I Am Moving In A Manner Akin To A Fly Whose Posterior Is A Shade Towards The Violet End Of The Spectrum, Frankly

Insanely busy today, so on the basis that a pretty picture may be worth more than a thousand words (especially when they’re words from me), I thought I’d share this; Les Escaliers De Montmartre by Brassai (no relation to the Chris Morris programme, as far as I know).

I have a copy of this picture hanging in the lounge chez nous, and it proves Keats right – a thing of beauty is indeed a joy forever. Just looking at it makes me feel somehow better inside.

And much to my delight, if you visit Montmartre (which is in, I almost forgot to mention, Paris), the same stairs can still be seen… but no, they’re not the ones at the end of The Exorcist.

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3 Comments

  1. Sadly, these days, you climb those steps and arrive at the top wheezing and sore of leg to find the lovely view of Paris blocked by three hundred tour coaches. Montmartre isn’t what it was!

    Mark

  2. I do have to admit that I may have been one of the tourists cluttering up the landscape, though in my defence I wouldn’t go on a coach to Paris; the Metro (and seeing the differences between it and London’s Tube) and walking round Paris is one of the things I like about being there…

    J

  3. Don;t apologise. I probably sounded like a right snob there, as if it was *my* Montmatre!

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