From May 2010, dispatch from Paris.
The grave of Oscar Wilde, Pere Lachaise Cemetery, Paris
On this hot, humid day, with the possibility of a storm lurking not too far, we–Bob and I–made it to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery. After a long meandering walk and warm words to Balzac, Chopin and others, we arrived at Oscar Wilde. Because of the tragic way his life had ended, I expected a somber sort of a monument, black stone perhaps like Proust’s, or white marble like Chopin’s or even some sort of variation–or perhaps parody?–of Balzac. But Oscar Wilde’s gravestone is, to my limited, two-hour stroll, like no other. Not only for the kisses implanted on the actual stone, but also the etched writing (which make his grave a brother to Jim Morrison’s), but more so the actual design, with the image of flight arching over the actual grave, as though the grave were and were not a solid…
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