Pere Lachaise

Around 9:20 this morning I hopped on the Metro at Gare Austerlitz, and about twenty minutes later, after a transfer at Republique, I walked toward the gates of Pere Lachaise. It was a chilly Sunday morning, Boulevard de Menilmontant damp from a light rain a few hours ealier, wet leaves smashed into the pavement. There wasn’t a whole lot of activity--a few people walking dogs, a few people riding bikes, nothing like the Latin Quarter or Concorde. In fact, the brick buildings, the storefronts, this small part of Paris reminded me of old pictures of Detroit in my dad's books, pictures from the 1930s and 1940s. Don’t laugh, Detroit looked very different back then.

Anyway, I found the east entrance to Pere Lachaise and labored up the Ave. Principale. I hadn’t seen any information place, a kiosk or something, so I decided to tour the place without a map. Foolishly, as it turned out.

There was a large map display near the entrance, and thought this would suffice. Two stupid things about this theory: one, this map did not have Richard Wright’s grave listed, and that’s one I really wanted to see; and, two, the hundreds of winding paths told me I’d have trouble finding just about everything.

“Just follow the crowds,” I told myself, “and you’ll see the biggies. And walk around enough, and you’ll come across Richard’s grave.”

Sounds ludicrous now. Hell, five minutes into the place and I knew I could’ve walked around for a week and come up empty.



Each section was a city in itself--almost a slum, albeit a grand old one. Great sepulchers of stones, crowded next to each other, and sometimes barely enough room to press between. Thousands of graves any way you turned. Really, I could’ve strolled past my mother’s tomb and missed it.

And some of these sepulchers were bigger and taller than my dining room. The older ones stained with large water marks, some adorned with grand sculptures--a weeping angel, a bust of the deceased, or an elaborate cross.

In many places it looked as if coffins were laid beside each other, cement poured over them, and the newer ones covered in black and polished to a stately ash. Perhaps a cross was grooved into the lid.



When they say the dead “rest,” it’s really true here--many sections resembled furniture showrooms, countless square feet of stone beds with a tiny cement walkway to navigate, shop, choose. Or, along the cobbled walkway, the older stone “outhouses” line the sides, and they’re twice as tall as you, and some even have a cement bench built within.



For the first half hour or so I sought no celebrity. Yes, I was headed Oscar’s way, but I just enjoyed the scenery, the craftsmanship, the solitude, and the quiet. It was brisk out, somewhat windy, I kept my head in my pockets and strolled along, and reminded myself that no matter how lost I was, I wasn’t really. It’s impossible to get lost in Paris. If you are, you have no soul.

I was on the Ave. Circulare, which, as its name suggests, circles the place. I decided to cut through on Ave. Carotte. This was a lucky choice, for I soon saw the familiar tomb of Oscar, the zigzaggy angel holding up the upper half of his tomb on her back.



I had Oscar to myself for a few minutes (I’ll bet he would’ve loved that). There they were, the lipstick puckers all over, wet bouquets of flowers at the base, a bottle of wine, a few folded notes with the ink bleeding from the morning rain.
And then a tour group came, the guide speaking French. People held out digital cameras and snapped pictures, and I channeled the tomb’s occupant and thought, “Either these tourists go, or I do.”

(Although I’ve read that it’s just a myth that Oscar, on his deathbed, said, “Either these curtains go or I do.”)

After the tourists left, I walked around Oscar’s tomb, and found it hard to believe the genius who wrote so many profound words was so close to me. I stayed about ten minutes, just thinking about that.

When I resumed my journey, I headed back down Ave. Circulare, consulted a map, and decided to see another celebrity. After a pleasant walk past more and more old, massive tombs, and a few shiny new ones, only a few years old, I followed a few voices and came to the most popular grave in the place, the only one (that I saw, anyway) with guard rails. And there was the Lizard King, who could do anything.

Not much of a crowd, only four or five people. I took my pictures, then leaned on a rail and just looked. It’s a wonder Jim is so popular here, he’s one of the thousands at the cemetery that is quite tucked away.



“James Douglas Morrison, 1943-1971,” read the tombstone, with the edge of the letters turning a rusty green and water stains running from the “D” and the “4” and “3.” And I thought about all those Doors CDs I listened to, I heard “Break on Through” and “When the Music’s Over” in my head. I thought about “Light My Fire” on Sullivan, and, again, it was hard to fathom that a guy I worshipped in high school was here, right next to me. Hell, I patterned my signature after his in 1983, 1984--it’s still on my Social Security card. (Although I wish it wasn't, seems pretty stupid now.)

I made my way toward the entrance, paid my respects to Pissarro, told him that part of the reason I drove twelve hours to Memphis last year was to see his paintings. "Told him" meaning I thought it, I didn't speak to the guy.

However, I really went back to the entrance to get a map. I found a tiny booth near the gate.

“Bonjour” to the lady, and followed with, “Avez vous un map?”

I didn’t know how to say “map” in French, so I hoped she either spoke English or “map” was close to how it sounded in French—although I bet it’s something that sounds like “cart,” as in “cartography.” At any rate, she understood me, for she nodded and gave me a small map of the place.

Things were easier after that. Right away, I found Colette’s dark, shiny grave. I had pretty much walked right past it on the way in.

A few minutes later, I found the obelisk of Jean-Francois Champillion. He died at 42, the age I am now (although it could have been 41, they only had the years on his tomb and I don’t know his birthday). A few years ago I read a great book on the cracking of hieroglyphics called The Keys of Egypt, a book that sort of doubled as a Champillion biography. Now that I stood next to Jean-Francois I rested my arms on the gate and took it all in for a few minutes. Much of what you read about ancient Egypt in history books, you only read because of Champillion.



I saw Chopin, the Divine Sarah, and Edith Piaf. Sarah, perhaps the most-famous actress of all time, is almost hidden away, off a path and behind a large tomb. She has sort of an arched roof covering what looks like her coffin encased with stone. Or is it “covered” with stone, I didn’t want to use “cover” twice in once sentence.

(Oh, the irony.)

I cannot overstate how cool it is in there--and part of the coolness is the disorder. It’s like there’s very little planning there, and I liked that. The cobbled roads are uneven, the stairs are steady but don’t look it, the rails are rough and rusty.

It’s a village of tombs, gardens of stone.

On my way out, I resolved to go to the booth and ask the women, “Savez vous ou Richard Wright est?” and hope that was correct.

(That’s “Do you know where Richard Wright is?” I didn’t know how to say, “Do you know where Richard Wright’s grave is?”)

However, as I strolled down a cobbled path toward the entrance, I noticed a young couple in front of me holding a very large map of the cemetery. I took a few quick steps to get a better peek at their map, and saw it was much more detailed than the one I picked up at the cemetery entrance.

The couple spoke in Irish accents thick as a milkshake, but I understood almost every word as I eavesdropped for a few moments. Good enough. I asked them if they could help me, and told them I was looking for Richard Wright. They looked him up, and he was indeed on their map, in Section 87, near the corner adjacent to Sections 90 and 91. I thanked him profusely, and they laughed.

Turns out Richard is in the massive crematorium. I found his marker with little trouble, even though it’s behind a stairway. I took a picture, then bent down for a few minutes. I thought of that asshole teacher he wrote about in Black Boy, that woman who told him he’d never be a writer and asked him who in the world put such an idea into his “n— head.” I wonder how many people sought out her grave today.


I took a short tour of only a small corner of the crematorium. The best way to describe it: It looks like two stories of old record album covers glued to the walls. And it’s huge, taking up an entire section of the cemetery itself.

Just before I left Pere Lachaise, I stopped at a railing on a hill that offered me a sweeping view of a good chunk of the cemetery below me. I took in the solemn beauty of it all. I know that’s a corny way to put it, but that’s what I did. You do that a lot when you’re by yourself and you’re exploring Paris.