Life Lessons in Père Lachaise Cemetery

An American novelist suffering from writer’s block finds literary inspiration among dead luminaries and living patrons in Paris’ Père Lachaise cemetery.
By Sion Dayson, from “Numéro Cinq”
July/August 2012

Not only tourists in search of Jim Morrison’s grave frequent Père Lachaise, you see. Parisians adore their largest cemetery and a stroll along its cobblestone alleys is as popular a local pastime as any.
JIM LINWOOD / FLICKR.COM/PHOTOS/BRIGHTON/ 648894779


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For the past three and a half years, I’ve lived a 10 minute walk from Père Lachaise, the famed Parisian cemetery that’s home to many historic luminaries—everyone from Abelard to Chopin, Edith Piaf to Marcel Proust.

Despite my close proximity to the Père Lachaise cemetery, picking up the Parisian affection for the place didn’t come naturally. Not only tourists in search of Jim Morrison’s grave frequent Père Lachaise, you see. Parisians adore their largest cemetery and a stroll along its cobblestone alleys is as popular a local pastime as any.

It took me some time to understand the appeal. Tracking down rock stars’ headstones seemed less bizarre than having dates amongst the dead.

Then one day, just as late summer was giving way to early fall, I found myself inextricably drawn to Père Lachaise. I was wrestling with a section of my first novel. Not surprisingly, stage fright consumed me and I couldn’t finish. Frustrated, I made a spontaneous trek to Père Lachaise to clear my mind. Though it’d never been a destination I sought before, it somehow seemed fitting to seek solace there as I searched for closure.

I entered off Rue du Repos (literally ‘Street of Rest’) rather than the main entrance, as this was the side closest to my apartment. I roamed aimlessly for a while until I climbed up the steps toward the crematorium. I decided to sit for a spell.

The sun shone bright, heat warming my skin. On the patch of grass in front of me, people engaged in the type of casual activities that had heretofore perplexed me in this setting: picnicking on blankets, couples sneaking kisses at every turn.

With the clear view over the city, and trees rising up between the hard stones, I had to admit I began to see the charm.

What was the balance here, I wondered, when surrounded by so many tombs? The right etiquette, a show of proper respect?

I started scratching out notes in my journal, though I can’t say I was focused. When two older women in their 60s sat down next to me, I knew I should just forget my preoccupation with the book for the moment.

The women proceeded to have a very French conversation—a list of complaints despite the beautiful day. A late reimbursement from Social Security for one; how the sun was hurting her eyes for the other.

They began discussing the case of Marianne, a woman it seemed who had just that week been attacked in the cemetery.

“She’s been visiting her husband every day for 15 years,” one of the women said, shaking her head. How alarming it was that you couldn’t be safe even here, they agreed.

It was decided that they should check in on Marianne’s husband—tend the flowers at his plot until Marianne could return.

The two women began chatting with me. One, it turned out, was an historian and liked collecting quotes. She had an example for everyone in the cemetery.

Avec le talent on fait ce qu’on veut. Avec le génie, on fait ce qu’on peut.” That pearl of wisdom—that with talent we do what we want; with genius we do what we can—is courtesy of Ingres, the painter.

“Do you know Félix Faure?” she asked.

I admitted that I did not.

“President,” she said. “You want to know how he died?” She chuckled. “Making love to a prostitute in the Elysée!”

By this point, I really liked these ladies.

Another man strolled by and another round of bonjours and bises ensued.

“But Monsieur, you’re wearing a sweater! It’s so hot out!”

“Isn’t it nice?” he asked.

“It’s horrible!” This must have been the one whose eyes were also hurting from the sun.

As this new trio talked easily of goings on at the Père Lachaise cemetery, it dawned on me: these were cemetery regulars. They visited every day and knew every inch of the place. This revelation suddenly seemed remarkable. The discovery of Père Lachaise habitués left me much happier than when I had come in.

 

I returned the following day, now drawn as much by the lively regulars as to whatever I thought I was going to find in the first place. I went back to the grassy area, though I didn’t linger for long. It didn’t seem right to start stalking these older men and women; I’d have to rely on a chance meeting again.

I settled in at a quiet corner of the cemetery, on a bench half in shade, half in sun. I looked at the graves around me, the crypts and vaults, their different shapes and sizes. Famous people, sure, but ‘ordinary’ ones beneath the earth, too. Don’t differences become petty once we’re all under so much dirt?

Rather than an assumed gloom, my surroundings bolstered me. So many different stories here; one right after another. An artist next to an alchemist, a mother next to a mathematician. Lives buried, but once lived.

I wrote the last scene I had to write for my book straight through. As a writer who claws painfully for every word, it was the easiest my pen had ever flowed; Père Lachaise had indeed inspired magic.

 

On December 22, 2011, I attended my first funeral held at the Père Lachaise cemetery. George Whitman, the legendary owner of beloved bookstore Shakespeare and Company was laid to rest with a moving tribute befitting his spirit. The man who walked on foot through Central America, read a book every night, and welcomed literally thousands of writers to sleep, work, and create in his bookshop, embodied an unwavering generosity and trust of humanity almost startling in an increasingly divided world.

Family and friends took turns telling stories of the bookstore and its eccentric owner. To the accompaniment of a jazz trio, we sang “You Are My Sunshine” and laughed and cried. It’s always amazed me how mourning and celebration mingle. How often, they can be one and the same. Grief and joy, sadness and wonder; we contain such riches inside us at all times.

I’ve come to adopt the Parisian affection for Père Lachaise, no longer depressed by the death housed there, but rather heartened by the lives that were led. As writer Jeanette Winterson said at Whitman’s service, he lived in such a way that made the rest of us ask, “Why should we be afraid of life?”

Here in the City of Light, I’ve learned how strolling a cemetery can become a pastime, how it helps one appreciate the golden present. I feel a thousand souls around me, as I wander humbled and curious and awestruck through the maze. The cold stones seem to whisper, warm possibilities of flesh and blood: Don’t be afraid of life. Live it. Love it. Embrace every single day.

Sion Dayson is an American writer living in Paris, France. Her work has appeared in The Wall Street Journal, Smokelong Quarterly, and many others. Read more of her work at Sion Dayson. Excerpted from Numéro Cinq, a literary web magazine. 


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