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Updated: June 1, 2025
Mr Robert Buchanan is a type of artist that every age produces unfailingly: Catulle Mendès is his counterpart in France, but the pallid Portuguese Jew with his Christ-like face, and his fascinating fervour is more interesting than the spectacled Scotchman.
Catulle Mendès, a perfect realisation of his name, of his pale hair, of his fragile face illuminated with the idealism of a depraved woman. He takes you by the arm, by the hand, he leans towards you, his words are caresses, his fervour is delightful, and listening to him is as sweet as drinking a fair perfumed white wine. All he says is false the book he has just read, the play he is writing, the woman who loves him,... he buys a packet of bonbons in the streets and eats them, and it is false. An exquisite artist; physically and spiritually he is art; he is the muse herself, or rather, he is one of the minions of the muse. Passing from flower to flower he goes, his whole nature pulsing with butterfly voluptuousness. He has written poems as good as Hugo, as good as Leconte de Lisle, as good as Banville, as good as Baudelaire, as good as Gautier, as good as Coppée; he never wrote an ugly line in his life, but he never wrote a line that some one of his brilliant contemporaries might not have written. He has produced good work of all kinds "et voil
“I imagine that Citheron must look like this,” murmured Catulle Mendès, as we stood looking down from a sun-baked eminence, “with the Gulf of Corinth there where you see that gleam of water.” As he spoke he began declaiming the passage from Sophocles’s Œdipus the King descriptive if that classic scene.
These were the opening phrases of the preface, but those which followed were less easy to understand. Then came 'Stark: A Conte, about a midinette who, so far as I could gather, murdered, or was about to murder, a mannequin. It was rather like a story by Catulle Mendes in which the translator had either skipped or cut out every alternate sentence. Next, a dialogue between Pan and St.
Robert Buchanan is a type of artist that every age produces unfailingly: Catulle Mendès is his counterpart in France, but the pallid Portuguese Jew with his Christ-like face, and his fascinating fervour is more interesting than the spectacled Scotchman. Both began with volumes of excellent but characterless verse, and loud outcries about the dignity of art, and both have well ... Mr.
But you apologise, or you go!" He laughed his short thick laugh. "I am a man who hopes nothing, feels nothing, fears nothing, and believes nothing that you tell me!" I got up and went for him with my fists, and whether he feared nothing or not I don't know; but he scooted, dropping a yellow French novel, by one Catulle Mendes, that I could make neither head nor tail of.
'I fancy that our friend Bernac was a dangerous man also. "My dear Catulle I beg of you to send me by the very first mail another phial of the same tasteless essence which you sent three years ago. I mean the almond decoction which leaves no traces. I have particular reasons for wanting it in the course of next week, so I implore you not to delay.
This extraordinary oneness of nature and artistic vision does not exist in Degas, and even his portraits are composed from drawings and notes. About midnight Catulle Mendès will drop in, when he has corrected his proofs. He will come with his fine paradoxes and his strained eloquence. He will lean towards you, he will take you by the arm, and his presence is a nervous pleasure.
Obvius huic venias, hedera iuvenilia cinctus Tempora, cum Calvo, docte Catulle, tuo. We must lament the total loss of a volume of lyrics which competent judges thought worthy to be set beside that of his wonderful friend.
Catulle Mendès, a perfect realisation of his name, with his pale hair, and his fragile face illuminated with the idealism of a depraved woman. He takes you by the arm, by the hand, he leans towards you, his words are caresses, his fervour is delightful, and to hear him is as sweet as drinking a smooth perfumed yellow wine. All he says is false the book he has just read, the play he is writing, the woman who loves him,...he buys a packet of bonbons in the streets and eats them, and it is false. An exquisite artist; physically and spiritually he is art; he is the muse herself, or rather, he is one of the minions of the muse. Passing from flower to flower he goes, his whole nature pulsing with butterfly voluptuousness. He has written poems as good as Hugo, as good as Leconte de Lisle, as good as Banville, as good as Baudelaire, as good as Gautier, as good as Coppée; he never wrote an ugly line in his life, but he never wrote a line that some one of his brilliant contemporaries might not have written. He has produced good work of all kinds "et voil
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