Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Mechanic's Library April 30th

Let me know if you can come to our event below and I'll put on the guest list, complimentary. Wine and hors d'oeuvres, too.
April 30, 2009. AN EVENING OF MYSTERY & INTRIGUE IN PARIS!! CARA BLACK presents MURDER IN THE LATIN QUARTER: AN AIMEE LEDUC INVESTIGATION. Mechanics’ Institute, SF. 57 Post St. SF 6:00 pm The Bay Area’s doyenne of mystery offers the ninth in her ever-popular female “star” detective series set in Paris’s distinctive neighborhoods. Postcolonial politics, past and present, and global commerce ignite the murder of a Haitian academic in Paris’s bohemian Left Bank in this compelling narrative. Aimée LeDuc is stunned when a mysterious woman named Mireille arrives at Leduc Detective and announces that she is Aimée’s sister. When Mireille suddenly vanishes, Aimeé sets out to find her, and is quickly involved in this murky international murder. With PICTURES AT AN EXHIBITION, discussed by SARA HOUGHTELING – Family secrets, the world of black market art, and the mysteries of post war Paris are elements that make for a gripping story set in Europe still recovering from World War II. Max Berenzon’s family returns from hiding to find that their priceless art collection has vanished. Max becomes obsessed with tracking down the Matisses, Picassos – and a mysterious Manet -- that were part of his father’s gallery. Sara Houghteling reveals an eye for historical detail and an ability to weave together a story of heroism, corruption, resistance and collaboration in a haunting and unforgettable first novel. Members Free; Public $12.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Paris the Levitan labor camp in Paris

Here's the link to the camp described in Murder in the Rue de Paradis

Friday, April 10, 2009

Paris Bookstore

Shakespeare and Company is an institution on the Left Bank with a lot
of history and connected to the birth of writers carreers ie. James Joyce, Hemingway, Laurence Durrell and the list goes on:

Leighton Gage and I will talk there on Monday May 11th upstairs. You reach upstairs by creaky, groaning wooden stairs dim lit and none too steady. You make your way, shifting sideways, past the bookcases and piles of books, a cat or two who scurries under your feet, careful not to step on a reader engrossed crosslegged on the floor. Even in May Paris can chill the bones and the sky turn leaden so the smell of damp wool overcoats lingers. But the warmth of too many bodies cramped on the little chairs in little more than a Balzacian like garret with a window behind it that overlooks Notre Dame is, mes amies, like joining history.