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Au Train de Vie: That Voice You Hear When Traveling

Au Train de Vie: That Voice You Hear When Traveling Au Train de Vie That Voice You Hear When Traveling Peter LaSalle Photo by ViPier essay I accepted with no other conscious prejudice on my walk than that of avoiding the wider avenues or streets, the most obscure invitations of chance. However, a kind of familiar gravitation led me farther on, in the direction of a certain neighborhood, the names of which I have every desire to recall and which dictate reverence to my heart. --Borges, "A New Refutation of Time" I don't know who I dream I am. --Pessoa, from a poem I'll be honest. I had a couple of large sadnesses to confront that summer in Paris. So I suppose it wasn't surprising that it repeatedly happened. You see, I often found myself at this one spot at the end of my meandering walks through the balmy, traffic-empty streets of the early evening. The walks were in an everyday pocket of the Grands Boulevards, toward Place de la République--the outdoor cafés along the boulevards crowded but not noisy, if that makes any sense, the puzzle-barked plane trees even greener and leafier than the last time you noticed, if that makes any sense, too, everything in almost http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png The Missouri Review University of Missouri

Au Train de Vie: That Voice You Hear When Traveling

The Missouri Review , Volume 36 (2) – Jul 19, 2013

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Publisher
University of Missouri
Copyright
Copyright © The Curators of the University of Missouri.
ISSN
1548-9930
Publisher site
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Abstract

Au Train de Vie That Voice You Hear When Traveling Peter LaSalle Photo by ViPier essay I accepted with no other conscious prejudice on my walk than that of avoiding the wider avenues or streets, the most obscure invitations of chance. However, a kind of familiar gravitation led me farther on, in the direction of a certain neighborhood, the names of which I have every desire to recall and which dictate reverence to my heart. --Borges, "A New Refutation of Time" I don't know who I dream I am. --Pessoa, from a poem I'll be honest. I had a couple of large sadnesses to confront that summer in Paris. So I suppose it wasn't surprising that it repeatedly happened. You see, I often found myself at this one spot at the end of my meandering walks through the balmy, traffic-empty streets of the early evening. The walks were in an everyday pocket of the Grands Boulevards, toward Place de la République--the outdoor cafés along the boulevards crowded but not noisy, if that makes any sense, the puzzle-barked plane trees even greener and leafier than the last time you noticed, if that makes any sense, too, everything in almost

Journal

The Missouri ReviewUniversity of Missouri

Published: Jul 19, 2013

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