A Macabre View of Paris Part Three

I can't help but take advantage of the cemeteries of Paris to add to our macabre collection of Paris sights.  To pass them up would just be wrong--dead wrong.

 We begin at Pere Lachaise, the most popular cemetery in Paris.  I couldn't help but feel deep empathy with this poor fellow, who has obviously been weeping for a great many years.  But seriously, I wonder who would commission such an image for their family crypt?  He might be meant to represent mourning, or something similar, but even without the stains, he mostly looks comical, or at least overly dramatic.

   You might think this was actually a picture taken at Disney World's Haunted Mansion, since he looks much like one of the singing heads from that spooktacular ride.  However, this gentleman sits atop a memorial at Montparnasse Cemetery, not far from the grave site of none other than Charles Baudelaire.

Back at Pere Lachaise, you can find this dramatic and bizarre memorial to the Czechoslovakian soldiers who died in WWI.  The odd image here, of course, is the dying soldier, being held by the mythical warrior and his lady, as they are watched by a figure that could be either Death or simply a refugee from the ghastliness of the Great War.  Considering the carnage this generation had to see and embrace, I think this memorial is a bit restrained.

  And speaking of the ghastliness of war, this memorial is not dedicated to any men who died on the field of battle.  It is, instead, a reminder of the extreme cruelty of which man is capable .  These figures represent those souls who suffered such cruelty at Buchenwald.  Despite the grotesque figures on display, I still think this image shows great restraint in light of the reality of what Buchenwald represents.

And lest we forget what is underneath such elaborate and artistic monuments, let's take advantage of our ability to see what was once buried in the Cemetery of the Innocents before it was emptied to make way for Les Halles, the great Paris Market, and is now piled up in the caverns of the Paris Catacombs.

As they say...Paris is for Lovers.

My Paris View of the Montmartre Dead

   On a rainy afternoon, we arrived at the Montmartre Cemetery with a daunting task.  We were there to search for a particular crypt in the vast, stepped expanse of this ancient burial ground.  The immediate obstacle to this mission was our uncertainty of the name on the crypt.  However, we had both seen a photo of it, and we felt we just might get lucky and recognize it.

   Some memories hold on tightly, and we can simply call them up when they are needed.  Other memories die as easily as a fragile man and can only be recalled as a ghost of what we actually remember.  These are memories never to be trusted--they are always distorted, deceiving, and often completely false.  Such was the case with our collective memory of the crypt for which we were searching.  We never found it.  And we returned home and dug out the original photo and found our memory of it was completely in error.

   The rain fell more steadily there than it had previously anywhere in Paris during our visit.  There was no wind.  We were not cold.  But we could not escape the damp clinging to our jackets and our hats.  It seemed appropriate as we passed up and down the hauntingly beautiful pathways amongst those stone and copper memorials to those men and women who had once passed up and down the pathways of the past.  These same dead, perhaps, might have once passed up and down these same hauntingly beautiful pathways upon which we were presently passing.  Though they would never join us that day on our search, it was easy to be reminded of the fact that one day we would join them and be counted among those men and women who had once passed up and down the pathways of the past, though not all of that past has yet been written.  It is always this humbling thought that arises as we pass among the dead.  Though we are alive and they are no more, we cannot arrogantly claim supremacy over them by virtue of our beating hearts.  They lived just as vividly, just as honestly, just as treacherously, and just as cleverly as we.  The only distinction that separates us is the fact that they have already faced eternity while we can only wait to do so when that moment finally arrives.

   And so our search was eventually abandoned amidst the wet array of crosses, names, dates, crows, and cats.  Tears streamed down the mildewed faces of mourners frozen in stone.  A lone grave digger used a noisy air compressor to hoist buckets of white clay out of a heavily used plot, preparing the way for yet another convert to eternity.  A couple from California stopped us and asked for directions.  We did the best we could to help them.  We made an attempt to leave by way of a gate that was not the one we had entered but found it chained and locked.  We could only leave by finding and using the only gate that had allowed us entry into this ancient gathering place.  Perhaps they do not allow short cuts there.  Or at least they discourage them, as we discourage short cuts to eternity.  You cannot choose how you enter this world just as you cannot choose how you leave it.  But you can, for a time, enjoy its beauty, help those you meet along the way, and remember those who passed ahead of us.