Word: gare
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...Would you like a chocolate, mad-ame?" asked the elegant Oriental as the overnight express to St.-Gervais in the French Alps pulled out of Paris' Gare de Lyon. Even though she should have been careful-after all, she and the stranger were alone in the compartment -Mme. Huguette Munck accepted a bonbon. It tasted bitter...
...shipped, I drove an elevator on the America, and when we hit Le Havre I was off with the first. It was three A.M. We had five hours before sailing. Everyone stormed into town, heading for Suzanne's, the combination bar and whore-house en face de la gare. Down the block is its rival, the Algiers Bar, open to Algerians only. The French government rules all such places closed until five in the morning, but the metal slats were kept down, while 'unimaginable scenes of riot' took place. God, it was like the movies, with the whores pouring...
Since Rouault's death in 1958, this work has lain in his studio near the Gare de Lyon, a big apartment whose address he kept secret to avoid visitors. He always hoped that his thick, glowing paintings would eventually be shown in some place that, unlike France's many one-man museums, would be widely known and easily accessible. This was also the dream of his daughter ("my little dove") Isabelle, who has devoted her life to her father's work. A few weeks ago Minister of Culture André Malraux told her of the museum plan...
...police have succeeded in driving most brothels underground, but an estimated 20,000 prostitutes are still available to tourists and domestic males. The most expensive (around $20) work the Champs-Elysées, and in a declining order of price and pulchritude come the girls of the Madeleine, the Gare Montparnasse. Place Pigalle and Les Halles. Britain's Street Offenses Act, passed in 1959, has ended the processions of undulating whores that used to fill up Piccadilly Circus, Bayswater Road and Hyde Park. Borrowing a trick from their sisters in Amsterdam, many London prostitutes now sit at the upper...
...nightmare to narrative. Time at times turns rubber in his hands, and images live a violent private life; even Welles has seldom matched the visual bravura of The Trial. Much of the film was shot on one of the most spectacular sets a camera ever saw: the abandoned Gare d'Orsay in Paris. Once the great terminal was a cast-iron cathedral of transport. Now it is a colossal hunk of Victorian junk, a sagging cavern, dim and vast, that dribbles dainty stalactites of iron filigree: a world like Kafka's world, a dead world waiting...