A SERIOUS TEXT ABOUT HUMOR

There is nothing more difficult than explaining humor. Nothing more boring, either. Humor is very particular, it has its own color and culture.

If you had to describe Parisian humor, you could say it is both cold and sarcastic. You would find it is prone to joyous despair, likes paradox, and entertains a rather disillusioned idea of life and love (coupled with the certainty that they are both nevertheless worth it). Favorite humorous topics include the relationship between men and women, often from a sexual point of view, as well as the balance of power between the two. It is irreverent and touches on taboos without being completely scathing. It will not lapse into “jokes” per se, but it is omnipresent and used whenever, wherever possible. It is a snobbish humor, often with a bit of self-deprecation. Indeed, playing up the least flattering anecdotes about yourself is considered good taste. Amusing your friends by recounting your setbacks or embarrassments is a genuine sport, practiced by Parisians who otherwise do none, because laughing at yourself is better for your health than crying (especially in the absence of any other sport).

“Will you be my first wife?”

Sacha Guitry

A KIND OF BLUE

She’s Parisian,which is to say she’s melancholy. Her mood responds to the changing colors of her city. She can feel a sudden surge of sorrow or even hope for no reason at all. In the blink of an eye, all those lost memories and smells come flooding back, reminding her of loved ones who are no longer there. And time passing by.

It never lasts very long, but this particular mood takes her away from the world for a few instants and gives her that absentminded, absorbed look she has every now and again.

She’s sitting alone in a restaurant. She’s not waiting for anyone, her book is on the table as she gazes so far off into the distance that her surroundings are a blur and she doesn’t even hear the laughter around her.

From a taxi she watches silently as neighborhoods unfold before her and happy people hurry by. She sighs and asks the driver to turn up the music to help drown out her thoughts.

In the early morning she’s the lone figure walking out of the Métro as the crowds rush in. Her hair is a bit disheveled and she still is wearing her jewelry from last night. As she heads home her heart is breaking, but no one will ever know why.

Someone is talking to her, but she’s not listening … All she can think about is the faint smell of burning candles that carries her back to a long-lost part of her childhood.

During the summer months she is particularly sensitive as the daylight begins to fade. She feels as though the world’s troubles are flowing through her. She doesn’t feel like talking, and stays in her bedroom until the sun has set.

Date: 2016-01-14; view: 812