Every woman in America has a French dream in her head, especially a Parisian one.
Until you've been kissed on a rainy Parisian afternoon - you've never been kissed.
It is now many years that men have resorted to the forest for fuel and the materials of the arts: the New Englander and the New Hollander, the Parisian and the Celt, the farmer and Robin Hood, Goody Blake and Harry Gill; in most parts of the world, the prince and the peasant, the scholar and the savage, equally require still a few sticks from the forest to warm them and cook their food. Neither could I do without them.
I know that atmosphere of the Parisian apartment building, with the twin menaces of the concierge on the ground floor and the landlord upstairs.
I think all girls in the world wish they were a Parisian girl - that sort of effortless chic confidence and comfort in their own skin.
Abdellatif [Laâbi] was wildly popular with his students and it wasn't difficult to see why: like them, he knew that average Moroccans were hungry, jobless and desperate. They also knew they were ruled by a paranoid king who was more comfortable with Parisian financiers than his own subjects.
And what excites me most is the type of public, the fact that the Parisian people have a broader cultural understanding than many Americans do.
