I'll just say this: The last problem Paris Hilton has is being in a John McCain ad.
There is something about big cities that turns me on, and for whatever mysterious reason, places like New York and Paris inspire me. I think it's because cities represent civilization, and as crime-ridden and broken down as some of them are, it's still better than skipping through a meadow.
New York is my home and I have a particular fondness for it. I think it's a place where you can generate any kind of story wonderfully. But I also would be very happy to make a film in Paris or Rome.
If you really think back to the culture or just black America before rap music took off, New York could have been Paris.
The only time France wants us to go to war is when the German Army is sitting in Paris sipping coffee.
Paris is where my family are, but it's not really home now because I have dear friends in London and dear friends in New York.
I knew Id have to go to Paris eventually, and I didnt want to be the provincial kid who just turns up and says, I want to act.
I lived in Paris for six months when I was sixteen. It was a fend-for-yourself environment.
Three million frogs' legs are served in Paris - daily. Nobody knows what became of the rest of the frogs.
Paris Hilton's house was pretty exciting.
The last time the French asked for 'more proof' it came marching into Paris under a German flag
When I stand at the top of the Champs-Elysées, with its chestnut trees in flower, its undulations of shining cars, its white spaciousness, I feel as if I were biting into a utopian fruit, something velvety and lustrous and rich and vivid.
[On Paris:] A city never entirely known, yet which gives you the feeling of intimacy, of possessing it intimately.
The monotony of provincial life attracts the attention of people to the kitchen. You do not dine as luxuriously in the provinces as in Paris, but you dine better, because the dishes serve you are the result of mediation and study.
In Paris every man must have had a love affair. What woman wants something that no other woman ever wanted.
Paris, like every pretty woman, is subject to inexplicable whims of beauty and ugliness.
One day, about the middle of July 1838, one of the carriages, lately introduced to Paris cabstands, and known as Milords, was driving down the Rue de l'Universite, conveying a stout man of middle height in the uniform of a captain of the National Guard.
The fashions we call English in Paris are French in London, and vice versa. Franco-British hostility vanishes when it comes to questions of words and clothing. God save the King is a tune composed by Lully for a chorus in a play by Racine.
Does anyone know where these gondolas of Paris come from? [Fr., Ne sait on pas ou viennent ces gondoles Parisiennes?]
A life lived in chaos is an impossibility for the artist. No matter how unstructured may seem the painter's garret in Paris or the poet's pad in Greenwich Village, the artist must have some kind of order or he will proudce a very small body of work. To create a work of art, great or small, is work, hard work, and work requires discipline and order.
Human beings are more alike than unalike. Whether in Paris, Texas, or Paris, France, we all want to have good jobs where we are needed and respected and paid just a little more than we deserve. We want healthy children, safe streets, to be loved and have the unmitigated gall to accept love. If we are religious, we want a place to perpetuate God. If not, we want a good lecture every once in a while. And everyone wants someplace to party on Saturday nights.
remember this: no matter how politely or distinctly you ask a Parisian a question he will persist in answering you in French.
The younger generation forms a country of its own. It has no geographical boundaries. I've talked with young Hungarians in Budapest, with young Italians in Rome, with young Frenchmen in Paris, and with young people all over. ... These young people are going to do things. They are going to change things.
If I were to choose one single thing that that would restore Paris to the senses, it would be that strangely sweet, unhealthy smell of the Métro, so very unlike the dank cold or the stuffy heat of subways in New York.
Paris has always seemed to me to be the only city in which one can live as one sees fit.
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