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Updated: July 4, 2025
I am trying to simplify a child's approach to culture, being persuaded that the first study makes its impression on all the others and that pedagogy teaches us to look for knots in bulrushes. In short, I am working over A PRIMER, do not EAT ME ALIVE. I have ONLY ONE regret about Paris: it is not to be a third with Tourgueneff when you read your Saint-Antoine.
There are some infinitely profound pages about it in the Histoire de ma vie. What I say is true, since minds quite opposite to yours have been amazed at them. For instance, the Goncourts. The good Tourgueneff ought to be in Paris at the end of March. What would be fine, would be for us all three to dine together. I am thinking again of Sainte-Beuve.
The book does not pretend to deal with it in other than an incidental manner. Mrs. Macleod's studies of character and often clever dialogue suggest that she might profitably adapt to the presentation of Australian life the quiet intensity of Tourguéneff, or the delicately observant style of the American critical realists, Henry James, W. D. Howells and Richard Harding Davis.
O that our own country that every land in the world could annually, continually, receive the poets, thinkers, scientists, even the official magnates, of other lands, as honor'd guests. O that the United States, especially the West, could have had a good long visit and explorative jaunt, from the noble and melancholy Tourgueneff, before he died or from Victor Hugo or Thomas Carlyle.
Plauchut would not be able to go to you. He was invited to the prince's. A word if it is NO. Nothing if it is yes. So I don't want you to write to me. I saw Tourgueneff and I told him all that I think of him. He was as surprised as a child. We spoke ill of you. Wednesday evening. CXLVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT The 5th or the 6th February, 1870
Aside from you and Tourgueneff, I don't know a living being to whom to pour out my soul about those things which I have most at heart; and you live far away from me, both of you! However, I continue to write. I have resolved to start at my Saint- Antoine tomorrow or the day after. But to begin a protracted effort I need a certain lightness which I lack just now.
He talked of Russian literature, its modernness, and said he had sent us a delightful novel by Tourgueneff, 'Liza, in which we should find charming and vivid glimpses of landscape and life like those seen from a carriage window.
But why are we in this world if it is not to learn patience. Your obstinate troubadour who loves you. G. Sand CCLI. TO GEORGE SAND Tuesday, March 12, 1873 Dear master, If I am not at your house, it is the fault of the big Tourgueneff. I was getting ready to go to Nohant, when he said to me: "Wait, I'll go with you the first of April." That is two weeks off.
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