My street
2 Comments Published by Cedric Benetti on Saturday, September 8, 2007 at 9/08/2007 04:35:00 PM.
I just unearthed this picture again.
It shows my street, the Rue du Croissant, back in its glory days, when it was the very epicenter of Paris journalism and newspaper offices. This is where it all happened back in the days, when you could cross Jean Jaurès at the Café du Croissant, when Emile Zola met with president Cléménceau at the offices of the "Aurore", later on printing his famous "J*accuse!" in the basements, where now is a nightclub.
The days when the narrow street behind my building*s portal was bursting with teenage newspaper sellers, rushing into the offices to grab their paper stocks; when Victor Hugo was writing letters on this same floor that i*m sitting on right now, maybe gazing out of the window I*m gazing at now. Only he would be seeing the glass covered courtyard, with the rotative presses clinging to the sound of the printing ink sliding around.
All that I have left to my eyes is the same courtyard, filled with the laughter of children playing under shady trees...
Time has passed on now, and all newspapers have left the neighborhood now, many of them having dissapeared from the surface of the editing world.
It shows my street, the Rue du Croissant, back in its glory days, when it was the very epicenter of Paris journalism and newspaper offices. This is where it all happened back in the days, when you could cross Jean Jaurès at the Café du Croissant, when Emile Zola met with president Cléménceau at the offices of the "Aurore", later on printing his famous "J*accuse!" in the basements, where now is a nightclub.
The days when the narrow street behind my building*s portal was bursting with teenage newspaper sellers, rushing into the offices to grab their paper stocks; when Victor Hugo was writing letters on this same floor that i*m sitting on right now, maybe gazing out of the window I*m gazing at now. Only he would be seeing the glass covered courtyard, with the rotative presses clinging to the sound of the printing ink sliding around.
All that I have left to my eyes is the same courtyard, filled with the laughter of children playing under shady trees...
Time has passed on now, and all newspapers have left the neighborhood now, many of them having dissapeared from the surface of the editing world.
Labels: Magazines and books, Newspaperism, Paris street stuff (NOT a TOILET)
i liked the spray paint and the apartment scenes :]
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