It started drizzling that humid drizzle that lingers inside your jacket. Finally I found Balzac. A large grave with a bust. No one else was around and it just sounded like rain. It stayed like that for a few minutes. Some tourists approached, then some more. All of us looking at Balzac's grave. I wasn't sure the others knew who Balzac was. I leaned over to the Chinese couple next to me and said, "he was the greatest writer who ever lived." The Chinese lady said she knew of Balzac, and that he was very popular in China among the intellectuals.
Then I looked for Modigliani. His grave was simple. Modigliani was not bourgeois. A pair of giggly teens were taking selfies over Modigliani's grave. After the photo session I walked up. Just a simple grave with a rose.
My favorite author, my favorite painter.