The Paris in the Winter Mother Sent to Me

I'm now getting into a special section the books Mom introduced me to or read with me.  I came across a volume called Paris France by Gertrude Stein, and inside it there was a copy of something Irwin Shaw wrote about Paris in the winter.  It was so clever that I sent away for the whole book.  To this copy there's a yellow post-it in Mom's handwriting saying, "Sent this Irwin Shaw to you earlier.  Returned!  No st. address!  Love, Mom."  She's also credited the copy as "from Paris!  Paris! by Irwin..."

I love my mother for having such good taste in literature and wanting to share it.  (I should also acknowledge that she wasn't a snob and came to the defense of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "How Do I Love You?" sonnet and Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet.)

The opening of  the piece by Irwin Shaw is this:

People are always writing about cities to be hapy in.  Let me be contrary for a moment.  Let me write for those who are unhappy and are looking for a city to be unhappy in.  Let me write about Paris in the winter

The rest if pure poetry!

Thank you, Irwin Shaw, and thank you, Mom!