Isn’t Paris a vast field constantly whirled around by a hurricane of vested interests beneath which a monsoon of humans swirls about, whom death reaps more frequently than it does elsewhere? And aren’t these humans always reborn just as tense as before, their faces contorted and twisted, divulging from every pore the thoughts, desires, and poisons their brains are obsessed with? Not faces, but masks—masks of weakness, masks of strength, masks of misery, masks of joy, masks of hypocrisy, all of them exhausted, all imprinted with the indelible signs of a panting greed. What do they want? Gold? Or pleasure? Some observations about the soul of Paris might explain the causes for its cadaverous physiognomy that has only two ages—youth or caducity: a pallid, colorless youth, or a feeble decrepitude caked with makeup that tries to look young. Seeing this disinterred population, foreigners, if not enjoined to reflect, first of all experience a feeling of disgust for this capital, this immense workshop of sensual pleasures, which they themselves will soon no longer be able to leave, and where they will willingly remain to deform themselves.
What do You think about The Girl With The Golden Eyes?
