So there it is. And there was The Ambassadors, some
thousands of words of story relating to late nineteenth century Americans who
found Paris society and culture seriously challenging.
There is a plot. X is the son of Y. He is in Paris and
has taken up residence with a woman of all things who might even not speak
English as the first language. It seems that at least one of the protagonists
in The Ambassadors night at least have twigged that some people in France speak
French. X is really wants to go back at home, to be embraced in the family
fold, guided to occupy the role others want him to play. He seems oblivious to
these desires and seems to like France.
Y talks to Z, who comes across the Atlantic us to England and then to France. He seems to have time on his hands when he sets about persuading eggs to come home. Z is not a little taken with Y and agrees, though his motives may not be of the first order.
Strether visits Paris and finds that it is not precisely what his preconceptions might have predicted. And that, I’m afraid, is about it. Plot is developed largely via dialogue, which is often expressed in the kind of language but probably no one ever spoke.
Do these soft words really butter parsnips? On that
issue the jury is still determinedly out, one feels.
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