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April […]8.
A scrupulous journalist must find his article in the book he is examining. Let him look for it there. If it is not there, it ought to be nowhere.
April 21.
I beat out the anapest uu—, the iamb u—, and even the double iamb u—u—, the first paeon — uuu (as in diligere), the ...tile — uu, and never the spondee.
Spondaic prose.
May 1.
Flowers in cemeteries. One ought to uproot them; this earth disfigures them.—And [they] make the skeletons smile. Horrible charms.
All these theories in which there is nothing for morality are plainly incomplete, since that is missing from them. Their uselessness is the sign of their imperfection. But when they are no more than paths ending at precipices, it is clear that one has taken the wrong way. Do you want to know..., see where it leads. Sometimes, however, the right road seems to have led nowhere, but that is because one has not yet arrived and is crossing the desert. One must go to the end. But when the end is a marsh, a chasm, an abyss, a cesspool, and you see nothing beyond it, make haste, retrace your steps; do not remain where their mind has sunk in the mud.
May 4.
Pleasures without pain, in literature. And pains (attentions, reflections, conventions, etc.) that give extreme pleasures.
[?] must neither spread out nor rise. There is no one for whom it would be more useful and more fitting to keep, as they say, within his shell. He could spin a little silk there. In speaking this way I do not mean to disparage him, only to characterize him. To be an eagle or a caterpillar in the intellectual world seems to me much the same. What matters is to have a marked place there, an assigned rank, and to belong distinctly to a regular and innocent species. Only sacred books obtain an extensive and lasting empire. All the others merely occupy, more or less seriously, the idle moments of a few idlers: they do men no other good than to accustom them to pleasures that come neither from the flesh nor from money. To make men spiritual, or to give them a taste for things of the mind, seems to me the only fruit their nature has attached to our literary productions. When these have other effects, it is by chance, and so much the worse. Books that take such possession of our mind that they give us a distaste for all others are pernicious. They introduce into society only peculiarities and sects. They introduce a greater variety of weights, rules, measures. They trouble morality and politics there. We must let the bibles reign and aspire only to please, not to dominate. But we must aspire to please the best part of the soul. And in this respect a small talent, if it keeps within its bounds and fulfills its task, can reach the goal as a greater one can.
His head is a dark chamber in which there is light. Through his two eyes a few rays enter and paint some objects there fairly well in miniature. But the canvas that receives them, instead of remaining at rest, wants to enlarge itself and makes these pictures grimace. I assure you there is something active there that ought to remain passive.
His best thoughts do not seem to me to have occupied more space in his mind than they occupy on his paper; and even on the paper each space does not seem to me larger than its contents... I seem to see those wax figures displayed at wigmakers’ doors in boxes that touch them on all sides.—In the ideas I see only points of light at the center and darkness around them. I have found nothing resonant there, nothing that has rolled at ease and freely in a space larger than itself.
He has habits of good style, but no system of it, not even an idea of it.
To write grammatically is sometimes enough to write very well. Some write, so to speak, in pencil. They are content to draw, and those writers need no colors.
This little work deserved what, in the jargon of my time, was called a succès d’estime. But it can give real pleasure only to those who will not love it, that is to say, those who will feel the merit the world has failed to perceive in it. This world seems to me like that great lanky fellow of a viscount who spat into a well to make circles. For its reading it needs little space, some brilliance and some clarity, the appearance of figures and the chance to toss a few words into a circle and stir it up. Besides, it is ignorant and all facts amuse it. It is frivolous and consequently satisfied when it has managed to read a serious book without boredom, for then it has a good opinion of itself. It finds simple what has uniformity. What excuses the world in this is that the work has scarcely anything but imperceptible faults.
An idea, and even a feeling, must always seem to emerge from the bosom, the depths and, as it were, the entrails of several others.
An obscurity behind troubles my mind as much as an obscurity ahead.
Chateaubriand. We inhabit the same regions, but we do not bring back the same curiosities.
To know how to walk in darkness, yes, when one is going toward action; but when one wishes to go only toward the light and show it everywhere...
That is to say the thing, but not to say the thought of it.
To dream of the beautiful. I will have dreamed of the beautiful, as they say they dream of happiness; but mine was a better dream, for death itself and the sight of it do not disturb its continuity and, on the contrary, give it greater breadth. This dream that mingles with all waking hours and all states of composure, and gains strength from all reflections, no absence, no loss can interrupt irreparably.