I See Dead People

It was never intended as the ghouls’ tour. When stepping inside Westminster Abbey, a who’s who of dead people, it dawned on me there’s going to be a lot of this over the next eight weeks.

Ostensibly I intended to spend a few quiet moments with Thomas Hardy and Charles Dickens in Poets Corner. Ostentatiously I was assaulted by a show of mine’s bigger, considerably more expensive, and “I got a marble angel sitting on mine” parade of the great and insignificant dead of England. All that under one beautifully crafted and handmade vaulted ceiling.

Personally, self-aggrandising monuments to yourself, alive or dead, are in very poor taste. If God did exist, she/he must be embarrassed they missed the point of being on earth. You’d think if the deceased left everything to be equitably shared among the needy it would curry favour and guarantee a seat sitting on the right-hand side.

There on the floor the flag stones under which my literary loved ones are interred. “On an evening in the latter part of May a middle-aged man was walking homeward…” “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” two sentences through which a light entered completely changing this man’s life. I sat, thanking them for their enduring gift of literature. Eventually I wandered off through the house of dead perplexed by the number of people religion duped.

Paris proved a fertile ground for the dearly departed. There are three of note, but I am only telling you about two.

Cemetery de Montmartre, 20 Avenue Rache

Among the famous and near-famous you’ll find: Degas, Offenbach, Berlioz, Dumas, Nijinsky, Adolphe Sax (he invented the saxophone), Truffaut, and Emile Zola’s family (Emile’s body was removed to the Pantheon).

The beauty is the locale. Tucked away among cool shady trees smack in the heart of salacious Montmartre. In this area of decadent decay, it seems fitting just a stone’s throw is the spiritual palace of dreams for showgirls of all genders; Moulin Rouge. Hopefully there’s more magic under the cover of dark as the street by day is seedy and rundown. It feels familiar.

Cemetery du Pere-Lachaise, 16 rue du Repos

Inside the gates of Paris’ largest cemetery is a map of plot sites and corresponding cast list to seek out your favourites. Best take a photo on your phone. Enlarge as needed to assist navigation. It’s likely you’ll still get lost.

Lots of important old bones in here, among them: Chopin, Sarah Bernhardt, Debussy, Manet, Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, Napoleon I, Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette and nearly all the kings and queens of France, Voltaire, Rousseau, Dumas, Victor Hugo, Gertrude Stein (and Alice Toklas of course), Colette, Bizet, Delacroix, Isadora Duncan, and Truffaut.

It is huge so give yourself plenty of time. The atmosphere is eerie, deathly quiet, strangely fascinating, and beautiful to walk through. It’s easy to tumble on uneven mossy cobble stones. Perhaps someone from “the other side” is sending you a message.

My list of visits to the dead here is small; Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, and Jim Morrison if you’d dare say they are small. The tiny sparrow’s grave is easy to miss such is its lack of pretension. Unlike Mr Wilde’s monument, now surrounded by glass to limit damage from the red lipped kisses that persistently adorn his site. Jim’s grave site has been plundered, partied on, desecrated, slept on, stolen from. Beware there is a CCTV camera hidden in the tree watching your every move. Put that back.

Darkness encloses the site quickly. It was getting late and I feared the real possibility of being locked inside for the night. Still, plenty of good names I could say I slept with.