What is this constantly shimmering desire that consumes me when I am not in Paris, and then positively pulsates off me when I am there? The other morning before I fully awoke, a word throbbed around my waking dream, flashing by like so many train stations. The word in thick bold font was “erotomane”. In my semi-sleep state, I was not sure what it meant exactly and there were no other accompanying images with this single moving word. Although I comprehended its root “ero”, it wasn’t a word I was familiar with in English. As soon as I could rouse myself out of bed, I looked it up in my old trusty Oxford dictionary – “erotomania”: excessive or morbid erotic desire; preoccupation with sexual passion. Then I googled it…”erotomane”, the German word for sex maniac! Hmmm…okay…so?
The French definition in Wikipedia is much more erudite. “Erotomanie” is a condition that was first identified by a French psychiatrist, Gaetan Gatian de Clérambault, who published a book about this disturbing syndrome, Les Psychoses Passionnelles, in 1921. Monsieur de Clérambault’s analysis of erotomanie is not sexually based, but more of an obsessive passion that manifests itself in three stages: the first phase being hope, as in hope that the object or person of desire will requite the love and then hopefully, declare it openly as well. The second phase is, of course, hopelessness, because no rational person would fall for such an unstable love-crazed stalker shooting annoyingly sharp Cupid’s arrows willy-nilly at him. Then, finally…la phase de rancune – the rancorous and spiteful stage, where all hell breaks loose and somebody will eventually get it! And anything left standing will be in need of psychotherapy forever.
I know, so much more than I needed to know first thing in the morning…and how does this relate to my “shimmering desire”, you ask? Well, after much thought over my third café soya, I believed that I may be in Phase 1 [the "hope for love back" stage] of my relationship with Paris…yes, Paris, the city. I have been mad about Paris for many years now, with never a thought as to how she [she, because Paris is an elegant grande dame and a capricious coquette all rolled into one glorious package, and like the ardent Madame de Sévigné, a woman of "infinite variety", a woman "for all seasons"] really felt about me. Perhaps now I am beginning to need a little more back!
Perhaps I want her to grab me and hold me tight when I have to leave, and tell me that she cannot live without me. I fantasize that she will bribe me with an exciting and well-paying job, that she promises that I can stay as long as I’d like in her lovely apartment in the Marais, that life without me here would be unbearable, intolerable, a tormented hellhole! [I can be as melodramatic as I want - I am not anglo!]
Well, I finally had to go and read some french poetry to calm myself down. I found a little poem by Jules Supervielle…“Dans la Forêt”
Dans la forêt sans heures/ on abat un grand arbre./ Un vide vertical/ tremble en forme de fût/ près du tronc étendu.
Cherchez, cherchez, oiseaux,/ la place de vos nids/ dans ce haut souvenir/ tant qu’il murmure encore.
Hmm…little birds needing to look for a new tree to nest in… [Hear that, Paris?...you should know that Stockholm has been casting amorous glances my way...]
Later that morning, I was speaking to Monsieur L on the phone – he was not in Paris as well – and near the end of our usual interminable phone conversation, he mentioned that he had been reading a small book by Jules Supervielle! La Belle au Bois, it’s called, he said…”you should read it, too!” I was quite startled by the serendipitous coincidence of both of us reading the words of the same author at the same time without planning to, and what was stranger still was that neither of us had read this little known writer [1884-1960, born to French parents in Uruguay, and lived in Paris for many years] before this. We promised to discuss his work some more when next in Paris together. Oh yes, back to Paris…again, soon…
Now that my Phase 1 Erotomanie had subsided somewhat after a large dose of long-distance frenchness, I was determined not to be too fixated on a love that will always be a little stand-offish and somewhat self-absorbed…and yet, hopefully always there when I need her, to be seduced all over again.
Louis Aragon had once aptly and vividly described his conflicted emotions on the seduction of women as such… “I fondle my delirium like a pretty pony.”
And I will, too, for now… all the while whispering, “Paris, tu me manque… tu me manque…toujours…”
