Une action ne peut être morale que si elle est libre
jueves, 23 de julio de 2015
domingo, 12 de julio de 2015
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. And one not so very special day, I went to my typewriter,I sat down and I wrote our story. A story about a time. A story about a place. A story about the people. But above all things, a story about love. A love that will live forever. The end.
I first came to Paris one year ago. It was 1899, the summer of love. I knew nothing of the Moulin Rouge, Harold Zidler or Satine. The world had been swept up in the Bohemian Revolution and I had travelled from London to be a part of it. On a hill near Paris, was the village of Montmatre. It was not what my father had said but the center of the Bohemian world. Musicians, painters, writers. They were known as the children of the revolution. Yes, I had come to live a penniless existence. I had come to write about truth, beauty, freedom and at which I believed above all things, love. But there was only one problem, I've never been in love!