The first thing that strikes a visitor to Paris is a taxi.
Quarrels in France strengthen a love affair, in America they end it.
I asked a French critic a couple of years ago why my books did so well in France. He said it was because in my novels people both act and think. I got a kick out of that.
I was in the invasion of Normandy in southern France.
It is the end. But of what? The end of France? No. The end of kings? Yes.
France, for example, loves at the same time history and the drama, because the one explores the vast destinies of humanity, and the other the individual lot of man.
Remember gentleman, it's not just France we're fighting for, it's Champagne!
English people don't have very good diction. In France you have to pronounce very particularly and clearly, and learning French at an early age helped me enormously.
One mustn't ask apple trees for oranges, France for sun, women for love, life for happiness.
If it were not for the government, we should have nothing to laugh at in France.
Everything ends this way in France — everything. Weddings, christenings, duels, burials, swindlings, diplomatic affairs — everything is a pretext for a good dinner.
The best of America drifts to Paris. The American in Paris is the best American. It is more fun for an intelligent person to live in an intelligent country. France has the only two things toward which we drift as we grow older—intelligence and good manners.
It's very frustrating making a picture in Paris. We work hard all day at the studio to get a love scene just right. Then, on my way home, I see couples on every street corner doing it better.
From Paris we took the Orient Express to Vienna. I must say I was terribly disappointed; nobody was murdered on the train.
In France, for example, it is not unusual for a husband to have a wife and a mistress. However, if in addition to these two he's also having a fling with a fringe tootsie, both the wife and the mistress are outraged and the combination lover, husband, and cheat may well wind up with a large French bread knife between his ribs.
When Ronald Reagan was elected I was on a bus traveling with a band in France. I wrote a little arrangement of The Star Spangled Banner in a minor key.
I still have agents in France, Los Angeles and Amsterdam who call and suggest parts. I'd love to keep on doing both painting and acting until the end of my days.
So, thanks God, our films, our first films were suddenly being appreciated by the Western media; especially France was very good, and Switzerland was very good.
There's a very apt saying in show business: "If you don't go over budget in Paris, you're either very rich or very sick. "
Being identified as a poet in France or Denmark or India one is greeted with gracious respect.
I have great satisfaction in stating that our relations with France, Russia, and other powers continue on the most friendly basis.
I only speak a little pigeon French. Just enough to get by with the little French pigeons.
Anyway, I collapsed in France in the middle of a tour. I hadn't been eating properly, I was getting very phobic about audiences, and I collapsed in pure fright.
It's a wonderful way to live, and not a bad way to go, either. The average Frenchman is still smiling three months after he's dead.
In France, I learned about wine and cheese.
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