“A lady known as Paris, Romantic and CharmingHas left her old companions and faded from viewLonely men with lonely eyes are seeking her in vainHer streets are where they were, but there's no sign of herShe has left the SeineThe last time I saw Paris, her heart was warm and gay,I heard the laughter of her heart in every street caféThe last time I saw Paris, her trees were dressed for spring,And lovers walked beneath those trees and birds found songs to sing.I dodged the same old taxicabs that I had dodged for years.The chorus of their squeaky horns was music to my ears.The last time I saw Paris, her heart was warm and gay,No matter how they change her, I'll remember her that way.I'll think of happy hours, and people who shared themOld women, selling flowers, in markets at dawnChildren who applauded, Punch and Judy in the parkAnd those who danced at night and kept our Paris bright'til the town went dark.”

“The last time I saw Paris.Her heart was warm and gay.”

“Every time I look down on this timeless townWhether blue or gray be her skies.Whether loud be her cheers or soft be her tears,More and more do I realize:I love Paris in the springtime.I love Paris in the fall.I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles,I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles.I love Paris every moment,Every moment of the year.I love Paris, why, oh why do I love Paris?Because my love is near.”

“I'm not going to run, I'm going to stand here and watch. Every blow will cut into my heart, and tell me who and what you are.”

“Paris was a universe whole and entire unto herself, hollowed and fashioned by history; so she seemed in this age of Napoleon III with her towering buildings, her massive cathedrals, her grand boulevards and ancient winding medieval streets--as vast and indestructible as nature itself. All was embraced by her, by her volatile and enchanted populace thronging the galleries, the theaters, the cafes, giving birth over and over to genius and sanctity, philosophy and war, frivolity and the finest art; so it seemed that if all the world outside her were to sink into darkness, what was fine, what was beautiful, what was essential might there still come to its finest flower. Even the majestic trees that graced and sheltered her streets were attuned to her--and the waters of the Seine, contained and beautiful as they wound through her heart; so that the earth on that spot, so shaped by blood and consciousness, had ceased to be the earth and had become Paris.”

“I never rebel so much against France as not to regard Paris with a friendly eye; she has had my heart since my childhood.... I love her tenderly, even to her warts and her spots. I am French only by this great city: the glory of France, and one of the noblest ornaments of the world.”

“The night-soil men can see a bird walking in trees. It isn't a bird. It is a woman who has removed her skin and is on her way to drink the blood of her secret enemies. It is a woman who has left her skin i a corner of a house made out of wood. It is a woman who is reasonable and admires honeybees in the hibiscus.”