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| Translated by Agnieška Leščinska | |
In the Soviet period, the most dominant allusion to Paris in Lithuanian literature was Salomėja Nėris’s painful and socially charged poem “Dvi dešimti sū”(“For Only Twenty Sous,” 1937). Although Liūnė Janušytė’s novel Korektūros klaida (A Mistake of Proofreading) and Antanas Vienuolis’s Laiškai iš Paryžiaus (Letters from Paris) were also published around the same time, for the reader (especially a younger reader) of that era, neither could be considered analogous to Nėris’s poem. This is because the former novel was reissued only in 2011, while the latter was reissued in 2008 in Rimantas Vanagas’s book Laiškai iš Paryžiaus (Letters from Paris).
Throughout the Soviet period, glimpses of the city name “Paris” could be found in fiction and travel diary books. However, this name was portrayed with a distinctly “red” perspective (Meris Kaniauskas, Susitikimas su Prancūzija (Meeting with France, 1965). Later works, such as Laimonas Tapinas’s Iliuzijų mugėje (At the Fair of Illusions, 1983), also included traces of Soviet ideology and the mindset of Homo Sovieticus. What about the cases where the details of French daily life were often fictionalized? Its wasn’t without grounds that Algirdas Julius Greimas ridiculed the poet Eduardas Mieželaitis for portraying the French as consuming animal carcasses and drinking Port wine.
Liūnė Janušytė’s novel stood little chance of being reissued during the Soviet period, because its narrator highlights the fact that in Paris, freedom is valued above all else, in every aspect of life. The word “freedom” itself is written in French to emphasize its importance. She also adds that freedom belongs to everyone, everywhere. Alongside this theme, the novel explores a few more subjects, such as a woman’s place in society, tolerance, love, and the opportunities of a bohemian lifestyle. It is no surprise that it portrays Kaunas, in comparison, as a gloomy provincial town filled with gossip and petty rumors. Interestingly, the narrator herself embodies this sense of freedom, which (we can assume) connects with her irony, humor, and the grotesque depictions of government officials or institutions.
On the other hand, in Antanas Vienuolis’s book Letters from Paris, we notice that he does not experience any feelings of inferiority after visiting one of the world’s most renowned cities. Instead, he recognizes that Lithuania, a country considered the periphery of Europe in the 1930s, could be on equal terms with Paris. For example, he feels proud after telling a waiter that he is from Lithuania, as the waiter instantly recalls that Lithuanians are basketball champions. Vienuolis also realizes that Lithuania surpasses Paris in some cases. For instance, during a discussion about Western European agriculture, he agrees with the waiter that the Lithuanian country-folk surpasses French farmers in intelligence, morality, and material progress. Of course, some aspects of Parisian life remind Vienuolis of the mess in his homeland. However, he doesn’t fawn over the big city. Instead, he tries to appreciate it in its entirety with a balanced perspective.
All the works mentioned were written before the Second World War and have become part of history. It was only decades later, after shifts in Lithuanian politics, that Paris returned to Lithuanian literature.
The novel Būtasis dažninis kartas (The Past Frequentative Tense, 1998) by Herkus Kunčius surprises readers not so much for its depiction of Paris but for its exploration of the Soviet mindset. The protagonist, Erkiu, is like a typical Soviet tourist who lacks knowledge of the French language, civilization, and culture. He is confronted with the realities of Paris: he is irritated by the smell of his neighborhood and the dog excrement he “luckily” steps in and is annoyed during a sleepover at a friends’ house, where he wakes up with green-stained skin from cheap sheets his friend bought from Arab traders. Shaped by his upbringing to see the faults of the “rotten” West, Erkiu desires to demonstrate his supposed superiority.
It never occurs to him that to avoid the stench, he could move to a better neighborhood, even though that would require staying in a more expensive hotel he can’t afford. At first glance, it’s difficult to understand why he has even come to Paris. Nothing satisfies him. He dislikes the smell, living with his friend Danielius (whom he constantly lectures, despite Danielius considering Erkiu a third wheel), the bookstore regulars flipping through art reproduction albums instead of viewing original works, the cemetery, where tourists take pictures beside famous gravestones. He even dislikes the city’s skyscraper, which reminds him of a phallus.
While admitting that the aroma of the Elysian Fields is totally different from the smell of his neighborhood, he seems to acknowledge that he can’t scrape two pennies together to live on Paris’s chicest avenue, and the comparison of a skyscraper to a phallus is only a result of his exhausted imagination.
It’s safe to say that Erkiu spends his time indulging only in dolce far niente (the sweetness of doing nothing). His priorities are sleeping soundly, eating delicious foods (including exotic dishes), and drinking a lot (notably, he avoids cider, forcing people to offer him good wine, and seeks fancy environments).
Although the preview claims the novel offers an ironic take on Paris, the irony is largely absent. It’s evident that Erkiu’s relationship with Paris is purely superficial. While a few famous names are mentioned, they serve only as incidental references. French cultural facts fail to resonate with him on a deeper level. Irony typically emerges when the opinion expressed by someone is not true to reality, whereas in the novel, everything should be taken at face value. In other words, Kunčius presents a mystical view of Paris through the eyes of a Soviet tourist.
A far more complex interpretation of Paris – with a comparatively complex literary structure – is found in Markas Zingeris’s novel Aplink fontaną, arba Mažasis Paryžius (Round the Fountain, or a Little Paris, 1998). In this novel, the narrative is shaped by Zingeris’s encounter with a childhood friend and shows the contrast between “little” and “big” Paris. The “little Paris” is represented by Zingeris’s hometown, Kaunas, while the fountain becomes its symbol. The fountain is significant not only because it stood in the courtyard where Zingeris grew up, but also because in Kaunas, a poet named Henrikas Radauskas published his poetry collection Fontanas (Fountain) – it served as a metaphorical window to Europe for poets during the Soviet period.
In the novel, “big Paris” first emerges when Leonora, a talented girl, is sent there to attend a tailoring class. While attending the theater, Leonora fails to recognize her mother, the famous ballet dancer Yermolaeva. Once she returns to Kaunas, she starts incorporating fashionable ideas she had encountered in Paris and marries Ernest Duda, the director of the conservatoire. Unfortunately, the outbreak of war turns her world upside down, as she loses not only her clients but also her son, Donatas.
Although many characters in the novel are in some way connected to the symbolic fountain, it is only the narrator, Joškė (Jokūbas), who embodies the rebellious spirit of the people of Kaunas and who ultimately reaches the great city of Paris after a time skip. There he recalls Leonora, her lover Henrik, her mother Yermolaeva, and the mother’s own lover, Čigonas (Gypsy). Through memory, Jokūbas gathers all the “figures” and seemingly elevates them above the city of Paris, transforming the novel into both a reflection of the soul and a tremendous metaphor.
Interestingly enough, during the prewar period, Kaunas sought to draw an analogy with Paris, which is why the novel is rich with French realia and aspiration to align itself with the cultural vibrancy of the world capital.
In the novel’s depictions of the Soviet period, these French qualities, unfortunately, become incriminating evidence. It was no coincidence that “small Paris” faded from the realia of Kaunas and lost its title as the provisional capital. It’s important to note that this analogy between “big Paris” and “small Paris” had become only a cherished memory, which is a fitting theme for this novel.
In contrast, Valdas Papievis’s phantasmagorical novel Ėko (2021) offers a different vision, portraying a Paris in decline. At the beginning of the novel, the emptiness of Paris in August evokes the narrator’s thoughts of the city’s demise, while the reader sees them as a poetic metaphor for stagnation. However, gradually, more signs appear – creeping vines overtaking walls, rusting gates, and crumbling columns create a haunting image as if of a dying city.
The narrator, seemingly a fan of Marcel Proust, tries to cling to fleeting moments of time, yet he can no longer relive them. Moreover, for Proust, time is always tied to a specific place. This type of connection with Proust isn’t random; in the novel, it becomes apparent when we read about madeleine cakes, which stir the narrator’s memory with a familiar smell. However, in this novel, the narrator doesn’t have a specific home, because the city of Paris has become his home instead.
We see the narrator becoming increasingly lonely in the city, especially because he has lost his loved ones. So his only solace is his dog Ėko, whose name is an unexpected connection to the French word écho (echo). The dog serves as a reminder of real life, yet the narrator admits that he dreads becoming an echo of his former self. However, this is inevitable, as Ėko is the “Other,” created for the narrator to have someone to communicate with. Later in the novel, we find that he becomes Ėko for his fictional Emili, also called Emi.
The sense of a decaying city is further amplified by the “tent city” that has sprung up along Saint Martin Canal, housing the city’s homeless (along with the narrator and Emi), as well as refugees who bring along their “new” civilization. When the narrator and Emi decide to throw a party for the tent city’s residents, the unexpected happens when characters from Valdas Papievis’s earlier works assemble in the “tent city”. This party seems to them a way to resist the city’s decline, a way to endure and to save themselves, which is possible only through creativity.In this novel, unexpectedly, the Lithuanian motif stands out more prominently than in Papievis’s last works written in Paris. It resonates as an echo of his homeland, underscored by Lithuanian folkloric elements such as the skudučiai, a form of pan flute, or the “pensive Christ” sculpture and the sutartinės (Lithuanian multipart folk songs) as well as the narrator’s poignant image of Mom. The narrator passes his faith in creativity to Karimas, a refugee boy, whom he has taught to read and write. In the final pages of the novel, the burning Paris Cathedral brings the reader to a crossroads. What will become of Paris now?
It’s a moving novel, filled with poetic spirit – it resonates like an echo of Paris itself.
The image of Paris also appears in various forms within travel diary books.
In the novel Iliuzijų mugėje (At the Fair of Illusions, 1983), Laimonas Tapinas pays tribute to ideological topics. Unlike in the literature before, where authors take more direct approaches, Tapinas is much more subtle. For instance, he writes about a homeless man whom he encounters on his first day in Paris. He’s surprised by the homeless man’s erudition, yet views his life as a human tragedy. Yet the homeless man insists that he doesn’t seek employment because of his principles. Considering the historical context, it becomes clear what is hidden behind these words. Tapinas seems to implicitly highlight the supposed advantages of the Soviet system, where unemployment is non-existent and people don’t die in the streets, unlike in Paris. In other words, we see a distorted image, which in reality hides the system’s flaws. One such flaw surfaces in Tapinas’s own actions: his dedicated pursuit of a green card to secure free cinema access, despite being told by the French that obtaining it is nearly impossible. Still, the narrator of this book succeeds in his pursuit through a roundabout method, invoking for readers familiar with the period the concept of the almighty blat – access to products or services through informal connections and influence.
Ideological undertones also appear in the story of actress Danutė Krištopaitytė, who has married a French musician and relocated to Paris. This was frowned upon at the time. It is unsurprising that Tapinas, upon coming across the former actress, feels compelled to agree with the prevailing ideological narrative. He tells herthat her choice of cosmetics masks, if not emptiness, then frustration alongside emptiness. However, this ideological lens distorts reality. Even the title of the book, At the Fair of Illusions, carries an ideological undertone because even though the novel is somewhat fictionalized, it seeks to uncover not the surface-level illusion of Paris but its deeper, authentic essence, the Paris where Tapinas completes his internship, where he discovers traces of renowned writers, artists, theater figures, and Lithuanians who have lived there. They hide entire lives and stories, and life is not just an illusion.
However, such ideologically tinged interludes are rare. More often than not, the reader senses Tapinas’s quiet admiration for Paris – its people and its unique atmosphere.
Rimantas Vanagas titled his travel diary book Letters from Paris (2007), just like Antanas Vienuolis did with his own work. In his reflections about Paris, Vanagas frequently seeks connections with his native city, Anykščiai. It is no coincidence that one of his first encounters in Paris is with Valdas Papievis, a fellow writer from Anykščiai, who introduces him to Parisian life. Vanagas, being a Homo Sovieticus at that time, saw Paris as “the light of culture and art, political freedom, and social revolt.” Once he escaped the Soviet bubble, his dream of visiting Paris had come true. Filled with euphoria, he overlooks many of Paris’s flaws, though he does express mild bewilderment at certain aspects, like the abundance of dog excrement on the streets. Nevertheless, while writing about his impression of Paris, he tends to recall Lithuania and Anykščiai; he urges Lithuanians to embrace their history, language, and culture with the same pride the French embrace theirs. In doing so, he draws intriguing parallels between the two cultures.
Having spent a significant amount of time in France, writer Jaroslavas Melnikas in his travel diary book Paryžiaus dienoraštis (The Paris Diary, 2013) writes not so much about his day-to-day impressions, which often lead to stereotypes, but rather about more generalized conclusions that offer a clearer and more nuanced portrait of the country. He found his distinctive perspective when talking about France, and it is optimism. He tried to teach it to the Lithuanian reader using France as an example; this is why the book’s subtitle is Optimizmo vadovėlis (A Textbook on Optimism).
Melnikas notes that Vilnius differs from Paris only in its details. While there are many such details, he believes that the real divide is the lingering influence of Soviet and post-Soviet thinking. The French are portrayed as a people who can lift each others’ spirits, who try avoiding heavy words like “crisis” and “death,” and who know how to love themselves. Melnikas aims to present an optimistic image of France, one that resonates with his identity as an artist.
It’s clear that Paris has been most prominently reflected in Lithuanian literature through travel diary books.These works predominantly convey a sense of admiration for Paris, though sometimes it is overshadowed by ideological undertones during the Soviet era.However, there were also instances where Paris inspired authors to adopt an independent perspective on the city and, in some cases, even to emphasize Lithuania’s superiority over the world capital.
Of course, novels that include Paris are fewer in number than travel diary books, as writing them demands a different kind of experience. In general, Paris is described with many epithets, for example, the city of light, love, fashion, and perfume. Lithuanian writers, however, have taken a more grounded and universal approach in their work. They depict Paris as a city symbolizing freedom, a fashionable hub that interwar Lithuania aspired to be like. When a novel focuses solely on Paris’s flaws, it becomes apparent that the narrator does not fully understand their purpose in coming to the city. On the other hand, broader, more universal questions are raised by the fire at the Paris Cathedral, which serves as a powerful symbol for the collapse of both Paris and Western European civilization.
Eugène Atget. Cour de Rouen, rue du jardinet, 6ème arrondissement, Paris
