He had known this lake since childhood. As he entered the cold water, he did not know if he wanted to cleanse himself or die. He stayed there for a moment. He would stop hoping and start living. "I think of all those who must find inner force after the time of disenchantment.”
To be a complete writer, one must experience everything before imposing one's own particular illusion.
Lucien could not afford a tomb for Coralie. Cemetery plots had become prohibitive, for property speculation had extended even to graveyards. Even eternal rest had a price.
The young poet imagined the city like a pagan goddess, open-armed, embracing talent and merit. But what did he know of Paris?
The world had changed and Lucien was out of his depth. People wanted to forget the Revolution, the Terror and the Empire wars. This was the time of the Restoration and Court nobility. People aspired to personal success and wealth. Young provincials flocked to the capital, determined to forge a destiny, as Napoleon did, only now, far from battlefields. Besides, if you were going to fail, may as well fail in Paris.
Modesty's a funny virtue. Think you have it, it's gone.
One's whole life could hinge on a first impression in this high society. For as everyone knows, first impressions are often right, especially bad ones.
A theater manager pays you for a good review. You then propose a nasty article to his competitor and you raise the stakes, writing good and bad indifferently under different names. And so on and so forth...and you rake it in.
If you can't grant favors at a paper, you don't exist. If no one's afraid of you...no one's interested in you. And yet...I was good. I had a pure heart like you.
Each one had her name, specialty, hours and spot...Up to 1,500 poor women plied their trade in the Galleries. They were called hussies, courtesans, Lorettes and grisettes. Those who collared men from upstairs were called "half-beavers.” Though we never knew why.
You could buy anything. Applause, light applause, standing ovation, laughter, hysterical laughter. Or else whistles and boos, even rotten tomatoes and vegetables. You only had to pay.
Money was the new royalty, and no one wanted to chop its head off.
There was a specific term for a false information: a "canard” or duck. Maybe because fake sensational news was like a wild duck chase. To create an event, a paper could print any rumor. True or false, no one dwelled on such details. These men had understood, a fake news and its denial were two events. The only truth that mattered, were sales figures.
The paper was now a shop that sold the public what they wanted to hear. One no longer enlightened, one flattered opinions. Or created them. News, debate and ideas had become goods to palm off on subscribers. Journalists became retailers of phrases, wheelers and dealers of words, brokers between artists and the public.
Literature is important to many people. A world view, love of beauty...If only for a few readers. One single reader.
A book is moving? Call it sentimental. Classic? It's academic. Funny? Superficial. Intelligent? It's pretentious. If it's inspired, call it sensationalism. And so on. Well-constructed? It's predictable. The author has style? He has nothing to say. You can criticize the length. That always smarts. It's always too long. Confused, not controlled. What's the point?
For her.
Love,
prayer
and song, to me existence gave.
Of all the earthly good that mortals crave,
In this my farewell hour I nought regret.
Nought, save the burning sighs
that soar above, The lyre's full ecstasy, or wordless love Of hearts that ne'er forget. To sweep the lyre at listening beauty's feet,
To mark from note to note the transport sweet,
Thrill her rapt bosom
with responsive power
To draw tears of rapture from her eyes
As morning dews are swept
by zephyrs' sighs From the full, bending flower.
Louise.
Such a love as you have made me feel, I thought both utopic and forbidden.
Forbidden,
like all which must in the end triumph. Each word brings your lips closer,
each book I read seems to speak of you. Since this dreadful afternoon, I've thought only of you. Of you, alone in the shadows of those lifeless walls,
loveless and without poesy. Nothing but love matters in this world.
And love is like the wind... it will carry us away. For you, Louise.