How a Single Blue Wall Became the Heart of a Visual Diary – Le bateau ivre, Paris by Martin Essl
Welcome to this edition of [book spotlight]. Today, we uncover the layers of 'Le bateau ivre Paris,' by Martin Essl (published by Kehrer Verlag). We'd love to read your comments below about these insights and ideas behind the artist's work.
One blue wall changed the way Martin Essl saw Paris.
He walked past it again and again, always at the same time of day, always watching how the light, shadows, and reflections shifted. At first, it was just a surface - later, it became a diary. The blue wall gave him a way to understand time, change, and repetition in a city that was going through its own transformations.
What happens when you photograph the same wall for four years?
You begin to notice things most people miss. Martin Essl’s Le bateau ivre is about how memory, routine, and crisis leave marks in small, quiet places. It’s also about what it means to stay still and observe when the world feels unstable. If you’ve ever felt lost in your city, or in your own life, this book might speak to you.
The Book
Le bateau ivre (The Drunken Boat) is a photographic diary of Paris created by Austrian photographer Martin Essl between 2019 and 2023. Named after Arthur Rimbaud’s famous poem, the project blends poetic observation with quiet documentary, following Essl’s long walks through the city in times of personal and political crisis. At the heart of the book is a single blue wall, photographed from the same spot for four years, becoming a visual anchor in a city shaped by memory, protest, and transformation.
The book is structured like a play in five acts and includes 149 color photographs across 240 pages. It is published by Kehrer Verlag in 2024 as a clothbound hardcover with tipped-in image and slipcase. (Kehrer Verlag, Amazon)
Overview of the project: What inspired you to create Le bateau ivre, and how does the title, referencing Rimbaud’s poem, reflect your vision of Paris?
Paris was already the starting point for my previous series ‘Le Château Rouge No 1’ and ‘Le Château Rouge No 2’, the second part of which, photographed in Paris between 2015 and 2019, will be published this year. In the context of the ongoing crises and in memory of the city’s recent history, the way I work has changed since 2015. I had to have ‘different eyes’ (1) to understand what had remained the same and what I now perceived differently. Instead of wandering aimlessly, I was rushing through Paris in an infinite hurry - the ‘end of flânerie’ (2), the loss of the ability to perceive the world around me with the same attentiveness that had marked my first book.
It was then that I began what I call my ‘routine walks’, different routes in different directions, each starting from my studio in the Passy district of the 16th arrondissement. I always set off early in the morning and only when the weather was fine, with the aim of crossing the whole of Paris. I took them in turn, again and again, to observe the changes of light and colour throughout the year, ‘to find something new in the depths of the unknown’ (3).
One of these routes ended at Place Saint-Sulpice, in the 6th arrondissement of Paris. Coming from Rue Vaugirard, I turned into Rue Férou. After about 50 metres, on the left, is Man Ray’s old studio. Next to the building is a wall with a mural of Arthur Rimbaud’s poem ‘Le Bateau Ivre’, hand-painted by the calligrapher Jan Willem Bruins in 2012. Below the poem is written:
‘‘Why? - this poem starts on the right: Rimbaud (seventeen years old) declaimed “Le Bateau Ivre” the first time to his friends from the first floor of an old café on the other side of Place St. Suplice (1871) ~ In our imagination, the wind was blowing from Place St. Suplice, to the right, in Rue Férou.’
Discovering the poem on the wall and imagining Rimbaud, in September 1871, after the suppression of the Paris Commune, passing by this wall with his poetry passport to Paris ‘Le Bateau Ivre’ under his arm, on his way to the Closerie des Lilas to read it to Verlaine and the Cercle des Parnassiens, was one of the moments and coincidences that gave direction to my project and the title of the book.
Then I went to the bus stop on Place Saint-Sulpice, opposite the Café de la Mairie, where Georges Perec wrote ‘tentative de l’épuisement d’un lieu parisien’ (An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in Paris), and got on bus 63, which took me back to my studio.
The writings of Charles Baudelaire also pointed me in the direction of the poetry of Arthur Rimbaud. Some passages in ‘Le Bateau Ivre’ recall Baudelaire’s poems ‘harmonie du soir’ or ‘le voyage’, in which Baudelaire wanted to use poetry to escape from the everyday world to a transcendent sphere. Rimbaud broke with Baudelaire’s search for spirituality and focused on the here and now. ‘Le Bateau Ivre’ represents a kind of revolutionary turn that sees poetry as a means of intense, unadorned confrontation with the world and one’s own existence.
In 2015 I bought a bilingual paperback edition of Rimbaud’s poems in French and German (Poésies/Gedichte, éditions insel taschenbuch). It’s one of the two books I always carried with me on my walks in Paris during the production of ‘Le bateau ivre’, and I continue to read it, trying to understand it better as time goes by, and also letting myself be carried away by the images and colours it conjures up. The poem is complex and its meaning is often difficult to grasp; it would be presumptuous of me to say what Rimbaud’s poem really was. It’s not the key to understanding my book, and I didn’t try to illustrate the poem with my photographs, but rather it wove for me a whole network of coincidences, of poetic resonances linked to Paris. Its metaphorical journeys resonate for me with the boat symbol of Paris and its motto ‘She is tossed by the waves, but she does not sink’ and is a good title to express the complexity of human experience and to address disorientation and alienation in the modern world and in this particular contemporary moment.
In the paperback edition, there is a chapter called ‘Vocalist of the Abyss’, in which Rüdiger Görner, the editor of the edition, has published his notes on Arthur Rimbaud. There is one note on Rimbaud that I’d like to quote, a beautiful short passage that I’ve always kept in mind and that has resonated with me throughout the making of the book:
‘26.9. Paris, Avenue Carnot. As the light drizzles. And the hours pass before me. I continue to draw from yesterday’s sketches. An early evening star twinkles in the sky. Shadows live in houses. And in museums, pictures move, merge into an endless film.’(4)
Artistic vision and approach: Your work presents Paris in a surreal and poetic light. How do you approach capturing the city in a way that dissolves conventional boundaries of time, space, and memory?
In Paris, you are constantly confronted with the history of the city and images of the past. A walk through Paris is at once an active confrontation with the present, shaped by people and their actions, but always a journey into the memory of the city, where every street corner can reveal ‘the buried’ (5). Leaving my studio, coming from the Rue de la Tour, I reach the roundabout of the Place de la Costa Rica (photographed by Brassai in 1940, the Hotel Franklin with its tobacconist is still there, only the flower shop Les Jardin de Paris opposite has been demolished, only a wall remains), which has been the starting point for various ‘routine walks’. Seven streets lead away from the Place de la Costa Rica, but whichever direction I take, I get lost in a labyrinth of memories and history.
‘I’m writing you all this from another world, a world of appearances. In a way the two worlds communicate with each other. Memory is to one what history is to the other: an impossibility.’ - Chris Marker (6)
If you go down Rue Benjamin Franklin, past the Clemenceau museum, after about 100 metres on the left, you’ll see a reinforced concrete building by the Perret brothers, built between 1903 and 1904. It was the first building to use this technique and marked the transition to Art Deco. On the ground floor, now a Bulthaupt kitchen shop, was the Perret brothers’ studio, where Le Corbusier worked as an apprentice from 1908 to 1909. Continuing along the street, on the left, beyond the square with the bronze statue of Benjamin Franklin, Rue Vineuse leads to the Place du Trocadéro. One Monday in November 2018, as I walked down the street to take my older daughter to school, I came across a blue car parked at the end of the street. The windscreen was smashed and the interior completely burnt out by a Molotov cocktail.
Further along, towards my daughter’s school, scenes of destruction were everywhere: burnt-out cars and scooters, smashed shop fronts, destroyed ATMs, wooden barricades sprayed with graffiti, ... these were the remnants of the first act of the ‘yellow vest’ movement, which erupted every Saturday, month after month, escalating into violence, death and destruction in the early days of the protests.
Arriving at the Place du Trocadéro et du 11 Novembre, with the Palais de Chaillot on your right, you will see an inscription in gold letters at the top of the building: ‘Rare and beautiful things, skillfully assembled here, teach the eye to regard all things in the world as though they had never been seen before.’ by Paul Valéry. To the left lies the Cité de l’Architecture et du Patrimoine, while in the center of the square, the view of Paris unfolds, with the Eiffel Tower soaring into the sky. If you ascend the steps to the Parvis des Droits-de-l’Homme, further along the esplanade, at the edge of the viewing platform one might think of the two propaganda photographs, taken by Heinrich Hoffmann of Adolf Hitler and his entourage during a ‘Blitz Besuch’ to Paris on June 1940. In 1962, the images in Chris Marker’s experimental science fiction film ‘La Jetée’, presented in the form of a photo-novel and partly set in a fictional underground of post-apocalyptic Paris after World War III, were taken in the same place - four floors below, in the former underground quarries of the Palais de Chaillot, the archive of the Cinémathèque française.
Looking down at the Jardin du Trocadéro, a Saint Laurent fashion show comes to mind. Every year, for Fashion Week, a large mirrored structure takes shape, covering the terraces, staircases, fountains and sculptures of the garden. Mirrored panels, suspended by cranes, would float through the sky and rotate on their axes, shifting through different shades of blue or reflecting the dark shapes of surrounding structures, including the Eiffel Tower. I remember trying to capture them at the perfect moment, in the right light and perspective, so that they would blend seamlessly into the endless blue above - it reminded me of John Baldessari throwing three balls in the air to get a straight line.
During the COVID lockdown in 2020, I spent a lot of time with my wife and daughter in the Jardin du Trocadéro, it was one of the places we were allowed to go, restricted to a limited radius of one kilometre from where we lived. The place looked like an abandoned stage, the vast empty spaces standing still, as if time itself had stopped and the city was holding its breath. Paris had suddenly become a surreal, almost utopian space, where people had disappeared and the streets were frozen in an eerie silence.
I could go on with this very personal and fragmentary tour of the city, a short-wandering walk that illustrates that Paris has no end in thought. The question that arises for me is to what extent this abstract historical knowledge, ‘little memories’ (7) as Christian Boltanksi used to call it, and collective memories and traumas influence and shape my way of seeing and my artistic work. One day, as I rush through the same streets, return to the same place, constantly rediscovering and remembering at the same time, a memory, a brief moment out of time in which everything contradictory comes together, may suddenly trigger something, ‘it must hit the heart’ (8) and will result in a photograph. Or it will settle permanently in my mind, and later I will reconstruct what I have seen. If I don’t photograph it, ‘things haven’t gone all the way, they’ve just been lived’ (9), to borrow a phrase from Annie Ernaux. Through photography, I transform memory into something new that eventually leads me out of the labyrinth.
Challenges and perseverance: Documenting a city in transformation requires both observation and interpretation. What challenges did you face in capturing the essence of Paris from 2019 to 2023?
Motifs that run through the book like obsessions: walls, construction barriers, barricades, signs of protest, ... The book traverses an intimate and troubled Paris, marked by brutal and history-changing events: From the terrorist attacks of January and November 2015, to the presidential elections of 2017 and 2022 and the rise of Le Pen’s far-right party, to the climate demonstrations of 2019, overshadowed by the weekly ‘yellow vest’ protests that began in 2018, then the emptiness and deafening silence of COVID, lockdowns and masks. And events that, although not in the immediate vicinity of Paris, are so profoundly significant that they expose the fragility and fundamental challenges of our time, far beyond any borders, and the waves of protest spill over: The death of George Floyd and the Black Lives Matter movement that followed in 2020, denouncing police brutality and racist violence, the violent uprising at the US Capitol in 2021, the global demonstrations in support of Palestinian liberation in 2022, the demonstrations against the war in Ukraine in 2022 and against the carnage in Gaza in 2023, ... And personal grief.
The gap between these events grows smaller and the chain of catastrophes heavier as the world seems to collapse around me. Only with time do I realise the significance of these events, and they weave themselves into the fabric of my everyday life. I ‘learn to see, [...] everything goes deeper into me’ (10). Dialectically to my ‘routine walks’, I quickly fixate on one place - a blue wall, which I photograph from the same point of view over the course of four years.
‘You do not need to leave your room, [...] simply wait, be quiet, still, and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked; it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.’ - Franz Kafka (11)
Storytelling in photography: Structured like a play in five acts, your photographic essay offers a narrative of transformation and introspection. How do you use visual elements to construct this story?
Before I started photographing ‘Le bateau ivre’, I was thinking about a new form of photobook, a composition that oscillates between documentary photography, showing the different layers that make up a city, and abstract imagery, showing my inner world and conveying a state rather than developing an act of its own. Inspired by Virginia Woolf’s experimental writings and her modern novel ‘The Waves’ (1931), I constructed three acts in which a variety of motifs and themes, such as construction sites, protest sites, empty shop windows, bookshops, cafés, lonely figures against the backdrop of the city, are loosely strung together and flow freely through the chapters, framed and interrupted by chapters of ‘blue wall photographs’. The ‘blue wall photographs’ become the beginning and the end, an interlude that reassembles the story and serves as a meditative reflection on life as constant movement and change.
When I speak about theater, it also relates to how the book is translated into an exhibition. Inspired by the ‘Coup de théâtre’ poster walls in the Paris metro stations, the ‘blue wall photographs’ are divided into four grid blocks: ‘The Beginning’ and ‘The End’ with 3x3 photographs each in a fixed grid, and the 16 ‘Blue Shadow’ photographs and the 64 photographs of passers-by, each floating in a grid. These frame and also serve to intersperse the documentary photographs presented along a line. At the same time, a video work and objects will be on display in the exhibition. One of these objects is a ‘boîte à lire’, an allusion to Bertolt Brecht’s ‘epic theater’, which has often accompanied my thoughts during the work on ‘Le bateau ivre’.
Role of the photographer: As someone whose work is autobiographical, how do you balance your personal perspective with the broader story of the city and its inhabitants?
I am Austrian, and after 15 years of living in Paris, I can call the city my home. I studied here, my wife is French and my two daughters were born here, but after all this time and the memories that bind me to the city, I’m still an outsider. It is this torness that shapes the contours of my work, that fuels me to photograph and make my books. I’m deeply connected to the life of the city, and as a photographer who walks and observes it every day, Paris becomes a vessel in which the autobiographical, the intimate and the wider view are interwoven. I spoke earlier about the ‘blue wall photographs’, a central point in the project. The blue wall, a backdrop that became an obsession, as if it attracted me like a magnet. I discovered it in 2018 and have been observing and sketching it throughout the year. In spring and autumn it has the perfect light between 18:00 and 18:15, longer in summer. On the left-hand side of the wall, a small projection casts a line of shadow that narrows over time, while on the right-hand side, a section of a large shop window opens up the décor. As the seasons and time of day change, the blue on the wall changes from a light greenish azure to a bright navy blue to a blackish blue at sunset. I started taking pictures in 2019, mostly on Sundays and Mondays, with the last light of the day, noting what I saw: the passage of time, the changing blue, people and their shadows passing by, shadows and light reflections from passing cars and buses, the shadow of a shrub, the shadow on the wall deforming into a wave, becoming a curtain that opens and closes. Seeing what has always been before the eyes, yet remained unnoticed.
In my work, nothing happens from a safe distance, I was standing about two metres away from the wall, a fixed focus on it. I could feel the street vibrating beneath my feet, caused by the metro moving underground. The bus lane was just behind me, the people passing in front of me, were very close, the closer they came to me, respectively the camera, the more blurred and abstract they became. What interested me with the images of the passers-by was the dialectical interplay - of sharpness and blurriness, distance and closeness and more generally the limits of things and of eyesight.
On the one hand, it is a love letter to the city and its people. Inspired by Walker Evans series Labour Anonymous, in which he photographed pedestrians in Detroit in 1947 and Alex Katz’s 2002 painting ‘White Earrings’, the ‘blue wall photographs’ become a tableau in which the blur, light and shadow transform the human body into anonymous material, an indeterminate fragment in the flow of the city. On the other hand, it is a quiet reflection on the self, the individual within the collective, and the absence of social dialogue. The tension between powerlessness and freedom in a world in crisis breeds self-doubt. Between observing from my glass house and the inability to actively intervene in any profound way, the question arises as to the possibility of change. The blue wall becomes a metaphor for the impossible, a symbol of the barrier between thought and action, where resistance remains confined to the mind. Passers-by move in front of the wall, many of them returning home after a day’s work. I find myself watching the same people over and over again, each passing the wall with the same familiar gestures and routines, lost in their thoughts or absorbed in the demands of superficial communication, unable to perceive what is unfolding in front of them.
In the four years that I regularly stood in front of the wall, only two people approached me.
The first was a middle-aged woman who, out of curiosity, asked why so many photographers seemed to be drawn to this particular spot, she wondered what was so interesting about the wall... The second was an architect who passed the wall every evening on his way home from work. Intrigued by my presence, he began to watch me. One day he struck up a conversation and soon we were discussing a range of topics, including the writings of Georges Perec, in particular his books ‘L’homme qui dort’ (The Man Who Sleeps) and ‘tentative d’épuisement d’un lieu parisien’ (Attempt to exhaust a place in Paris).
I’d also like to quote a passage from Georges Perec’s Tentative d’épuisement d’un lieu parisien:
“[…] Lots of people, lots of shadows, an empty 63; the ground is gleaming, a full 70, it seems to be raining harder.
It is ten after six. Car horns; the start of a traffic jam.
I can barely see the church; on the other hand, I see almost the entire café (and myself writing) reflected in its own windowpanes.
The traffic jam has broken up.
The headlights alone indicate that cars are passing.
The street lamps progressively light up.
Way in the distance (Hôtel Récamier?) there are now several lit windows.
An 87 goes by, almost full.
A man carrying a crate goes by.
A man carrying a plank goes by.
A police car goes by, its blue light spinning.
An empty 87, a full 70, an empty 87 go by.
People running.
A man goes by carrying an architect’s model (is it really an architect’s model? It resembles my idea of an architect’s model: I don’t see how it could be anything else).
An orange cement mixer, an almost empty 86, a full 70, an empty 86 go by.
Indistinct shadows.
A full 96.”
Color: The color blue seems a dominant tone in your book, is color a key to reading your book?
When I started to read ‘Le Bateau Ivre’, one of the first things that struck me was the metaphor of colour in the poem and how much Rimbaud worked with the colour blue, which appears again and again in different forms and shades: ‘A festival of colours, [...] the marine world in which the frail skiff sails is filled with every shade of blue’. (13)
In the two verses I have chosen for the book, a reminiscence by Rimbaud of Baudelaire’s ‘harmonie du soir’, Rimbaud uses colour metaphors to describe the total opacity of the sea water and its transformation into something new, like a metamorphosis.
‘I have seen the low sun spotted with mystic horrors,
Lighting up, with long violet clots,
Resembling actors of very ancient dramas,
The waves rolling far off their quivering of shutters!
I have dreamed of the green night with dazzled snows
A kiss slowly rising to the eyes of the sea,
The circulation of unknown saps,
And the yellow and blue awakening of singing phosphorous!’ (14)
Blue is a colour that has always been present in my work. In 2009 I bought a photobook, ‘Two Blue Buckets’ by Peter Fraser, the 1988 Cornerhouse edition with the image of the two blue buckets repeated three times on the cover. This photograph remains one of my favourites; its stillness and the power it releases at the same time is deeply compelling. This was an important moment in my own development as an artist, when my fascination with colour photography first took shape. The pursuit of colour, both as a formal and emotional element, has since become an enduring thread in my practice. Over the years, blue has served as a recurring source of inspiration in works that have accompanied me on my artistic journey. For example, Alex Katz’s ‘White Earrings’ (2002), a painting I spoke about earlier, and Edwin Denby’s poetry and dance writings, both of which I discovered in an exhibition catalogue about the painter. Or Jean Miró’s ‘Blue Triptych’, exhibited at the Centre Pompidou, is another influence that often draws me in during my visits to the museum, where I get lost in its vibrant blues.
I am also inspired by the recurring presence of the colour blue in the literature I am drawn to, where it often intersects with memory, identity and the city. I am reminded of Virginia Woolf’s ‘To the Lighthouse’, in which the character Lily Briscoe completes her painting after ten years. Woolf’s description of the moment: ‘There it was - her picture. Yes, with all its green and blues, its lines running up and across, its attempt at something’ (15), reflecting both the act of creation and the passage of time. Or the use of the colour blue in Toni Morrison’s writing: ‘Change it all to a way it was never meant to be. The color of the stone walls had changed from gold to fish-gill blue by the time he left. He had seen what there was.’ (16)
In the writings of Rainer Maria Rilke, to which I feel particularly drawn, there is a connection with the place I come from. In his ‘Letters on Cézanne’ to his wife Clara, Rilke reflects on the colour effects and subtle variations of blue in Cézanne’s paintings, which he had recently seen at the Paris Autumn Exhibition (Salon d’Automne, 1907). He contemplates not only the vibrant colours of the artist’s palette, but also Paris itself, and senses a new beginning both in the arts and in literature.
‘All reality is on his side: with this dense, padded blue.’ (17)
In the works of Surrealist writers, the colour blue is often associated with the city of Paris, seen as both a utopian space and a repository of memory, symbolising the hope for another world buried in the layers of history.
‘The modern light of the unusual, that’s what’s going to hold him back from now on. The modern light of the unusual [...] reigns strangely in these kinds of covered galleries which are numerous in Paris around the main boulevards and which are disturbingly called passages, as if in these corridors hidden from daylight, no one was allowed to stop for more than a moment. A glaucous glow of light, in some abysmal way, like the sudden light under a skirt that is lifted from a leg that is uncovered.’ - Louis Aragon (18)
This ‘glaucous’ corresponds to a colour between blue and green, a hue that I encounter again in Rimbaud’s ‘Le Bateau Ivre’, in stanza 12, where he describes the fusion of the green sea with the blue sky. Here I will close the circle.
7. Advice for emerging photographers: For those seeking to create long-term, autobiographical projects like yours, what insights from Le bateau ivre would you share to guide their creative process?
When you’re working on a long-term project, it’s easy to hit a dead end. When I first started working on the idea of the abstract images, my focus was initially on a different location. It was only later that I discovered the blue wall, which became the key to a whole new perspective. Interestingly, the ‘blue wall images’ came about by accident, but I found the irritation more compelling than my original intention. One way to get past such an impasse is to simply keep working and exploring; often new inspiration comes from looking at things from a different angle, or from unforeseen circumstances that push you beyond the initial idea.
In today’s world, a time marked by dystopian shifts, it is more important than ever to engage with the real world. There lies a certain truth in the streets of a city - in the people, their actions, the architecture, the traffic, the changing light, the intensity of the colours, the noise and the smells. Everything is in constant motion, even the walls seem to be alive. Walking through the streets gives me a comforting sense of control over what I see - that I am the one choosing what to observe. In this control lies a form of resistance, a counterpoint to the neoliberal view of things.
1) Marcel Proust, Du côté de chez Swann, À la Recherche du temps perdu, t. III, p. 762
2) Peter Handke, Das Ende des Flanierens, Suhrkamp Verlag, 3rd edition 2016, p. 93
3) Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal / The Flowers of Evil, Reclam No. 19217, 2014, p.386
4) Rüdiger Görner in Arthur Rimbaud, Poésies / Gedichte, Insel Verlag, 3287, 1st edition 2007, p. 153
5) Walter Benjamin, Berliner Chronik / Berlin Childhood around 1900, Suhrkamp Verlag, 2019, 1; p.36
6) Chris Marker, Sans soleil, 1983
7) Christian Boltanski, ‘petite mémoire’ in ‘un + un + un : exister, c’est être différent’ | INA, interview with Laure Adler, 1996 (website)
8) Walter Benjamin, Das Passagen-Werk, Suhrkamp Verlag, 1st edition 1991, 935, p. 573
9) Annie Ernaux, Le jeune homme, éditions Gallimard, 2022, p.9
10) Rainer Maria Rilke, Die Aufzeichnungen des Malte Laudris Brigge, Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 2009, p. 10
11) Franz Kafka, Die Zürauer Aphorismen, Suhrkamp Verlag, 2006, reflections on sin, suffering, hopes and the true path
12) Georges Perec, tentative d’épuisement d’un lieu parisien, Christian Bourgois éditeur, 2008, p. 30
13) Pascale Lismonde, Le goût du bleu, Mercure de France, 2013, p. 99
14) Arthur Rimbaud, Poésies / Gedichte, Insel Verlag, 3287, 1st edition 2007, p. 36
15) Viriginia Woolf, Zum Leuchtturm, Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 13th edition 2020, p. 218
16) Toni Morrison, Jazz, Rowohlt Taschenbuch Verlag, 10th edition 2019, p. 204
17) Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters about Cézanne, Insel Verlag, 7th edition 1983, p. 27
18) Louis Aragon, Der Pariser Bauer, Suhrkamp Verlag, 4th edition 2015, p. 18
To discover more about this intriguing body of work and how you can acquire your own copy, you can find and purchase the book here. (Kehrer Verlag, Amazon)
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