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Updated: June 14, 2025
Art is nature digested. Art is a sublime excrement. Zola and Goncourt cannot, or will not understand that the artistic stomach must be allowed to do its work in its own mysterious fashion.
When the three of us arrived in the open space beyond the fish-pond Fortini and two friends were already waiting us. One was Felix Pasquini, nephew to the Cardinal of that name, and as close in his uncle's confidence as was his uncle close in the confidence of the gray old man. The other was Raoul de Goncourt, whose presence surprised me, he being too good and noble a man for the company he kept.
In the final decades of the nineteenth century, when the novel was despotic in its overwhelming triumph over all the other forms of literary expression, and when arrogant writers of fiction like Edmond de Goncourt did not hesitate to declare that the drama was outworn at last, that it was unfitted to convey the ideas interesting to the modern world, and that it had fallen to be no more than a toy to amuse the idle after dinner, Ibsen brought forth a succession of social dramas as tho to prove that the playhouse of our own time could supply a platform whereon a man might free his soul and boldly deliver his message, if only he had first mastered the special conditions of the playwright's art.
Two days later, de Goncourt tells us, she was buried at Saint Sulpice, an hour before the customary time for interments, her coffin guarded by soldiers, to protect it from the fury of the mob.
Each nodded in turn and Pasquini and I prepared to step aside. "Since you are in haste," Henry Bohemond proposed to me, "and since there are three of them and three of us, why not settle it at the one time?" "Yes, yes," was Lanfranc's eager cry. "Do you take de Goncourt. De Villehardouin for mine." But I waved my good friends back. "They are here by command," I explained.
In de Goncourt, it was the nostalgia of the preceding century, a return to the elegances of a society forever lost.
Marie Antoinette to Maria Theresa, July 17th, Arneth, ii., p. 8. "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," par M. de Goncourt, p. 50. Quoting an unpublished journal by M.M. Hardy, in the Royal Library. It is the name by which she is more than once described in Madame du Deffand's letters. See her "Correspondence," ii., p. 357. Mercy to Maria Teresa, December 11th, 1773, Arneth, ii., p. 81.
The realism of Jules and Edmond de Goncourt does not, to be sure; but most assuredly the realism of George Meredith does. You will find far less shrinking from the commonplace in many passages of the romantic Fenimore Cooper than in the pages of George Meredith. Whether or not realistic fiction shrinks from the unpleasant depends also on the particular nature of the realist.
In both Daudet and Maupassant Strong as Death is the latter's contribution to painter-psychology there are stories clustered about the guild. Daudet has described a Salon on varnishing day with his accustomed facile, febrile skill; you feel that it comes from Goncourt and Zola.
Now I think that every one will accept my excuses, and will acquit me of plagiarism. I see the Rougon-Macquart series, each volume presented to him by the author, Goncourt, Huysmans, Duranty, Ceard, Maupassant, Hennique, etc.; in a word, the works of those with whom I grew up, those who tied my first literary pinafore round my neck.
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