Travels with Jean Hanuman

See entry for Museum at Carnavalet (24 Fevrier) See entry for Pere Lachhaise Cemetery (01 Mars) See entry for Dublin (10 Mars) See Hanuman's Haircut (7 Avril) See notes on Paris (14 April) See Friends in Paris (21 Avril) Send fan mail to Hanuman at bfdoherty@mail.utexas.edu

     It was uncharacteristically late for Jean Hanuman to be returning from his rambles, and it was also strange that he came in through the window (we live on the sixth floor).
     “Hey, Jean, what’s up? You look a little—uh, tired?”
     “Man, I got lost, and had to go all "rooftop" to make it home.”
     “You, Hanuman, king of the Parisian arrondissements, lost? Have you been visiting Jim Morrison’s grave again?”
     “You got it,” giggled Hanuman. “There were these Finnish girls there with some real fine Marley. They said they grew it themselves. In Finland!” And at this witticism Hanuman broke down in paroxysms of laughter.
     “JH, you know what that stuff does to you.”
     “Yeah . . . I get lost” and at this Hanuman erupted into true monkey laughter.

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     The next day, as we wandered through the Pere Lachaise cemetery, I asked Hanuman if he thought his penchant for frequent visits here wasn’t a little morbid.
“Not at all, my young friend.” (When Hanuman starts one of his lectures, he often gets avuncular). "You see, here we celebrate not death, but life. These monuments, these slabs of polished granite that look like they will last well into eternity, are signs that what has been done here on earth will continue to live in our hearts. Look, over there, where that mass of people are gathered to celebrate one new member of the Lachaise community, who is buried here just yesterday. That’s Henri Salvadore, who lived with such gusto and left so much joy behind.”

Polished granite, seeming to bear eternal witness.

A fraction of the tribute given to the late, great, Henri Salvadore. Listen to some Henri Salvadore here.

Powerful reminders of the French experience of the Holocaust. More pictures available here soon.

     “Well, Jean Hanuman, you must admit that some of the commemorations of the victims of the Holocaust are a bit maudlin.”
     “Mon petite frere,” replies Hanuman, now bordering on condescending: “You must subscribe to the adage, `never forget,' and this memorial to suffering all but insures that memory lives, except in the most hardened of hearts.”
     As I took in his words and the sights around me, I began to see precisely how a cemetery could be considered a monument to life. My musings were interrupted:
     “Look here,” said Hanuman, comfortably seated on a granite slab. “A guy like Proust would have considered his life to have been worth it, that he made the contribution he was supposed to have made, with his revolution in style, the gracefulness of his language as he told truth to the reader.”
     And later, “Like Proust, Stein was a revolutionary, such as one frequently finds in France. Another person who strived each day to get the most out of her human spirit and her dedication to her chosen art—literature. There are so many like her inhabiting these graves, it makes you want to shout for joy.”

Marcel Proust, looking for the "mot juste" in the afterlife.

Gertrude Stein--the letters on the marker are barely visible, as are the words held up by Hanuman--"A Rose is a rose."

Hanuman was kind enough to take this picture for us outside of the grave of Paris' patron Saint of literature (one of them), Honoré de Balzac

     Pleased as I was to see Hanuman in such an optimistic spirit, I knew a change was ahead, because we were rounding the corner that would lead us to Hanuman’s second home, or, I might say, his spiritual home—the grave of Jim Morrison.
     “Ah, James Douglas,” began Hanuman, “you did not have the years to fulfill what destiny had set out for you, cut down in a prime of life that would be the envy for any other life. Although you were a half empty vessel, Jim, you continue to inspire and bring life to souls brimming with passion.”
     Hanuman stopped here, near the grave of Jim Morrison, former lead singer of The Doors and a 60’s icon. All around us were hipsters from 13 to 70, a guy with a mandolin, a dude done up in mime makeup, a girl in a bikini and a scarf, where others wore coats and scarves, speaking in a polyglot hipster language. Hanuman drew a breath, then began to intone:
          Here among us you were a crawling king snake, or lizard king,
          Now you shake the treetops howling with the other petite singes,
          Not to touch the earth, not to touch the sun, nothing left to do
          But run run run along the high branches,
          Baby, lighting my fire, and those who listen,
          In glistening, sparkling, darkling . . . sparks, of . . .

     And here Hanuman either ran out of momentum in his impromptu elegy to Jim, or, truly grieving, doubled over in inexpressible grief, inexhaustible tears.