Paris is not a city so much as a gravitational field. García Márquez wrote here, as did Beckett, Cortázar, Ionesco, Senghor, Césaire. Lispector passed through. Baldwin stayed for a decade. The Latin American Boom arrived on the rue du Cherche-Midi and left as a genre. This is not a city that produces literature; it is a city that receives it and — sometimes — sends it back transformed.
In the index, literature accounts for 38% of the Paris record — the highest of any city in the map. The novel that files here is often one written elsewhere but edited, published, translated, or consecrated in Paris. One Hundred Years of Solitude is a Colombian book and a Paris book. Things Fall Apart was first read widely through Paris-aligned publishing circuits. Pedro Páramo had its European life here.
The film entry (44%) is built on the New Wave and what it made possible. Godard, Truffaut, Varda, Resnais — the cahier generation redefined what a film could say about itself. Every film that is self-aware enough to know it is a film owes something to Paris in the 1960s. This is the city's most lasting export: not films but a way of watching them.