Kiss me again, Paris : a memoir

Never has a memoir enraptured me as completely as Kiss Me Again, Paris. Renate Stendhal reached through the pages and took me by the hand, pulling me back into Paris in the 1970’s and into her skin. To read Stendhal’s account of her life in Paris is to live it. Never has reading a book felt so much like watching a movie. Every intricate detail she dives into came alive before my eyes, not just through her masterful prose, but through the gorgeous pictures scattered throughout the memoir.

Although there are two explicit love stories present in Kiss Me Again, Paris, the implicit love stories between Stendhal and her friends, and Stendhal and her city are the most visceral. Paris is Stendhal’s mistress, more so than any of the lovers she describes, and her love for the city and the life she lived there is breathtaking. I myself have only been to Paris once, but after reading Stendhal’s memoir I feel as though that is not the case. I have never yearned for a city as I yearned for Paris while immersed in this book.

During many scenes depicting Stendhal and her friends, I knew I should feel like an outsider, privy to a conversation far too intimate for my perusal, but that was never the case. I will admit, I had a bit of a hard time keeping track of all the women in Stendhal’s life–which backstory corresponded to which name, and with whom had she slept? Still, the closeness of her tight-knit group of “Sinners”, as they called themselves, made it easy to forget my confusion. Regardless of backstory or personal history, the love Stendhal felt for these women shone through. These are friends who can call each other whenever one is in need, and within minutes they are at each other’s doors. They dance together, they drink together, and they love together. The atmosphere of Paris just adds another layer of decadence to their lives.

Stendhal’s feelings toward the two women her heart aches for in her memoir–a fickle actress named Claude and a mysterious red-headed woman who keeps re-appearing in her life–are the strongest throughout the memoir. She lays it all bare for her audience. Every lustful thought, every prickle of jealousy, every irrational moment of hope or despair. I craved more knowledge on the so-called “Woman in Red”, desperate as Stendhal was to know more, to be near her. As the story unfolds, I often found myself looking up Stendhal and her life-partner Kim Chernin on Wikipedia, hoping to gain even the smallest hint that Kim Chernin was the “Woman in Red”. Unfortunately, I found none, and it makes me wonder how such a deep, wonderful, all-consuming love story could have eventually found its end. I was hooked on Stendhal’s every word, and my heart pounded with every emotion she felt. Her frustration with Claude, yet desire to continue seeing her. Her questions about the “Woman in Red”, her obsession with learning more about her. It was as though Stendhal had a hold of my heart, making me feel all the anguish, hope, and love that she herself felt.

The book is not perfect, of course. It is riddled with casual transphobia that would have been common-place in the 1970’s, but feels rather shocking to read in a book published in 2017. Still, despite these short-comings, Kiss Me Again, Paris brings the author’s experience to life better than any other memoir I’ve read. The specificity in the detail is astounding, and the decadence in the language will leave you begging to read more.

In KMAP, Stendhal revisits this era of her life. Her memoir is notable for a variety of reasons: it’s a window into the gay female melee of the moment, and she has a particular way of recalling her encounters with luminaries. Some she names outright, like Meret Oppenheim and Pina Bausch; others’ identities she keeps under wraps. It’s a tactic that places the book in a category Stendhal playfully refers to as memoir à clef, a twist on the roman à clef: a novel with “keys” to uncovering the real in the fictional. (One famous example is Simone de Beauvoir’s The Mandarins, in which Jean-Paul Sartre and de Beauvoir herself are hidden within the characters.) She identifies it as one way to retain some existential protection for herself within a narrative that is at times very intimate and revealing, but also as a way to protect the friends, lovers and mentors who appear there as well.

Renate is a true storyteller. There's something about how she describes everything that takes you along with her and she lets you in on the secret. Along with the photographs to give you a deeper look into her world, the overall reflection and sensation is that while Paris is so iconic, you never stop learning and wanting to simply know more. About the author and the city alike.

Wow!Wow! Wow! This book was a true eye opener for me in just being able to peek inside someone's life and feel so luxurious and immersed inside Paris. I've visited once and this was like going right back. It brought back so many memories of being there but more than a tourist: made me feel like a local. The pictures were incredible & I thank the author for sharing them since they had a raw and exposed emotional aspect.

Full disclosure. I'm a man, and I found this book incredibly interesting. I love Paris which was why I initially picked up the book. At first I thought, young lesbian women trying to find themselves wouldn't be for me, but I was wrong. Paris in the 1970's gave women permission--not that they needed it--to explore themselves fully and to give free reign to their desires. What a refreshing concept - one our present American culture seems determined to suppress by any means possible. It occurred to me that we're do for another sexual revolution "here," and this book is a template. Great photos of the bohemian life of the time. Highly recommended.