March has arrived on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. It is springtime in Paris: that enviable when and where which conjures romantic images of a blue sky over the Seine, 

, and lovers walking hand-in-hand. Today, however, and for the rest of the week, it is raining, and under the awning of the cafe 

, huddled around small tables, people stare out at the street and at, well… ‘Springtime in Paris’.

I mention this to the waiter as he sets down my coffee. “

,” he replies, “reality is often not the same as the idea.” A tall raven-haired man in a black jacket and bow-tie, he appears the image of the classic 

. Paris is good at inserting its most famous tropes into the tourist’s periphery; insisting to us that little has changed from its 1920s-1960s intellectual heyday. And as 

 returns to the salon, he passes photographs of his ancestors: esteemed waiters from the cafe’s past, waiting on glamorous thinkers like Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, or Albert Camus.

When he slips away, I continue listening to the discussion on the terrasses. War rages far away, but here in Paris, a more trivial kind of war, a uniquely French one, has been sparked over 17th century playwright Molière’s induction to the Panthéon mausoleum. There was talk about it on the radio, and in the pages of 

; a debate that has called into question whether France’s proud culture of argument has come under the sway of a more ideological, identity-focused model imported from America. Commentators were at odds over the true nature of the man behind 

, and whether, as one critic noted, he ‘skewered female representation’ in his time. With elections approaching, and after riotously unpopular Covid restrictions, the Molière debate was the latest in a reassessment of France’s deepest values.

Albert Camus&#8217;s ghost still haunts the terrace of Les Deux Magots


“Being a man of his era should not prevent Molière from being the best spokesperson of a nascent progressivism,” Raphaël Enthoven tells me. The presenter of the long-running television series 

 is renowned in France for his cultural criticism in the newspapers, his column ‘Meaning of Life’ and as one of the nation’s influential philosophers. For people of Raphaël’s generation, who grew up in the shadow of thinkers like Sartre, Foucault, Camus, and Levy, respectful debate is a national birthright. This appears less evident in Modern France: “French universalism is constantly being assailed by American ideas,” Raphaël says, echoing a sentiment also shared by President Macron: “It is leading to an impoverishment of debate, which denies people the right to speak. It reduces competence to identity, and replaces discussion with dogmatic assertions.”

There was an air of uneasy tension during my time in Paris, a creeping fear over emerging anti-establishment populists in the elections. Soon after exiting Gare de Nord, a Tunisian cab driver described an unprecedented divide in the city, of people from either side unable to speak or listen to each other. It’s a situation that we know all too well in Britain, but France’s tradition of 

 is not only under threat from the new American-model gauchistes. In conversation with Sudhir Hazareesingh, professor of history at Oxford and writer of the astute, bestselling 

, I’m pointed to the other end of the spectrum, to the far-right Éric Zemmour; a bolshy Trumpian commentator turned politician. Sudhir suggests he is the antithesis of, “the French intellectual world’s love of, and its belief, in the possibility of a better world…” adding: “Although I’m an optimist, this belief has faded away since the late 20th century with the appearance of people like Zemmour.”

Some argue that Zemmour’s rise is a response to the revisionist, American wokeisms that are flooding Parisian universities. The Molière debate was preceded by a series of academic skirmishes, including the Sorbonne’s refusal to stage a 2,500-year-old play by Aeschylus. In the end, and to the surprise of many of France’s intellectuals, Molière lost. “I would’ve liked the Republic to honour him, but he doesn’t need the induction to be eternal. Molière will live forever,” says Raphaël, who affirms his belief that “France is the country that loves debate the most in the world.” He reminds me of a famous quote from the essayist Emile Montegut: “There is no people… among whose history is so rife with such formidable philosophical tendencies.” But for how long?

Those tendencies, strained as they might be, still define how people outside of the country see France. The ghosts of Paris’ intellectual circles fascinate tourists, who flock to famous bookshops like 

and Belle Époque cafes to sit in their fading presence. Even after having lived in the city, I’m very much drawn to them myself, squaring the present Paris of electro music and sushi restaurants with Hemingway’s version (an illusion so powerful to the tourist, I once watched three Americans climb to the Sacre Coeur, put on felt berets, and belt out a rendition of 

It’s worth noting that this idea of Paris was shaped by some of the very thinkers (Foucault and Derrida, for example) who inspired today’s postmodern American activists. Most generations of students in the social sciences, myself included, were encouraged to read the same Gallic philosophers – echoing their hunger for revolution and a distaste in tradition. In 2022, postmodernism is becoming a default mindset for many young people in universities around the West. But these are French theories coming full circle. The ideological seeds were scattered from the terrasses of Saint-Germain-des-Pres.

Les Deux Magots is a five-minute walk from my old apartment; a caretaker’s room on the rue de Bac. Aside from the world-famous Cafe de Flore, it was the noted address of Saint-Germain’s Left Bank intelligentsia. This is Ground Zero: where some of the 20th century’s most potent ideas were birthed under the influence of small aperitifs and a smog of 

Claude Chabrol and friends at Les Deux Magots, 1959


Today’s 6eme is rather different. Rows of fashion boutiques and modish boulangeries mask the area’s revolutionary past. As I walk between the old apartment and the metro, I count six Pomeranians, eight mink coats (thereabouts) and four pairs of Gucci loafers in five minutes. It is hard to imagine that students can still afford to take their daily 

 here, having since migrated to gritty Belleville or Oberkampf — the Dalston to Saint-Germain’s Notting Hill. But there is something still sacred about 

. The manager Sébastian Gionta is doing his best to preserve the cafe’s literary heritage for tourists (and would-be philosophers) telling me that “… they may not be as worldly as our clients of that era, like Hemingway, Camus, Sartre, or De Beauvoir, but we do still welcome intellectuals.”

. Dating back to 1933, it is one of the oldest and most important literary prizes in France, and as an aspiring writer, I would sometimes attend their 

: a gathering of largely expat novelists, artists, and readers. There is also a Thursday jazz night. “The cafe was a cultural epicentre, with thinkers from different disciplines,” Sébastien says, “These events are a way to keep our cultural DNA alive, and not become an antique of the past.”

As the springtime rain continues to pour, settling down amidst the lunchtime rabble, I squint and imagine my favourite writer’s presence among the 6eme glitterati; the wafting cigar smoke, the satisfying harumph sound that bookends French speech, and the neatly-dressed staff. I began to think that 

 was right. “Reality is often not the same as the idea.” The cafes of Saint-Germain are the mind’s personification of the classic Parisian brasserie. But perhaps not the one your modern Parisian philosopher still goes to.

“It is a misconception that Saint-Germain is a more fertile place than others for philosophers,” Raphaël adds, after I bring this up. He refers to the jazz heritage as a reason for its worldly reputation, reminding me that although the Left Bank intellectuals spent time in Saint-Germain, or elsewhere in Paris, their ideas come from a long history of abstract 

 philosophy: “More than a place, more than a city, 

 philosophy, like jazz, mixes rigour, improvisation, grace, and movement… Paris? 

"There's still a stereotype that artist's do nothing all day except sit around at cafés..."

Where do smart young people go to think? In Le Marais, the romantic old Jewish Quarter (like Trastevere in Rome, it is a sequence of flowers, quirky homes, and cobbled streets), Le Progrès, Le Saint-Gervais, and La Perle compose a triangle of brasseries that attract students and artists. I remember them from my time here, although I rarely went. Le Saint-Gervais was a 1970s and 80s version of Cafe de Flore, and authentically retains its intellectual pedigree thanks to that remaining clientele. With its leather booths, Le Progrès is reminiscent of a nouvelle-vague film, while La Perle is the fashionable address: a confluence for local and international creatives.

Chloé, a student sitting at Le Progrès, tells me she was surprised to learn that creatives have to work second jobs in England. “In France, the government pays them [a salary] even if they’re not working, or if they manage an insufficient amount of hours.” The social security system she refers to is organised by the 

, a government association. It covers drawings, paintings, engravings, illustrations, prints, lithographs, sculptures, video art, tapestries, mosaics, stained glass, graphic design, ceramics, enamelwork, writing, and more. If these are your specialised 

in France, you will have money to live on, she says: “There’s a stereotype that they do nothing all day but sit around cafes.”

Simone de Beauvoir writes in Les Deux Magots


On a night out at La Perle, I got the impression this isn’t just a stereotype. Almost everyone I met worked in the arts or academia. There, my friend Marguerite introduced me to the immaculately-dressed 

 philosopher Nikolaj Schultz – his cowboy boots and wide-legged trousers are a staple of the arrondissement’s fashion – and his actor-model girlfriend Millie von Claer (Raphaël was once married to Carla Bruni, so smarts are sexy here.) Left-wing, stylish, and friends with musicians and filmmakers, Nikolaj epitomises the present-day Parisian intellectual. He is also up for the debate. As we share a drink together, I fuss over something banal in our conversation, and he replies – in good humour – “You can shove that theory up your arse.” I wasn’t even aware that what I said was a theory. 

Nikolaj is unwinding after having just published an important memo (“… sur la nouvelle class écologique”) with his co-writer, the famous philosopher Bruno Latour. Their arguments recently made the front page of 

, and he is part of a prominent Parisian thinkers’ circle. “Intellectual life in Paris is not dead,” he assures me, after I raise the question “… a lot has been said about how it has been slumbering, but that’s strongly exaggerated.” Nikolaj theories that in Paris today, the post-war existentialism that flourished in the universities is replaced by an ecological existentialism, spearheaded by Latour and self-proclaimed ecofeminist Émilie Hache in the French media. He explains that he has written an essay on the subject. “It’s a cross-generational group living in the city, mostly friends in the same way as those from the 20th century were, using very similar ways of thinking. We’re just asking different questions.”

Unlike the 20th century, French thinkers are no longer leading the global intellectual conversation, and for some, their lifestyle is changing to become more resonant with Stateside models. Here, as elsewhere, the charmingly unkempt, pipe-chewing image of the 

 is being refashioned into a young, Americanised bogeyman – the 

. It is much less romantic, but perhaps in fifty years we will be stalking their ghosts in Le Marais, too.

Janet Flanner and Ernest Hemingway at Les Deux Magots, 1945 


The more time I spend with Nikolaj, the more I realise what attracted me to France as a younger man. The fact you meet twenty-somethings who go by the vocation ‘Intellectual’ or ‘Philosopher’ seems like a ridiculous, self-gratifying notion in Britain. (Alain de Botton is perhaps the only recent English Philosopher to be somewhat recognised as one in the mainstream.) And when I first moved to Paris, I was surprised, but pleased, at how strangers openly discussed complex thoughts without being embarrassed. “There’s a clear anti-intellectual tradition in Britain which runs deep; almost as if you have to apologise for being intelligent” Sudhir explains, when I ask him about these differences, “France is a culture that takes ideas, and the people who produce them, seriously, and treats them with respect.”

This manifests in the media, on programmes like 

, which features a panel of guests whose careers are built on expressing their abstract opinions. Philosopher stand-offs are billed the same way boxing matches are in Britain; from the famous Sivan vs Finkielkraut debates, to the ongoing bouts between Lordon and Piketty. Even books are sold differently in France, their covers in the publisher’s primary colour, instead of beautifully illustrated commissions. It’s as though a photo is a slight to the reader’s intelligence. Intellectualism is taken more seriously in France. “France has always valued the teaching of philosophy and the debate of ideas,” Raphaël tells me, “It is the only country where Philosophy is taught compulsory at the Lycée.

"In Britain, you have to apologise for being intelligent..."

After revisiting the old neighbourhood, eating at an art-deco bouillon, showing up at a friend’s place, lost in Belleville and full of new ideas, I stop and sit at a cafe. I get the urge to write something. What is it about Paris that still tugs on the creative impulses? Maybe it is the water. I drink the water and by no means am I inspired to type a 10,000-word pamphlet. Perhaps the air, then. But the air smells like London’s air, with a hint of urine and 

It must be the terrasse; the haphazard seating at spots like La Perle or Magots. The small tables crammed beside each other, forcing a cross-pollination of thoughts, disagreements, perhaps a romantic encounter between strangers – and finally, maybe, something worth writing about: Springtime in Paris. Molière. Élections. Foucault. Saint-Germain. American ideologues. Eco-existentialists. Protests at the Sorbonne. Their past might have been more glorious, their hangouts more glamorous, but from the outside, it seems like a ripe time to be a Parisian Intellectual.

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