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Updated: May 27, 2025
Guy de Maupassant again is a naturalist of the second sort, a brutal realist; de Maupassant, who died a suicide, crying out to his valet from his hacked throat "Encore l'homme au rancart!" another carcass to the dustheap! In English letters Wordsworth in his earlier verse illustrated the same sentimental primitivism.
They peer and pry and repine, and all the while the real essence of the figure lies in its momentary expression in its most superficial gesture. Dickens' world is a world of gnomes and hob-goblins, of ghouls and of laughing angels. The realist of the Thackeray School finds nothing but monstrous exaggeration here and fantastic mummery. If he were right, par-dieu!
Welby, in a moment of whim, wrote some very able articles in a leading journal, had, on acceding to power, presented the realist with one of those few good things still left to ministerial patronage, a place worth about L1,200 a year. His mornings thus engaged in routine work, Mr. Welby enjoyed his evenings in a convivial way.
There is a moral in the "Nominalist and Realist" that will prove all sums. It runs something like this: No matter how sincere and confidential men are in trying to know or assuming that they do know each other's mood and habits of thought, the net result leaves a feeling that all is left unsaid; for the reason of their incapacity to know each other, though they use the same words.
Tolstoi was never a romantic, but a realist he was, and he is a mystic. Dostoïevski, from whom he absorbed so much, taught him the formulas of his mysticism though Tolstoi has never felt the life of the soul so profoundly as this predecessor. Ibsen passed through the three stages. Huysmans, never romantic, began as a realistic pessimist and ended as a pessimistic mystic.
Dare now to be silent when I have told you these things Daylight is detrimental to them Deny the spirit of self-sacrifice Difference which I find between Truth in art and the True in fac Doubt, the greatest misery of love Friendship exists only in independence and a kind of equality Happy is he who does not outlive his youth Hatred of everything which is superior to myself He did not blush to be a man, and he spoke to men with force Hermits can not refrain from inquiring what men say of them History too was a work of art I have burned all the bridges behind me In pitying me he forgot himself In every age we laugh at the costume of our fathers In times like these we must see all and say all It is not now what it used to be It is too true that virtue also has its blush Lofty ideal of woman and of love Men are weak, and there are things which women must accomplish Money is not a common thing between gentlemen like you and me Monsieur, I know that I have lived too long Neither idealist nor realist Never interfered in what did not concern him No writer had more dislike of mere pedantry Offices will end by rendering great names vile Princes ought never to be struck, except on the head Princesses ceded like a town, and must not even weep Principle that art implied selection Recommended a scrupulous observance of nature Remedy infallible against the plague and against reserve Reproaches are useless and cruel if the evil is done Should be punished for not having known how to punish So strongly does force impose upon men Tears for the future The great leveller has swung a long scythe over France The most in favor will be the soonest abandoned by him The usual remarks prompted by imbecility on such occasions These ideas may serve as opium to produce a calm They tremble while they threaten They have believed me incapable because I was kind They loved not as you love, eh?
In amazement the public asked: How could a man in the possession of his powers shut himself up in a studio to paint ballet girls, washerwomen, jockeys, drabs of Montmartre, shopgirls, and horses? Even Zola, who should have known better, would not admit that Degas was an artist fit to be compared with such men as Flaubert and Goncourt; but Zola was never the realist that is Degas.
She was a stern realist, a sneering sceptic, in the most literal sense a cynic. Her even breathing, her regular features, seemed to answer him. "Hey-dey, my boy, we shall be merry for a thousand years! Better sleep now, you will need sleep if you mean to try which of us is the stronger." The next day their marriage was the marvel of the town and neighbourhood.
The second part of the essay is devoted to a review of the sentimental poets of modern Germany. In the third part the naive and sentimental poets are contrasted. The former, Schiller contends, is concerned with the definite, the latter with the infinite. From the realist we turn easily and with pleasure to actual life; the idealist puts us for the moment out of humor with it.
He spurns the idealistic twaddle of those who, he says, are guided by their hopes rather than by ordinary good sense, and fancies himself a practical man. He expects little and gets that. The Christian realist, however, sees the possibilities in the evil and weak of mankind.
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