Quotes About Paris

The English and the French have not a single memory in common. Everything that London suffered with pride, Paris suffered in shame and despair. It is important for us to learn to speak of ourselves without emotion

there's something about Paris that gives you a mental slap all the time, and you can't just sit still and do nothing. You've got to work, to keep up with the pace, the sting in the atmosphere.

When I started to work in Paris in fine dining, the passion really kicked in, and I knew that I would not, for the rest of my life, do anything else.

While in Paris, I got into modeling - photographers would literally stop me on the street.

When the franc was in danger of collapsing in 1956, it was the Americans who propped it up and their reward was to be insulted and swindled on the streets of Paris. I was there. I saw it.

The rocky time came right after I left school. I spent a lot of time at night navigating the streets of Paris trying to find something to eat.

I love New York City. The energy, the theatre, the art, the food, the people, the parks and streets. But I could say the same of London or Paris, too.

I always played football with my friends on the streets of Eure, in Normandy, not far from Paris.

I love Milan because it's my home town. But Paris is the dream city: even when you're stressed out in shows, you look around, and everything is so beautiful. Then, in New York, I love the energy of the city.

For me, playing music while I write is important. Several of the romantic scenes in 'Paris' were written with Debussy's 'String Quartet,' his 'L'Apres-midi d'une Faune,' or Canteloube's 'Songs of the Auvergne' playing in the background.

I have lived most of my life in Paris, but I have a connection with Rome that I have with no other place. I'm attached by invisible strings.

Where streetlights failed, there were lanternmen. The lanternmen—numbered, so the police could keep track of them—waited around the doors of townhouses in Paris whenever an entertainment was going on inside, and, for a few coins, one of them would accompany a reveler home, lighting his way even up the stairs and into his room.

This gray little town fifty miles north of Paris acquired an outsized reputation for royal scandal, misbehavior, and debauchery, which in eighteenth-century France was saying something.

Smiling slyly, pleased with herself, Lady Dant shut the wardrobe door, but she could not shut out from the mind of Mrs Harris what she had seen there: beauty, perfection, the ultimate in adornment that a woman could desire. Mrs Harris was no less a woman than Lady Dant, or any other. She wanted, she wanted, she wanted a dress from what must be surely the most expensive shop in the world, that of Mr Dior in Paris.

Our benefactor is retired Army Command Sergeant Major, a decorated Korean War veteran, who was given what we call a "plum assignment" at SHAPE just outside of Paris where he worked as an intelligence analyst and was given a Cosmic Top Secret clearance, the highest in the Command. It was there that his profound inner transformation from innocent "good soldier" to disillusioned, concerned citizen took place.

A young Mexican student in Paris—the unknown and yet to be published Octavio Paz—approached Beckett with a proposal to translate one hundred poems by thirty-five Mexican writers. This would be financed, as a worthy cultural project, with funds from UNESCO.

Like Rick in Casablanca: "We'll always have Paris." When what we'll always have is, like, Brooklyn and arguments about [Lev] Trotsky.

As an artist one has no home in Europe except in Paris.

I'd like to go back to Paris someday and visit the Lourve museum, get a good running start, and hurl myself at the wall.

I have looked for the center of the art scene. I went to Paris as a student. I lived in Venice, California.

Art is fantastic, but it's also that you come to Paris, you call me, I come to New York, I come to visit you, we hang out together, and that's art.

Ironically, even the fashion in New York or Paris or Milan or whatever, or music in Berlin, or art in, I don't know, Madrid - all these scenes come and go. Everything leads back to Hollywood.

The sculptor, the painter the musician the dancer, or any artist, if he can first obtain celebrate in Paris, acquires very easily the esteem and eulogy of other countries.

Paris and Fashion. Books and Art. What would one be ... without the other?