We'll Always Have Paris: Sex and Love in the City of Light, by John Baxter

This is precisely the sort of book I read, enjoy well enough, and instantly forget. Some books don’t deserve this immediate oblivion: I’ve forgotten many a well-written novel, many a prize-winner, even, just because there was nothing particularly “sticky” about it for my memory, as Malcolm Gladwell might put it. However, I will feel absolutely no guilt about forgetting this book: it was unashamedly mediocre, and hence I will unashamedly put it out of my mind.

It’s not that John Baxter is a bad writer, it’s just that he’s not an amazingly good one either. His prose is just enough to get you through the book with pleasure, but not really memorable or brilliant. The real problem with this book, though, was its general confusion as to its own purpose. Was it a memoir of the author’s experiences of Paris? Yes. Was it filled to the brim with Parisian history? You betcha. Was it an account of his wife’s pregnancy and birth, and his own feelings upon becoming a father? Sure. Was it meant to trace the sexual appearances and practices of Paris of the past and present? Yeah, why not? Was it a paean to Paris’s beauty and uniqueness. Definitely. Was it all of these things at once, and therefore none of these things well? There’s the rub: in trying to encompass all of these varied topics, Baxter got in over his head and missed the mark on all of them. Plus, his persona was just not charming enough: I found myself not particularly caring about his personal life, and his research, while quite adequate, was not eccentric or interesting enough to merit my full attention. Some people can pull off the right blend of personal and factual: A.J. Jacobs’s Know-It-All was a good example for me. Adam Gopnik’s Paris the Moon is an even better example, considering that it’s also about Paris, but much better done. I still remember specific lines and scenes from that book—“elephants will be nudged” and “smooth”--and it’s been two years since I read. Baxter’s book, alas for him, will fade into oblivion by, oh, tomorrow. Too bad for you, Baxter.