Pressing their faces up against the glass, the kids try to scare each other.
“Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat—can’t even look down with your hands behind your back.”
“Wow, this is weird!”
“You’re just chicken!”
I tell them that in 1974, a Frenchman called Philippe Petit, a tightrope walker, illegally stretched a cable between the Twin Towers at exactly this height and walked across in spite of the cold and the wind and the vertigo. “What’s a Frenchman?” the kids ask. I explain that France is a small European country that helped America to free itself from the yoke of English oppression between 1776 and 1783 and that, to show our appreciation, our soldiers liberated them from the Nazis in 1944. (I’m simplifying, obviously, for educational purposes.)
“See over there—the Statue of Liberty? That was a gift to America from France. Okay, it’s a bit kitsch, but it’s the thought that counts.”
The kids don’t give a damn, even though they’re big fans of “French fries” and “French toast.” Right now, I’m more interested in “French kissing” and “French letters.” And The French Connection, with the famous car chase under the L.
Through the Windows on the World, the city stretches out like a huge checkerboard, all the right angles, the perpendicular cubes, the adjoining squares, the intersecting rectangles, the parallel lines, the network of ridges, a whole artificial geometry in gray, black, and white, the avenues taking off like flight paths, the cross streets which look as though they’ve been drawn on with marker, tunnels like red-brick gopher holes; from here, the smear of wet asphalt behind the cleaning trucks looks like the slime left by an aluminum slug on a piece of plywood.
8:34
I often go and stand before the marble plaque at 56 Rue Jacob. All American tourists should make a pilgrimage to 56 Rue Jacob, instead of having their photo taken in front of the tunnel at Pont de I’Alma in memory of Diana and Dodi. It was here, on September 3, 1783, at the Hôtel d’York that the Treaty of Paris was signed by John Adams and Benjamin Franklin, putting an end to the War of Independence with the British. My mother lives nearby; a little farther up, hidden behind a tree, are the publishers Le Seuil. People cross the road in front of this old building without realizing that it was here, a stone’s throw from the Café de Flore, that the United States of America was born. Perhaps they prefer to forget.
Le Ciel de Paris at 8:34 AM. The luxury of skyscrapers is that they allow human beings to rise above themselves. Every skyscraper is a utopia. The age-old fantasy of man has been to build his own mountains. In building towers into the clouds, man is proving to himself that he is above nature. And that’s exactly how you feel at the top of one of these rockets of concrete and aluminum, glass, and steel: everything I can see belongs to me, no more traffic jams, gutters, sidewalks, I am man above the world. It is not the thrill of power, but of pride. There is nothing arrogant about it. Simply the joy of knowing that one can raise oneself higher than the tallest tree and:
You vapors, I think I have risen with you, moved away to distant continents, and fallen down there, for reasons,
I think I have blown with you you winds;
You waters I have finger’d every shore with you,
I have run through what any river or strait of the globe has run through,
I have taken my stand on the bases of peninsulas and on the high embedded rocks, to cry thence: Salut au monde!
What cities the light or warmth penetrates I penetrate those cities myself.
All islands to which birds wing their way I wing my way myself.
Toward you all, in America’s name,
I raise high the perpendicular hand, I make the signal,
To remain after me in sight forever,
For all the haunts and homes of men.
The title of Whitman’s poem is “Salut au Monde!”. In the nineteenth century, American poets spoke French. I am writing this book because I’m sick of bigoted anti-Americanism. My favorite French philosopher is Patrick Juvet: “I Love America.” Since war has been declared between France and the United States, you have to be careful when choosing sides if you don’t want to wind up being fleeced later.
My favorite writers are American: Walt Whitman and therefore, but in his own right, Edgar Allan Poe, Herman Melville, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, John Fante, Jack Kerouac, Henry Miller, J. D. Salinger, Truman Capote, Charles Bukowski, Lester Bangs, Philip K. Dick, William T. Vollmann, Hunter S. Thompson, Bret Easton Ellis, Chuck Palahniuk, Philip Roth, Hubert Selby Jr., Jerome Charyn (who lives in Montparnasse), Jay McInerney (whom I met in Paris).
My favorite musicians are American: Frank Sinatra, Chuck Berry, Bob Dylan, Leonard Bernstein, Burt Bacharach, James Brown, Chet Baker, Brian Wilson, Johnny Cash, Stevie Wonder, Paul Simon, Lou Reed, Randy Newman, Michael Stipe, Billy Corgan, Kurt Cobain.
My favorite film directors are American: Howard Hawks, Orson Welles, Robert Altman, Blake Edwards, Stanley Kubrick, John Cassavetes, Martin Scorsese, Woody Allen, David Lynch, Russ Meyer, Sam Raimi, Paul Thomas Anderson, Larry Clark, David Fincher, M. Night Shyamalan.
American culture dominates the planet not for economic reasons, but because of its quality. It’s too easy to ascribe its influence to political machination, to compare Disney to Hitler or Spielberg to Satan. American art is constantly renewing itself, because it is profoundly rooted in real life. American artists are constantly searching for something new, but something new which speaks to us of ourselves. They know how to reconcile imagination and accessibility, originality with the desire to seduce. Molière was in it for the money, Mozart wanted to be famous: there’s nothing shameful about that. American artists churn out fewer theories than their European counterparts, because they haven’t got time, they’re too busy with the practice. They seize the world, grapple with it and, in describing it, they transform it. American authors think of themselves as realists when in fact they’re all Marxists! They’re hypercritical of their own country. No democracy in the world is as contested by its own literature. American independent and underground cinema is the most subversive in the world. When they dream, American artists take the rest of the world with them, because they are more courageous, more hardworking and because they dare to mock their own country. Many people believe that European artists have a superiority complex when it comes to their American counterparts, but they’re mistaken: they have an inferiority complex. Anti-Americanism is in large part jealousy and unrequited love. Deep down, the rest of the world admires American art and resents the United States for not returning the favor. A compelling example? Bernard Pivot’s reaction to James Lipton (presenter of the program The Actor’s Studio) on the last Bouillon de Culture. The host of the finest literary program in the history of French television seemed completely intimidated by Lipton, a pompous, toadying hack who chairs sycophantic discussions with Hollywood actors on some minor-league cable channel. Pivot, who created Apostrophes, a man who has interviewed the finest writers of his generation, couldn’t get over the fact that he was quoted in the States by a sycophantic creep.
What bothers us is not American imperialism, but American chauvinism, its cultural isolation, its complete lack of any curiosity about foreign work (except in New York and San Francisco). France has the same relationship with the United States nowadays as the provinces do with Paris: a combination of admiration and contempt, a longing to be part of it and a pride at resisting. We want to know everything about them so that we can shrug our shoulders with a condescending air. We want to know the latest trends, the places to be seen, all the New York gossip so that we can emphasize how rooted we are in the profound reality of our own country. Americans seem to have made the opposite journey to that of Europe: their inferiority complex (being a nouveau riche, adolescent country whose history and culture have, for the most part, been imported) has developed into a superiority complex (lessons in expertise and efficiency, cultural xenophobia, corporate contempt, and advertising overkill).
<
br /> As for the cultural exception to American cultural hegemony that is France, contrary to what a recently dismissed CEO had to say, it is not dead: it consists in churning out exceptionally tedious movies, exceptionally slapdash books and, all in all, works of art which are exceptionally pedantic and self-satisfied. It goes without saying that I include my own work in this sorry assessment.
8:35
The lobby in Windows on the World is beige. Everything important in America is beige. The walls are comforting, the carpet is thick, eggshell with a geometric pattern. Your loafers sink into the deep wool pile. The ground seems soft; that should have set us thinking.
“Keep it down!”
Half past eight and already the kids are hyper. How old are we when we start to wake up exhausted? I can’t stop yawning while they’re running around all over the place, zigzagging between the tables, almost knocking over an old lady with lilac hair.
“Stop it, guys!”
I try glaring at them, but still they don’t behave. I have no control over my sons; even when I get angry, they think I’m just kidding. They’re right: I am kidding. I don’t really believe it. Like all parents of my generation, I’m incapable of being strict. Our kids are badly brought up because they’re not brought up at all. At least, not by us, they’re brought up by cartoon channels. Thank you, Disney Channel, the world’s babysitter! Our kids are spoiled rotten, because we’re spoiled rotten. Jerry and David wind me up, but they have something over their mother; at least I still love them. That’s why I’m letting them cut class this week. They’re completely ecstatic about skipping school! I slump into my rust-colored chair and look round at the incredible view. “Unbelievable,” the brochure said: for once the advertising doesn’t lie. I’m blinded by the sunlight on the Atlantic. The skyscrapers carve out the blue like a cardboard stage set. In America, life is like a movie, since all movies are shot on location. All Americans are actors and their houses, their cars, and their desires all seem artificial. Truth is reinvented every morning in America. It’s a country that has decided to look like something on celluloid.
“Sir…”
The waitress is none too pleased at having to play cop. She brings back Jerry and David, who’ve just stolen a doughnut from a pair of stockbrokers and are using it as a Frisbee. I should slap them, but I can’t help smiling. I get up to apologize to the doughnut’s owners. They both work for Cantor Fitzgerald: a blonde who is sexy despite her Ralph Lauren suit (do girls really dress like that anymore?) and a stocky dark-haired man who seems cool in his Kenneth Cole suit. You don’t need to be a P.I. to work out they’re lovers. Would you take your wife to breakfast at the top of the World Trade Center? No…You leave your old lady at home and invite a colleague from the office for an early-morning tryst (the yuppie version of an afternoon tryst). I eavesdrop, I love listening at keyholes, especially when there aren’t any.
“I’m pretty bullish about the NASDAQ at the moment…” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“Merril’s been upgrading the banking sector just on spec,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“Leave your wife,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“So we can be a normal couple?” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“We’d never be a normal couple,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“You don’t hear me asking you to leave your husband,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“I would if you asked me to,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“What we’ve got is special because it’s impossible,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“I’m sick of only getting to see you in the morning or the afternoon,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“I’m worse at night,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“Jeffrey Skilling invited me to L.A. in his private jet this weekend,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“Yeah? And how are you going to get that one past your husband?” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“None of your business,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“If you do that, you’ll never see me again,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“You’re jealous of Mike but you don’t care about my husband?” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“You haven’t fucked your husband for two years,” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
“Leave your wife,” says the blonde in Ralph Lauren.
“You really feel bullish about the NASDAQ?” says the guy in Kenneth Cole.
8:36
“The Windows of the World” is the title of a song by Burt Bacharach and Hal David released by Dionne Warwick in 1967. The lyrics? They were written in protest at the Vietnam War.
The windows of the world are covered with rain.
Where is the sunshine we once knew?
Ev’rybody knows when little children play
They need a sunny day to grow straight and tall.
Let the sun shine through.
The windows of the world are covered with rain.
When will those black skies turn to blue?
Ev’rybody knows when boys turn to men
They start to wonder when their country will call.
Let the sun shine through.
I wonder whether the owner of Windows on the World was familiar with the song.
8:37
The kids are bored now and it’s my fault, bringing them to places for oldsters. But they were the ones who insisted! I thought the view would keep them occupied, but that’s done and dusted pretty quickly. They’re like their dad: they get bored with everything pretty quickly. A generation of frantic channel-hopping, schizophrenic existentialism. What will they do when they find out they can’t have everything, be everything? I feel sorry for them, because it’s something I never got over myself.
I always feel weird when I see my kids. I’d like to be able to say “I love you,” but it’s too late. When they were three, I would tell them I loved them until they fell asleep. In the morning I’d wake them by tickling their feet. Their feet were always cold, always sticking out from under the duvet. But they’re too macho now, they’d tell me to get lost. And I hardly ever look after them, don’t get to see them enough, I’m not part of their routine anymore. Instead of saying “I love you,” this is what I should say:
“There are worse things in life than having an absent father: having a present father. Someday you’ll thank me for not smothering you. You’ll realize I was helping you find your wings, pampering you from afar.”
But this time, it’s too soon. They will understand when they’re my age: forty-three. It’s strange, two brothers who are inseparable but always fighting. There’s no need to pity us this morning. The Rice Krispies keep them occupied for a bit: Snap, Crackle, Pop. We talk about this stolen vacation when they should be back at school. David wants to go to Universal Studios again. He spent the whole year showing off in his “I survived Jurassic Park” T-shirt. He didn’t even want to put it in the wash. Is there anything more arrogant than a seven-year-old? Later, kids learn self-discipline, there’s less showing off. Take Jerry for example, two years older and already he’s a man, he has self-control, he knows how to compromise. He thinks he’s all that, too, in his Eminem sweatshirt, but at least he makes less of deal of it: he’s the big brother. David’s always sick with something, I hate hearing him coughing all the time, it winds me up, and I can’t work out if it’s the sound of the coughing that winds me up, or whether it’s anxiety, some sort of paternal love. Deep down, what annoys me is never being sure that I’m good, but being absolutely certain that I’m selfish.
A Brazilian businessman lights a cigar. You have to be mad to smoke at this time of the morning. I beckon the maître d’, who rushes over to him since, like every other public space in the city, Windows is non-smoking. The guy pretends this is the first he’s heard of it, pretends to be shocked, demands to be shown the smoking section. The maître d’ explains that he’ll have to go down to the street! Rat
her than stub out his cigar, the smoker gets up and does just that, sprinting toward the elevator; no doubt a matter of principle.
8:38
…thereby proving that a cigar can save your life. They should put a new health warning on cigarette packs: “Smoking can cause you to leave buildings before they blow up.”
I would like to be able to change things, to scream at Carthew to get the fuck out of there, fast, GET OUT, TAKE THE KIDS AND MAKE A RUN FOR IT, TELL THE OTHERS, QUICK, GET A FUCKING MOVE ON, THE WHOLE PLACE IS GOING TO BLOW! GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE FUCKING BUILDING!!
Windows on the World Page 2