Paris – mostly science-fictional, mostly morbid The grave of Georges Méliès… …and stumbled upon by chance the next day, the site of Théâtre Robert-Houdin The graves of François Marie Charles Fourier and of Claude Henri de Rouvroy, comte de Saint-Simon, utopian socialists both, of Louis-Sébastien Mercier, author of L’An 2440, rêve s’il en fut jamais (1770), and of Gérard de Nerval and of Nadar (Gaspard-Félix Tournachon), pioneer of aeronautics, photography and, perhaps unsurprisingly, aerial photography. Fellow balloon pioneers, Joseph Crocé-Spinelli and Théodore Henri Sivel, fared less well, reaching 28,000 feet but dying in the attempt. A plaque for, not the grave of, Vercors (Jean Bruller), author of Borderline, The Insurgents and Sylva. Back to graves. Jean-Marie-Mathias-Philippe-Auguste, comte de Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, author of The Future Eve. Raymond Roussel, author of Impressions d’Afrique and of Locus Solus. Émile Souvestre, author of The World As It Will Be. Paul Éluard, who did not write sf but whose poetry collection Capitale de la douleur features heavily in Godard’s Alphaville. And, of course, Oscar Wilde. Étienne-Gaspard Robertson, physicist, stage magician, balloonist (inevitably) and phantasmagoria pioneer. The Tomb of the Biologically Divergent Working Class. A little something… …for fans of… Harry Potter. Some good old-fashioned surveillance… …and a reminder of Muybridge. An sf shop, an sf bar and… …a bunker anti-zombies. And this is where we stayed. The hotel where Breton and Soupault (before his expulsion from the Surrealists for pursuing individualist and stupid literary projects) invented automatic writing and co-wrote The Magnetic Fields. Not just in the hotel, mind, but in the actual fucking room where they did so. The room with this creepy-ass shit directly above the bed.