Quotes About Paris

London! the needy villain's general home, The common sewer of Paris and of Rome! With eager thirst, by folly or by fate, Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state.

I was born in Paris, and it's a beautiful place, but London feels like home. I like the village feeling, I like running in the parks - even the food isn't as bad as it used to be.

My lifetime's memories are what I have brought home from the trip. I will require them for eternity no more than that little souvenir of the Eiffel Tower I brought home from Paris.

That's when I began drinking coffee. I was hung up on every little thing. I loved Paris, and felt straightaway at home. Not to be grandiose, but it seemed like all the city had been waiting for me.

I hope that some day scientists can be considered heroes again, instead of Paris Hilton.

Outside of Paris, there is no hope for the cultured.

Just the way in Europe, Paris, Copenhagen, and Stockholm, and Frankfurt, possibly and Berlin, certainly, all had important roles, because of independence. Because they were depending on themselves.

I have a picture of the Pont Neuf on a wall in my apartment, but i know that Paris is really on the closet shelf, in the box next to the sleeping bag, with the rest of my diaries.

I thought of Paris as a beauty spot on the face of the earth, and of London as a big freckle.

Paris practices its sins as lightly as it does its religion, while London practices both very seriously.

Contemporary records reveal that in cities such as Paris the various craftsmen involved in the production of books—illuminators, ink and parchment makers, bookbinders and so forth—tended to live side by side in specific streets or neighbourhoods, which made co-operation easy.

Though you may leave Paris, Paris never really leaves you.

Paris does something to a person. It unleashes the pent-up romantic. Even if you're not the touchy-feely type, you find yourself begging to hold hands and grope the nearest person as you walk over a bridge just so you can say later that you did it and wasn't that marvelous. What was his name? Does it matter?

Even the ones you don't like, you like better in Paris.

Des milliers et des milliers d'années Ne sauraient suffire Pour dire La petite seconde d'éternité Où tu m'as embrassé Où je t'ai embrassèe Un matin dans la lumière de l'hiver Au parc Montsouris à Paris A Paris Sur la terre La terre qui est un astre.

Your Paris is more dangerous than my savage jungles, Paul, concluded Tarzan

He preferred to spend the afternoon in solitary roamings through Paris. He had to deal all at once with the packed regrets and stifled memories of an inarticulate lifetime.

His European visits were infrequent enough to have kept unimpaired the freshness of his eye, and he was always struck anew by the vast and consummately ordered spectacle of Paris: by its look of having been boldly and deliberately planned as a background for the enjoyment of life, instead of being forced into grudging concessions to the festive instincts, or barricading itself against them in unenlightened ugliness, like his own lamentable New York.

prayers of St. Genevieve diverted the march of Attila from the neighborhood of Paris. But as the greatest part of the Gallic cities were alike destitute of saints and soldiers, they were besieged and stormed by the Huns; who practised, in the example of Metz, their customary maxims of war.

Las calles tenían nombres descriptivos, acordes a sus condiciones y uso, como Pute-y-Muse (Puta Perezosa), Merdeuse (Mierdosa), Tire-Boudin (Tira-Vergas) y otros incluso peores.

Immediately across the bridge he encountered the other two. On his left, the Grand Palais, and on his right, the Petit Palais. If the great fair of 1889 had bequeathed Paris the Eiffel Tower, the next fair at the turn of the century had left these two magnificent pavilions: a facing pair of exhibition halls that started as handsome stone museums and, as they rose, turned into soaring Art Nouveau glass houses. They were like opera houses made of glass, he thought, and flanking the short avenue

Yet old Paris was still there, around almost every corner, with her memories of centuries past, and of lives relived. Memories as haunting as an old, half-forgotten tune that, when played again--in another age, in another key, whether on harp or hurdy-gurdy--is still the same. This was her enduring grace.

Was Paris now at peace with herself? She had suffered and survived, seen empires rise and fall. Chaos and dictatorship, monarchy and republic: Paris had tried them all. And which did she like best? Ah, there was a question . . . For all her age and grace, it seemed she did not know.

The word for her in Paris, a courtesan who had made it to the stage, was grue—it happened so often there was a word for it.