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Nothing prepares the reader for Daniel Widlöcher's remarkable collection better than a trip to the Marché aux Puces, the Flea Market, on the outskirts of Paris. Board the Métro somewhere say around St-Germain-des-Prés or Odéon, and take the “4” out to Porte de Clignancourt. The trip can feel rather long the first time you do it, as though you might drop off the end of the earth into one “no-fly zone” or another. But it's full of surprise. Young lovers come and go, looking as though the next stop would surely be the consummate one. Bands of Roma musicians move from car to car, enchanting some, annoying others. Flesh tones change from peach and rose to olive and coffee. Even the aromas change. The scents of the Left Bank—fresh bread and Camembert and raspberries—turn to sesame, vanilla, and tangerine. Once out of the Métro, moving through the shacks of T-shirt vendors and card-readers, you will think “New York! Canal Street!” That momentary dislocation will only enhance your deepening wonder as you move onto the rue des Rosiers, the market's main street. You will find more than two thousand vendors of everything from vintage chic to antiquities. Clocks and pens, chandeliers and ormolu, jewels and