When I need to shake the dust from my head and sweep any cobwebs from my rattled brain, I walk a few blocks up rue de Bagnolet, turn left onto a short street, and up a few lopsided concrete stairs to Cimetiére du Père Lachaise.
Here lie the mortal remains of Chopin, Balzac, Collette, Victor Hugo, Gertrude Stein , Oscar Wilde and Abélard et Héloïse, among many other notables in the arts and politics.
The walkways are cobbled stone, threading their way through the cemetery. The ornate gravestones and tombs, some with tiny stained-glass windows, sit so close together along the walkways that it resembles a small village with its own street signs and benches for a picnic or a shady spot to read a book. It’s a quiet place, as one might guess, and perfect for wandering about and getting completely lost; lost in the labyrinth of stone paths and lost in thought.
For some reason, however, I always end up in front of a small obelisk tucked between two other monuments. The name on the obelisk is Jean-François Champollion le Jeune. He’s the man who deciphered the mysterious Egyptian hieroglyphs in 1822. Using, in part, the famous Rosetta Stone and, with his insight and translations, he opened the floodgate of knowledge and understanding to one of the world’s oldest civilizations. Last time I was in front of his grave, Champollion himself was there, straightening up a few of the flowers an admirer had left. He turned and looked up to see me and smiled.
“Ah, l’American,” he said. “I’ve seen you here many times before.”
“I didn’t know you were aware of people,” I said. “You are, well, dead.”
“We’re aware of more than you think,” he said.”
“We?”
“Everyone here in the cemetery. We know things. Par example, I know you’re struggling with something.”
“It’s this book I’m writing,” I said. “It’s hard. I can’t seem to get a handle on it.”
He chuckled. “Can’t get those animals to say anything, eh?”
“So you know I write children’s books,” I said. “It’s true. I’m having trouble.”
“Well,” he said, “What do you want them to say?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“Perhaps the better question is what do you want to say.”
“Me?” I asked. “No, no, it’s the penguin. He’s a detective, you see, and he’s just found a vital clue of frosting on the door handle. The snake is the thief, the one that stole cupcakes, but since he hasn’t any hands, how can he…”
Champollion laughed again and shook his head. “It all sounds a little ridiculous, doesn’t it,” he said. “Loafing around drawing animals in hats and overcoats.”
“Well, yes,” I admitted. “But it’s my job.”
“Do you like your job?”
“Of course!” I said. “I love it. I wake up every morning to spend all day, every day writing stories and drawing pictures. What’s not to love?”
“Then what is your problem?” Champollion asked. “It sounds like la vie idéale.”
“Well, there are the day-to-day activities that get in the way,“ I said, “Like paying the rent, buying the groceries, washing clothes and the dishes. Then the American dollar is drastically tumbling against the Euro so everything is much more expensive …”
“Nothing has changed,” said Jean-François. “I, too, struggled with day-to-day schedules.”
“But what you did changed the world,” I said.
“It was nothing,” he said. “The work was hard, oui, and it was slow. But it was satisfying.”
“But what drove you on?” I asked. “Thomas Young in London didn’t think much of you, even your own language professor doubted you. Where did you find the inspiration to connect it all together? What flash of insight struck you at the right moment?”
“Bah!” he said. “There was no inspiration, no blinding light. Remember, I spoke Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Sanskrit, Aramaic, Persian, Ethiopic, and Chinese by the time I was twenty years old. I taught myself Coptic as well, for I knew it had to be the key to unlocking hieroglyphs. No, mon ami, there was no flash of inspiration. It was something you have, something everyone has, something most people have somehow lost.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“Passion,” he said.
“Passion?”
“Passion for something, anything,” he said. “What drove me onward was my passion for the truth and my passion for language and my passion for Egypt. Everyone needs a passion in their lives. Perhaps you’ve forgotten yours.”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Most of life is really mundane,” he said, “filled with dull activities. But it’s our passions that spark our lives, making our time here on Earth worthwhile and exciting. I drew from my knowledge of languages and connected it all to those pictograms, but it was my love of words and language — and dogged determination and patience — that help to crack the code and realize my dream. So make those animals talk, make them speak for you. Give them words, your words. It’s your passion that will make them talk.”
“I never thought about it that way,” I confessed. “Writing is a difficult game. There’s much I don’t understand.”
“Who does?” Champollion said. “There was much I didn’t understand about Egyptian writing. Even after one hundred and seventy-six years and living here with the spirits of all these marvelous writers, there is still much I don’t understand about words. Even the dead can be taught a few things from the living.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“For instance,” Champollion said, “just who is this American Jim Morrison? It seems that he was an arsonist. And he is buried here in this cemetery with all these honored artists? C’est incroyable!”
The ghost faded away and I was left alone. I walked home determined to give the snake some hands, my characters a voice, and rediscover my passion.
And to burn my Doors CDs.
Doug Cushman is a former Redding artist and author who now lives and works in Paris. He was born in Springfield, Ohio and moved to Connecticut with his family when he was 15 years old. While in high school he created comic books lampooning his teachers, selling them to his classmates for a nickel a piece.
Since 1978, he has illustrated and/or written more than 100 books for children and collected a number of honors, including a Reuben Award for Book Illustration from the National Cartoonists Society, New York Times Children’s Books Best Sellers, and the New York Public Library’s Best 100 Books of 2000. He enjoys hiking, kayaking and cooking (and eating!). Learn more about Doug, his art and his books at his Web site, http://www.doug-cushman.com/index.htm
