Boulevard Saint Michel in Paris. Mont Saint Michel. Everything a tourist needs to know. Ebbs and flows in Mont Saint-Michel

One of the most popular places for tourists in Paris is Place Saint-Michel. It is located between the fifth and sixth arrondissement in the famous Latin Quarter. Tourists are attracted here by both the rich history of this area and the large number of shops and souvenir stalls.

History of Place Saint-Michel

Place Saint-Michel got its name in honor of the Archangel Michael, who is one of the most revered archangels in many religions. Its creation began between 1840-1860, that is, in the second half of the 19th century. Unfortunately, quite a lot of the old streets of Saint-Severin were destroyed during construction.

Initially, the street on which the square is located was called Sevastopol Boulevard-Right Bank, and only on February 26, 1867 it was renamed to the already well-known Boulevard Saint-Michel, according to the name of the bridge located on it.

The first part of the boulevard, on which the square is located, was built on August 11, 1855, thanks to the reconstruction work begun by Baron Haussmann. However, the work was completed only on July 30, 1859.

Attractions Saint-Michel

Tourists are annually attracted by the attractions located in and near Place Saint-Michel. The most memorable, of course, is the Saint-Michel fountain, depicting the Archangel Michael trampling the devil serpent. The serrations on his sword represent flame, and the four statues on top are symbols of virtue: "Justice", "Prudence", "Temperance" and "Authority". The plaque states that the fountain was built during the reign of Napoleon III.

Cinema Saint Michel

The famous cinema of the same name is located on Place Saint-Michel. It is famous for the fact that there, in 1988, the premiere of the film “The Last Temptation of Christ” directed by Martin Scorsese took place.

The boulevard of the same name begins from Place Saint-Michel, which is a favorite place for tourists and couples. Its length is 1380 meters and its width is 30 meters. There are a huge number of clothing, shoe, accessories, cosmetics, comics and book stores, as well as restaurants and cinemas.

The institute is located not far from the square. It was founded in 1253 by the spiritual mentor of King Louis IX, the Sorbon. The main attraction of the Sorbonne is that here is the tomb of Cardinal Armand du Plessis Richelieu, who for a long time was rector of the Sorbonne Institute.

If you turn left from the square, you can get to the Saint-Severin church, built in the 13th century. Fans of the Gothic style will appreciate the outpatient clinic located inside the building.

Further along the Boulevard Saint-Michel is located, which hosts exhibitions dedicated to the art of the Middle Ages. Here visitors can enjoy authentic sculptures from various cathedrals, as well as antique pottery and furniture.

The main façade is separated from the Boulevard Saint-Michel only by a wrought-iron grille. The main façade of the building was designed by the famous architect of the late 18th century, Antoine. Previously, the palace was the residence of kings, but since 1358, after the tragic events that happened to King Charles V, it came into the possession of the Paris Parliament. Opposite the Palace of Justice is the tower where the city clock was placed during the reign of Charles the Wise in 1370. Tourists may notice that the dial of this watch is decorated with white lilies, which are a symbol of royal power. On both sides of the tower there are bas-reliefs depicting “Law” and “Order”.

How to get to Saint Michel

Tourists can get to Place Saint-Michel by getting off at the desired metro station - Saint-Michel. Those who want to stroll through the streets of Paris can walk to the square or boulevard from the cathedral.

In addition, you can use the RER transport system - the express network of the Ile-de-France regions. This system has five main lines. Line B goes from the southwest of the city to the northeast, and just passes through the area where the boulevard and Place Saint-Michel are located.

Hotel on Boulevard Saint-Michel

Everyone has two homelands - his own and Paris.

Thomas Jefferson

After living in Paris for a week, I understood France perfectly, but after living in it for three years, I don’t understand it at all.

Kurt Tucholsky

For many years now, when we come to Paris, we stay at the same hotel on Boulevard Saint-Michel.

The hotel is over a century old. The 1904 guidebook mentions it. In honor of the nearby Cole des Mines, it is called “Htel des Mines” - “Hotel des Mines”.

They have long been accustomed to us and perceive us as eccentric distant relatives. They are surprised by their attachment to Paris and make touching concessions, discounts and small preferences.

The lobby retains some lovely traces Belle?poque: an umbrella stand in the then fashionable Guimard style, languid ornaments on the doors and wooden panels, carved curls decorating a niche in which there is now a completely modern computer for guests who want to access the Internet.

At the corner of Boulevard Saint-Michel and the Seine embankment

The lobby has a welcoming and constant aroma of good coffee and clean, calm housing. The hotel is cleaned all the time. The tables are set for the night petit d'jeuner: a pleasant reminder that tomorrow will be a new day of Parisian unchanging life.

The rooms are austere and lack style, but have everything you need. Sterile cleanliness ( nickel, as the French say) with some indifference to order. The plug in the bathtub has been torn off and remains in this state for years. Pas de problems! Owner Monsieur Laurent, jack of all trades (homme savant tout faire), performs the duties of a plumber himself (plombier), once he even repaired the elevator himself, but he doesn’t have enough time for everything. He owns another hotel on Boulevard Pasteur. He works harder than anyone else: sometimes he serves coffee, sweeps floors, and, if necessary, carries clients' suitcases - in the early years we took him for the most humble hotel employee. He rides a motorcycle and wears simple checkered shirts. However, he lives near the Eiffel Tower; he once let it slip that he had a Porsche, and was embarrassed. In France, it’s not poverty that’s embarrassed – it’s wealth.

Outside the doors of the hotel, Paris greets us every morning - cold, warmth, fog, sun, short rains with cheerful bubbles and splashes, humid wind, the light rustle of dry leaves falling on the pavement in autumn and winter.

The hotel is on the odd side of the boulevard, in the fifth arrondissement (the opposite side already belongs to the sixth), in the Vale-de-Gr?ce quarter.

However, the question of a passerby who wants to know the way: “Vous ?tes du quartier?” (literally – “Are you from the quarter?”), does not refer to the administrative division of Paris. We are simply talking about the habitat, limited by habit, knowledge and, of course, love, if it has not been replaced by irritated fatigue or dissatisfaction with the place where one had to live.

Boulevard Saint-Michel. Bus stop

Step onto the sidewalk - and the constant, dizzying confusion of the present moment with the distant and recent past begins: in Paris this special “stuff of time” is always felt, in which the past, the present, the imperishable and the fleeting are united. Different eras, but the intonations seem eternal. Beyond the threshold, wherever you look - familiar faces or just randomly remembered ones. We don’t know the names, but you can say hello to strangers: they will certainly answer with a smile. The owner of the used bookstore “Le Petit prince” and I have been kissing tenderly for a long time, talking about books, weather and news, but neither she knows our names, nor we hers. It doesn't matter.

"Bonjour, Madame." - “Bonjour, Monsieur, comment allez-vous?” - “Tr?s bien, et vous?” - “Tr?s bien, Madame, bonne journ?e...” No one will respond to the question: “How are you doing?” - tell exactly how he is doing. Just an indispensable, always smiling, cheerful ritual, the exchange of affectionate morning phrases with the pharmacist from the neighboring pharmacy, with the motorcyclists delivering pizza, with the garbage man sweeping the street. People are happy with each other and, without thinking about it, give the interlocutor a piece of good mood, even if they themselves are not so happy.

Haussmann's house in a motorcycle mirror

Diagonally opposite is the lattice of the Luxembourg Gardens.

I learned the word “Luxembourg” seventy years ago, during the war, from the book “The Three Musketeers,” which I read when I was nine years old. I didn’t understand what it was then. But in 1960, without having yet been to Paris, in a book about Jacques Louis David, he wrote about the days the artist spent in the Luxembourg Palace, which served as a prison after Thermidor. And in August 1965, for the first time, I sat on a bench, watched toy boats float in the pool, and did not believe in my happiness. In 1972, I lived with my cousin, almost opposite our current hotel; in 1977 - with friends on the same boulevard, only lower, near Rostand Square.

“Life is the gradual disappearance of the stunning” (Yuri Trifonov). I constantly not only remember these words of probably the best writer of Soviet times, I feel them in Paris. Sometimes, even in this city, the dark demons of everyday life triumph, all that Trifonov himself called “the rubbish of life.” But here the beginnings and ends of my human, professional and literary destiny, childhood dreams, first meetings, anxious happy and bitter thoughts, books read, written and conceived are so tightly, painfully intertwined, characters from real history and literary heroes are so mixed up that everyday life despondency gives way to the feeling of an eternal return to the city, which for so long remained only a phantom, Atlantis, a mirage, the abode of musketeers - Rastignac, Sylvester Bonnard, my childhood dream, unquenchable and not fading to this day.

Bus 38 passes by the hotel, crossing the city from south to north. It (like most Parisian buses) has practically not changed its route since the 1920s, since its introduction. It takes you to Gare du Nord, next to which at 100 Rue Lafayette there was once the Hotel Francia. Almost half a century ago, on August 11, 1965, we, Soviet tourists, were brought there from Le Bourget airport.

In Dumas's novel The Count of Monte Cristo, the hero, fed up with revenge, comes to the Chateau d'If, the dungeon in which he spent fourteen long years at the behest of the villains. He comes to remember the suffering he suffered and find new strength to bring vengeance to the end.

Boulevard Saint-Michel

E. Guimard. Subway entrance

This pathetic and not very accurate comparison came to my mind when I once again made a pilgrimage to Lafayette Street. Everyone wanted to remember myself - still very young, thirty-two years old, to return the elusive presence of a miracle, which over time began to turn into simple pleasure. I began to get used to everyday life in Paris, and began to forget what humiliations I had to go through in ancient times to get to this city. It was necessary to relive again this miraculously won battle with a cruel world, to evaluate one’s own choice, the first, not at all simple trips to Paris and the current visits, for the sake of which - consciously and joyfully - one had to give up a lot in this almost lived life.

Sometimes meeting with a former hotel helps. Sometimes they leave a feeling of annoyance and awkwardness. Are these dialogues with the past necessary? The hotel is long gone. In the magnificent building with a Guimard canopy over the entrance there are faceless offices, and the neighboring one has disappeared over time. parfumerie, from where that first Parisian summer floated the eternal, and then amazing, magical Parisian aroma - bitter and arrogantly festive.

A twilight but elegant lobby, glossy advertising brochures, a friendly receptionist, a kiosk - what a temptation! – Folies Bergere slides – striptease! From the window of a room on the seventh floor (calico wallpaper even on the ceiling, a toy telephone, a bidet behind the partition) you can see - very close - the absurd and at the same time graceful, piercingly familiar building of the Sacré-Coeur.

And the next day there was a conversation, the significance of which I was able to appreciate much later - a conversation that I still remember in every detail, because every year I become more and more convinced of its value for understanding many Parisian mysteries. A conversation that was then repeated countless times in different versions.

Very early in the morning (before breakfast, we, supervised Soviet tourists, were reluctantly allowed by the group leaders to walk alone) I sat on a bench not far from our hotel near the Church of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul on Place Lafayette.

Two old Parisians standing nearby immediately realized that I was a visitor, a foreigner. They greeted me warmly (this surprised me beyond words!) and said something about the weather. I didn’t understand everything - it seems that the morning is beautiful, but in the afternoon it will be very hot.

Flattered by the fact that two Parisians were talking to me as if they were one of their own (and they looked like something out of a movie! I still remember them clearly: one in a beret and a bow tie, but in worn-out slippers, the other with a bright scarf around his neck, in a collarless shirt and corduroy wide pants!), I enthusiastically and confusedly entered into the conversation, expressing as best I could the most banal idea that Paris is always and in any weather unusually beautiful.

“You, monsieur, are, of course, a foreigner,” said the gentleman with the handkerchief. – But you speak French perfectly!

I melted with joy. I just didn’t know yet that the worse a foreigner speaks French, the more ardently he is praised. This is how it is done in France. This is not hypocrisy at all, just a desire to encourage a visitor who is trying to speak their language. Now I know French much better, but I don’t receive compliments.

“And of course, you really like Paris,” the man with the handkerchief continued, rather affirmatively, but partly with a condescending irony that was unexpected for me.

“A va sans dire,” I answered, immensely proud of the uttered idiom I had read in some book.

My interlocutor wrinkled his face and became surprisingly similar to Houdon’s Voltaire. And he delivered a skeptical, even bilious monologue (I didn’t understand much, but what I understood was enough), the meaning of which boiled down to the fact that Paris in the sixties was not Paris at all, and could not be compared with pre-war. De Gaulle, the new Franks, youth, morals, American films, sex shops, and, most importantly, the completely disappearing politeness for which Paris was once famous suffered.

And now, already in the new millennium, when the French, with some even condescending sympathy, having listened to my declarations of love for Paris, say that the city is no longer the same, I remember the meeting at Saint-Vincent-de-Paul on August 12, 1965.

And much later, I read a letter from twenty-two-year-old Mozart to his father: “Those who are not in Paris cannot even imagine how disgusting everything is here! ‹…› And then - how much Paris has changed: the French no longer have the same politeness as they did fifteen years ago; they are rude and monstrously arrogant..."

Lafayette Street. Hotel "Francia". 1965

Maybe somewhere here lies the answer to the question of the “elusiveness” of this city. In the crucible of the mysterious “substance of Paris” Time melts, centuries, tastes, skepticism and joy of life, dissatisfaction with one’s era and the ability to feel the happiness of being are united, the past and the present merge. Nothing in him completely disappears, he preserves everything - you just need to look, love and see. I try to remember this every time I cross the threshold of our favorite hotel to return to Paris.

And then I didn’t think much about it. Everything delighted me, intoxicated me, my soul was inflamed with happiness, and Paris smiled at me.

Lunch in an inferior, by Parisian standards, hotel restaurant - simple and tasty: juicy meat, an unusual, very French side dish - green pods, cheap wine in dark bottles without stickers, orangeade "Pchitt!!!" - in tiny, ice-cold and pot-bellied bottles, ashtrays with the eternal inscription “Ricard”, the indispensable “merci!” the waiter even taking away the dirty plate.

In the metro, a tired inspector in a blue robe, punching tickets with tongs, seemed like a character from a French film, like the cars themselves - four green (second class), in the middle red (first), and these advertisements, and outlandish machines with bottles, and booming announcements on natural French.

The real Paris, in all its alarming clarity, mercilessly destroyed the fragile children's mirages, the fruits of dreams and imagination. Nevertheless, this “finality” of the real city was evidence of luck, victory: I recently (without having yet been to Paris, of course!) published two books about French artists - Daumier and David. Then, oddly enough, it was perhaps easier than going abroad. And here I am! Despite his youth and non-partisanship, despite his – albeit then modest – knowledge of the language. “Thank you, they let me in, I am the chosen one!” - beat in my humiliated consciousness.

I felt humiliation many years later. Through, so to speak, the optics of memory. And then - drunken joy.

No matter how many times I come to Paris later, those distant hot August days do not leave my memory, just as childhood does not go away. The walls of medieval buildings glowed with warm silver - a different, strange beauty not of plastered and painted, but of stone houses and churches that seemed light and fragile, like light cooling ash. It seemed that they were not built, but carved out like sculptures, and the hackneyed phrase about “the dust of centuries” did not seem banal here at all. And the cornices, capitals, gutters, statues, and high reliefs, washed by rain over many centuries, against the background of dark walls created the effect of the finest and solemn engravings.

Then, in 1965, the black city again became white, as in the Middle Ages: they began to clean it with sandblasters...

Luxembourg Garden. M. Herman. 1965

The pictures of the first day, the smells and sounds remained in my memory as a stable and complex mosaic. High iron roofs with thin pipes, gleaming with noble rust, gray firewalls, balconies, cheerful lace decorating the facades of warm-silver limestone, slightly clouded by time, red awnings of the lower floors over the windows of cafes and shops, the graceful bulk of the Louvre (I saw it gray and pink stones of Dos Passos, and I once again appreciated the vigilance of the great observer). Unexpectedly, the southern Parisian heat with some even slight fog from the heat. And all these people are Parisians: children, and ajans (policemen) in now-forgotten capes and capes, and this ancient, elegantly and somewhat provocatively dressed and made-up old woman (the French call them coccinelle- coxinel - ladybug), in black lace mittens, with an equally decrepit and also well-groomed dog on a leash; and a lovely girl with dark bangs, hurrying somewhere with a flying gait, and a polite gentleman in a three-piece suit and a gloomy shimmering, elegantly tied (French!) tie - then the discreet style had not yet become universal casual clothes, and a sterile, academic-looking old man in a beret, and children dressed brightly and simply, and completely bookish fishermen with fishing rods, and a clochard who really seemed like an actor in make-up, and for some reason a memorable nun in a hood pulled low, hiding her face, walking in small , but with quick steps and reading a prayer book as she walked...

Boulevard Saint-Michel near the Luxembourg Gardens

Luxembourg Garden. 1965

Clumsy, seemingly old-fashioned green buses with open areas and tram bells crossed the courtyard of the Louvre, on the lawns of which couples were serenely kissing; at the entrance to the museum, small black and red Peugeot 404 taxis were waiting for passengers (on the doors of the radio-equipped cars there was an inscription: “All? , taxi!"); round tables-gueridons (gu?ridons) in front of the cafe (in glasses, mugs, glasses, glasses - multi-colored sparkling drinks), the smells of coffee, unusual perfumes, sweet tobacco, good food, many smiling, cheerful faces (in the Soviet Union people were taught not to smile , and the friendliness and smiles seemed strange!), the outlines of buildings so familiar that they seemed like decorations for themselves, the theatrical elegance of Parisian speech, sunbeams in rich shop windows, cars of unprecedented beauty - I still remember all these precious molecules of reality.

Yes, the bookish knowledge of Paris melted into the hot stream of reality, the plane engines were still roaring in my confused brain, and every now and then I lost my understanding of where and what.

At the same time, I, still young, “released into a capitalist country” and finding myself in a city that I had dreamed of since my not-so-distant childhood, did not feel like a stranger. It was (and remains) one of the first, unexpected and timeless wonders of Paris. Equality – ?galit?- no, no, not at all the sublime concept that the utopians dreamed of, not the cry of the Jacobins drenched in the blood of Terror, not the cliché above the entrance to the city hall (along with “freedom” and “brotherhood”), but simply a feeling of joyful unity in the air with people ready for a friendly smile, who (later I realized how important this is in France) will hardly ever look at you contemptuously or servilely.

Then this dialogue began between what I was looking for in Paris, not yet seeing it, and what I was learning? now, when I spend hours walking either along its painfully familiar sidewalks, or along still unknown corners; when I read about him, think or write.

And then I was sure: I would never return here.

Neither I nor anyone else could then know how the world would change, how different travel would become, how, “obedient to the general law,” I too would change. But even then there was still a subconscious confidence that my childhood love for this city was as eternal as it was insatiable.

And in those minutes my romance with Paris began, my “eternal return.” The imaginary, then the real.

The novel is not at all serene, at first it simply tore at the soul, full of vanity, petty ambitions, timid hopes and vague dreams. Joyful and joyless, terrible and seductive trips, difficult meetings with myself and despair from my own ingratitude, written and unwritten books - what this city, which I began to dream about back in the war years, in evacuation, behind the stove, brought into my life in a godforsaken village.

Will I find out? more and more about Paris, and along with this knowledge there is a growing understanding of how much I Don't know! AND I don't understand!

To say that Paris is my “second homeland” or “fatherland of the soul” would be pretentious, and most importantly, it would not be true.

Still, I have never been abroad for so long, nowhere have I experienced such happy and bitter moments; I grew up, matured and aged, dreaming of Paris, coming to it, returning from it and reflecting on it over the pages of other people’s and my own books.

There is a special “feeling of Paris”, it has both a universal and deeply personal meaning, it can hardly be analyzed, but without realizing it, you cannot get closer to understanding the city. Paris is like Proteus, but, unlike the ancient deity, if it reveals its secrets, it is certainly not under duress.

The belly of Paris. 1965

Montmartre. Tourists

Moreover, nowadays Paris increasingly disappoints visitors, and the skeptical judgments of my charming interlocutors from the public garden near the Church of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul would undoubtedly have pleased them. The city is tired, has lost its textbook cheerfulness, has accumulated indifference, Parisian women do not amaze with their graceful outfits, restaurants and shops are not particularly pompous, glossy and, of course, obsequious (this, however, is generally unusual for Paris!).

The elegant, aging “garçons” do not have their former graceful dexterity, and it seems that they are an unprecedented case in Paris! – sometimes unable to hide fatigue.

But to the nouveau riche it may seem provincial. There are no brilliant boulevards here, as before, and the Champs Elysees themselves do not shine with lights so much as to amaze the imagination of visitors; It does not have the grandiose scale of New York, nor the cheerful charm of Vienna, nor the cyclopean pomp of Las Vegas, nor the vibrant nightlife of modern Moscow, nor even more so the stunning scale of the newest megacities, like Singapore with its skyscrapers that surpass the imagination.

Yes, Paris is tired. It is neglected and not always clean, it goes to bed early, and its famous cathedrals and palaces are illuminated in the evenings discreetly and almost unnoticeably.

But this city has accumulated a gigantic capital - grateful memory, history, love for it from countless generations (to understand, you have to love, and there is no love without understanding), the dreams of those who have never seen it, and the memories of the lucky ones who saw it in it living. And there is enough interest from this capital for the “feeling of Paris” to continue to excite those who have almost become disillusioned with Paris.

Memories of “the Paris of old” are an integral part of today’s Paris.

It's not easy to eat feeling, but some "the substance of Paris".

Not only old houses, the bends of the Seine, silver-lilac plane trees, the expanses of royal esplanades, the gloom of narrow Gothic streets, ancient towers were created from it, but also graceful intonations, quick smiles, the established smells of wine, perfume, roasted chestnuts and almost always fresh flower beds, its cheerful sun and light short rains, the wind from the nearby sea, seagulls under the arcades of the Palais Royal, tables on the sidewalks, the ebullient joy of the abundant, Gargantua-worthy morning markets, the readiness for the simplest joke, for the cheerful and hourly struggle for life , which (as the French always remember and know) is incredibly valuable: “La vie est belle!” But this is not all that the “stuff of Paris” consists of.

Azhany. 1965

How can I tell you everything when I myself don’t know the answer!

For almost half a century I have been asking myself the same question.

Besides Paris - albeit fleetingly - I still saw many amazing cities. The red brick of Krakow's Barbican behind the dark green of dense trees, the spiers of Prague, the opal-emerald pool of the Barcaccia fountain at the foot of the Spanish Steps in Rome, ancient houses on the embankments of Ghent, the crimson gold of the trees of New York's Central Park, reflected by the glass of skyscrapers, sad fun London's Covent Garden - all this is beautiful, significant and eternal.

But the irresistible, imperious, eternal appeal of Paris is inexplicable and so strong that I don’t even want to seek objectivity when writing about it. On the contrary, I try not to get close to it, leaving it to guidebooks and statistical reference books. I’m writing not so much about the city, but – I’ll say it again – about my love for it.

Pantheon. View from Marais

Red gloves

Why is it that when people come to Paris - from different parts of the world - they have different, happy faces? A sophisticated traveler or even a simple-minded farmer from the Australian state of Queensland, who does not know a word of French, sitting in a modest bistro, feels himself in a different reality, in a space in which the dream of generations has accumulated for centuries.

Not long ago, in the deepening twilight of a sultry September, we struck up a conversation with a nice middle-aged couple sitting next to each other in a cafe on the embankment, opposite Notre Dame, in the most “tourist” (not made any worse) place. Canadians. They flew to Paris for three days. The vacation is very short, and flying overseas, even for wealthy people, is a serious expense...

With every spoonful of onion soup gratin?, with every sip of light wine, with every glance at Notre Dame (which they saw not for the first time), they - it was clear - tasted the taste of happiness, that very “feeling of Paris”. The language was native to them (they are from Francophone Quebec, but for some reason they were embarrassed by their accent, although the French like Canadian pronunciation). They were pleased to talk with foreigners who were equally in love with Paris.

And one more memory. It's late, almost night. On a deserted street in Amsterdam, behind the Saint-Lazare train station, a out of breath, still very young man in sneakers, with a backpack, mixing English and French words, asked how to get to the Eiffel Tower. “No, not the metro,” he said. - I'll go on foot!" The distance of the journey (a good hour on a cold damp night!) did not frighten him. It looks like he didn't even have money for a ticket. Or I didn’t want to go underground - the buses hardly ran anymore. He didn’t care, his eyes shone with happiness, it was his first time in Paris (he managed to tell us about this). He said goodbye and disappeared into the darkness with his backpack. How many such meetings there were! New links in the chain of memories of an inexplicable and so natural love for this city.

More and more questions, fewer and fewer answers, and the charming French saying “doubt is the beginning of wisdom” no longer consoles me.

1.5. Hotel During the years of the existence of the magazine “Hotel for Travelers in Beauty” (1922–1924), the anti-futurist rebellion of the Imagists took a new direction. Without a doubt, this is happening following changes in sentiment in the camp of the futurists themselves. Fashionable