clear. Later I read the poem, which I liked a lot, and whose images and tone, if not words, I still remember well.

I took a lesson from the experience. I learned to pay attention to things– particularly in Paris– and then also to ask questions of the places I passed through. I realized one had to read the city closely and symbolically, as if it was a painting or a poem. I imagined that most tourists, to their loss, would rarely pass by the Pont Mirabeau, and if they did, would never stop to read the plaque, which is somewhat tucked away.

The first day of this year I noticed and– for the first time– read the inscriptions on the Palais de Chaillot on the Trocadéro. The lesson not forgotten, I took a photograph of one, to remember to look them up on my return.

Here they are:

Il dépend de celui qui passe
Que je sois tombe ou trésor
Que je parle ou me taise
Ceci ne tient qu’à toi
Ami n’entre pas sans désir

Tout homme crée sans le savoir
Comme il respire
Mais l’artiste se sent créer
Son acte engage tout son être
Sa peine bien aimée le fortifie

Choses rares ou choses belles
Ici savamment assemblées
Instruisent l’œil à regarder
Comme jamais encore vues
Toutes choses qui sont au monde

Dans ces murs voués aux merveilles
J’accueille et garde les ouvrages
De la main prodigieuse de l’artiste
Égale et rivale de sa pensée
L’une n’est rien sans l’autre

They were written, as far as I can tell, by Paul Valéry.

These are my very rough translations– to be taken with a grain of salt, as I haven’t studied any French for about six years now.

It depends on him who passes
Whether I am tomb or treasure
Whether I speak or remain silent
This only depends on you
Friend, do not enter without desire

All men create without knowing it
As they breathe
But the artist feels himself creating
His act engages all his being
His pain, well-loved, strengthens him

Things rare or things beautiful
Here judiciously gathered
Instruct the eye to see
As it has yet never seen
All things which are in the world

Within these walls devoted to wonders
I welcome and guard the works
Of the prodigious hand of the artist
Equal and rival of his thought
One is nothing without the other