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Tag Archives: French Novelists

The Brilliant, Unread Journal of Jules Renard (Part II)

01 Tuesday Apr 2014

Posted by jrbenjamin in Literature

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Burgundy, Chitry, Diary, France, French Literature, French Novelists, Journal, Journals, Jules Renard, Life, literature, Musings, Novels, Paris, Reflections, The Journal of Jules Renard, W. Somerset Maugham, Wisdom

Jules Renard

No one ever talks about the journal of Jules Renard.

That’s how I began my first post about this journal, and it’s regrettably true. Renard’s journal is rarely cited, nearly impossible to find even on the internet, and virtually unmentioned in lists of the greatest diaries in history. Still, those who are aware of this collection of witticisms and observations know how stunning it is. It floored W. Somerset Maugham when he first fanned through it and it’s flatly described on Wikipedia as, “a masterpiece of introspection, irony, humor and nostalgia.” I recommend you pick up your own copy of the text, which many scholars have suggested is unique in the annals of literary history, as it is the only private work that surpasses the entirety of its author’s published oeuvre. This post features highlights from its second half (1900-10).

For context: when we left off at the end of 1899, Renard was a 36-year-old writer and budding politician, splitting his time between Paris, which he alternately romanticizes and loathes, and his country home in Chitry, a provincial town in Burgundy where he indulges his passion for nature and quiet reflection. A year and a half before, Renard’s father, François, had taken his own life at the peak of an excruciating chronic illness. Jules was the first on the scene, and that lacerating experience has stirred in his mind a latent fixation on mortal questions. In addition, this tragedy propels Jules into a fresh state of mind as the family’s new patriarch: he recommits himself to his political ambitions (he would be elected mayor of Chitry in 1904), while overseeing the workers of his country estate (including its noble foreman Philippe) and cherishing more and more the serene presence of his wife, Marie (whom he affectionately refers to as Marinette).

Beyond that, however, my impressions about the general significance and trends in Renard’s thinking are merely that – impressions, and I think you’ll have a more rewarding engagement with the words if you browse through them at your own pace and without preconceptions. Ultimately there are many adjectives to ascribe to these jottings, through perhaps the most apt word is also that most overused one: beautiful (It’s too heavy to be “pleasurable,” too airy to be “profound”). It’s a beautiful series of reflections which are the product of a patient but swift intelligence, sharp eye, and palpably human heart. I have bolded my personal favorites.

__________

1900

You think about death as long as you hope to escape from it.

The task of the writer is to learn how to write.

My imagination is my memory.

The bird feels nothing when you clip its wings, but it can no longer fly.

At the Exposition from Great Britain, Guitry shows me paintings by, I think, Reynolds. No need to explain myself: the beauty of these works reach to the bottom of the heart. It is painting for lovers. Images of children, little girls, women, leave us with the sadness of not being loved by them.

The best in us is incommunicable.

Time passed through the needle’s eye of the hours.

A dream is only life madly dilated.

To be content with little money is also a talent.

1901

There are places and moments in which one is so completely alone that one sees the world entire.

The poems of our dreams, upon which reason acts, on waking, as the sun acts upon the dew.

Love kills intelligence. The brain and the heart act upon each other in the manner of an hour-glass. One fills itself only to empty the other.

A great shiver of wind passes over the countryside.

It is hailing over the hills. A disaster! But, once the hail has melted, the peasant does not spend time being sorry for himself: he goes back to work.

God, so much mystery – it is cruel, it is unworthy of you.
Taciturn God, speak to us!

A walk through the fields. Each one of my steps raises a friendly ghost, who comes with me. The memory of my father, his smock blown by the wind.
Marinette appears, and the earth is gentler to the feet.

The wind that knows how to turn the pages, but does not know how to read.

At work, the difficult thing is to light the little lamp of the brain. After that, it burns by itself.

Keep going! Talent is like the soil. The life you observe will never cease producing. Plough your field each year; it will bear fruit each year.

I ought to have a tiny portable table, so that I could go out and work, like a painter, under the open sky.

1902

The theatre is the place where I am the most bored, and where I most enjoy being bored.

So long as thinkers cannot tell me what life and death are, I shall not give a good goddamn for their thoughts.

I have lived on all the planets: life is a joke on none.

Those unexplored expanses, always fallow, in even the best friendships.

Weep! But not one of your tears must reach the tip of your pen and mix itself with your ink.

Sarah’s attitudes: she can look intelligent when she is listening to things she does not understand.

I shall end by not being able to do without city life in Paris. I shall acquire an anxiety in solitude. After a day, not of work, but of study, a walk on the boulevards in the evening – those lights, those women, those people – takes the shape of a reward.

When I think of all the books still left for me to read, I am certain of further happiness.

It’s many days since I’ve felt ashamed of my vanity, or even tried to correct it. Of all my faults, it is the one that amuses me most.

Reverie is nothing but thought thinking of nothing.

Not the smallest charm of truth is that it scandalizes.

A cloud, for Philippe, is a threat of rain. He does not know that certain clouds have no function but to be beautiful.

Philippe does not like to dream: it tires him as much as to do the harvest.

Suddenly I stop in the middle of a field, and this question alights on me like a great black bird: ‘By whom were we created and why?’

Words must be nothing but the clothing, carefully made to measure, of thought.

1903

In my church, there is no vaulting between me and the sky.

When you rejoice over being young, and notice how well you feel, that is age.

Irony is an element of happiness.

A sentence must be so clear that it pleases at once, and that it is reread for the pleasure it gives.

Nature is never ugly.

Philippe. Fresh air and garlic will make him live a hundred years.

He who has not seen God has not seen anything.

If rest is not to some extent work, it quickly becomes boredom.

A butterfly got on the train at Clamecy and traveled with me.

There is nothing as meanly practical as religion.

The falling leaves tumble away on the ground what life is left to them. One of them has the honor of being pursued by my kitten.

One can quickly discover if a poet has talent. In the case of prose writers, it takes a little longer.

1904 

The beggars know me. They lift their hats to me and inquire about my family.

As mayor, I am supposed to look after the maintenance of the rural roads; as a poet, I like them better neglected.

I no longer dare to say: “Tomorrow I shall work.”

The window pane has faults that double the stars.

Ah, yes!, the dream: To be a socialist and make a lot of money.

1905

The simple life. We need a servant to close the shutters, light a lamp, as though a decent man shouldn’t find pleasure in these little household chores.

I have an anti-clerical mind and the heart of a monk.

The cat asleep, well buttoned into its fur.

I am no longer capable of dying young.

In the taste of life, there is something of a fine liqueur.

Little Joseph, Philippe’s young son, died last night.

The sparrows say of us: “They build houses so that we can build our nests in their walls.”

I am very fond of looking at the faces of young women. It amuses me to try to guess what they will be like when they are older.

On Sunday evenings Philippe is bored. He replaces the strap on a wooden shoe and goes to plant potatoes. He walks the dog and weeps for little Joseph.

God is no solution. It doesn’t arrange anything. It makes nothing right.

To what good are mementoes, even photographs? It is comforting that things die, as well as men.

Without its bitterness, life would not be bearable.

If you desire popularity, do not try to be right.

The working man goes to political meetings, the bourgeois to lectures.

The joy of a finished work spoils the work you are about to begin: you now believe it is easy.

The peasant is perhaps the only man who does not like the country and never looks at it.

Old age does not exist. At least, we do not suffer from continuous old age at the end of our lives; like trees, we have, every year, our attack of age. We lose our leaves, our temper, our taste for life; then they come back.

It is enough to have a sumptuous taste of success: no need to stuff yourself with it.

Life is badly arranged. The poor and uneducated should be rich, and the intelligent man, poor.

1906

The clock marching, with its heavy, rhythmic tread – One, two! One, two! – while standing still.

Yes, God exists, but He knows no more about it than we do.

I do not know whether God exists, but it would be better, for His own credit, that He did not.

I have come to the age where I can understand how deeply I must have annoyed my teachers when I went to see them and never talked to them about themselves.

A cat, who sleeps twenty hours out of twenty-four, is perhaps God’s most successful creation.

Today, at last, I look at Paris.
Twenty years ago I did not see it. I had only my ambition. I only read books.
Now I stop in front of the Louvre, in front of a church, at a street corner, and I say: “What wonders!”

Perhaps genius is to talent what instinct is to reason.

An honorable man of talent is as rare as a man of genius.

The page you write on autumn must give as much pleasure as a walk through fallen leaves. 

Imagine life without death. Every day, you would try to kill yourself out of despair.

Laziness: the habit of resting before fatigue sets in.

I may be my age and a mayor: when I see a policeman I am uneasy.

“New poets.” Remember that term, for you will not hear from them again.

Walk in the little wood. Sniff the scent of mowed hay. On the road, a blackbird hops along in front of me as though inviting me to follow it.

God, in His modesty, does not dare brag of having created the world.

The profession of writing is, after all, the only one in which one can make no money without being thought ridiculous.

The sun rises before I do, but I go to bed after it does: we are even.

The beauty of new things, after all, is that they are clean.

What happens to all the tears we do not shed?

The friends one is very fond of and never thinks about.

In the evening, when Marinette, after a good day filled with work, listens to her children or other youth, looks at one, then at the other, never missing a thing, she is beautiful, she has something holy about her.
With a single glance, she takes in their entire life, of which she remembers every detail.

1907

As I age, I understand life less and less — and value it more and more.

To the young. I shall tell you a truth that you may not like, because you look forward to novelty. This truth is that one does not grow old. Where the heart is concerned, the fact is accepted, at least in matters of love. Well, it is the same with the mind. It always remains young. You do not understand life any more at forty than you did at twenty, but you are aware of this fact, and you admit it. To admit it is to remain young. 

A young man without talent is an old man.

We are in the world to laugh. In purgatory we shall no longer be able to do so. And in heaven it would not be proper.

It is more difficult to be an honorable man for eight days than a hero for fifteen minutes.

The fields of wheat in which partridges have their little streets.

Immense morning sky. Clouds will never be able to fill it.

One must write as one speaks, if one speaks well. 

I want to do things right, and have someone, anyone, take note of it.

I stopped in the middle of a field, like a man suddenly hearing beautiful, solemn music.

Walks. The body advances in a straight line, while the mind flutters around it like a bird.

1908

A window on the street is as good as a stage.

If my books bore painters as much as their paintings bore me, I forgive them.

A cloud sails along as though it knew where it was going.

My life gives the impression of being in harmony with itself, and yet I have done almost nothing of what I wanted to do.

Collectivism — ridiculous! Talent can be nothing but individual.

My ignorance and my admission of ignorance – these constitute the best part of my originality.

Silence. I hear my ear.

When the defects of others are perceived with so much clarity, it is because one possesses them oneself.

What most surprises me is this heart which keeps on beating.

You sit down to work. For a long time, nothing. You don’t even try. All at once, a sort of breath passes, and the fire catches.

1909

One shouldn’t run down friends: they are still the best thing we have.

Writing is an occupation in which you have to keep proving your talent to people who have none.

There is false modesty, but there is no false pride.

The Luxembourg gardens are nothing but a dome of leaves under which people dream.

Life is neither long nor short: it merely has drawn-out moments.

__________

Jules Renard suddenly succumbed to arteriosclerosis in April of the following year. You can read the highlights from the first half of the journal here, or buy your own copy of the real thing.

Jules Renard

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The Brilliant, Unread Journal of Jules Renard (Part I)

17 Friday Jan 2014

Posted by jrbenjamin in Literature

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

A Writer's Notebook, Diary, France, French Literature, French Novelists, Journal, Journals, Jules Renard, Julian Barnes, Life, literature, Musings, Novels, Reflections, W. Somerset Maugham, Wisdom

Jules Renard

No one ever talks about the journal of Jules Renard.

I hadn’t heard of it until I fell upon the work of Julian Barnes, who references it occasionally in his nonfiction. But I was so struck by these crisp, cited epigrams that I decided to pick up a copy of Renard’s journal several months ago — and now, having parsed through them, am sharing some of the highlights with you.

These words are nowhere else on the internet; TheBullyPulpit is the only site on the web with a substantial selection of this text. Yet it is only a fraction of Renard’s entire magisterial work, and I encourage you to pick up your own copy of this very readable, very witty, and very wise tome. Some scholars have made the astounding assertion that Renard’s journals make him unique in the annals of history: he is the only writer whose private jottings supersede in every respect his published work.

To give you some sense of their magnitude, Wikipedia describes his journal as, “a masterpiece of introspection, irony, humor and nostalgia.” W. Somerset Maugham was so moved after reading Renard’s journal that he decided to publish his own collection called A Writer’s Notebook. In the introduction, Maugham pays tribute to Renard’s masterpiece, calling it, “… wonderfully good reading. It is extremely amusing. It is witty and subtle and often wise…”

I think of it as a chronicle of life from a man who brimmed with humor and perspicacity, and grew in wisdom through the patient examination of both nature and human beings.

What follows are my selected highlights from the first half of this collection (1887 to 1899). They should be read in the context of Renard’s life: he was a relatively well-known Parisian novelist as well as a statesman (the governor of his provincial French town), so his musings are not only gratuitous literary witticisms, but utilitarian, applicable, and sage reflections on the lived-life of a common man. I have bolded my personal favorites.

Renard began this journal in 1887, when he was 23. He kept writing it until his sudden death in 1910.

__________

1887

Work thinks; laziness muses.

She has a very mean way of being kind.

I have an almost incessant need of speaking evil of others; but no interest at all in doing evil to them.

It astounds us to come upon other egoists, as though we alone had the right to be selfish, and be filled with eagerness to live

We often wish we could exchange our natural family for a literary one of our choice, in order that we might call the author of a moving page “brother”.

Sometimes everything around me seems so diffuse, so tremulous, so little solid, that I imagine this world to be only the mirage of a world to come: its projection. We seem to be still far from the forest; and even though the great trees already cast their shadow over us, we still have a long journey to make before we walk under their branches.

It is in the heart of the city that one writes the most inspired pages about the country.

1888

A thought written down is dead. It was alive. It lives no longer. It was a flower. Writing it down has made it artificial, that is to say, immutable.

In order to do certain crazy things, it is necessary to behave like a coachman who has let go of the reins and fallen asleep.

1889

A peasant must be twice sure of a fact before he will bet on it.

The scholar generalizes, the artist individualizes.

The blackbird, that minuscule crow.

Men of nature, as they are called, do not spend much time talking about nature.

The ideal of calm exists in a sitting cat.

A simple man, a man who has the courage to have a legible signature.

To have a horror of the bourgeois is bourgeois.

The friendship of a talented man of letters would be a great benefaction. It is a pity that those whose good graces we yearn for are always dead.

I can’t get around this dilemma: I have a horror of troubles, but they whip me up, they make me talented. Peace and well-being, on the contrary, paralyze me. Either be a nobody, or everlastingly plagued. I must make a choice.

I prefer to be plagued. I am stating it.

I’ll be properly annoyed when I am taken at my word.

I read novel upon novel, I stuff myself with them, inflate myself with them, I’m full up to my throat with them, in order that I may be disgusted with their commonplaces, their repetitions, their conventions, their systematic methods of procedure; and that I may do otherwise

This evening, memories are using my brain as a tambourine.

1890

The annoyance of having to pass in front of a bench on which people are sitting. Because, in truth, sitting on a bench places a man at a great advantage. He can look people over, laugh if he pleases, think his thoughts. He knows that the passers-by can do nothing of the kind; they can neither stop, nor look, nor, in their turn, laugh.

Look for the ridiculous in everything and you will find it.

I have built such beautiful castles that I would be satisfied with their ruin

We are ignorant of The Beyond because this ignorance is the condition sine qua non of our own life. Just as ice cannot know fire except by melting, by vanishing. 

1891

To write in the manner that Rodin sculpts

When someone shows me a drawing, I look at it just long enough to prepare a comment.

Style is to forget all styles.

The critic is a botanist. I am a gardener. 

To seize the fleeing idea by the scruff of the neck and rub its nose on the paper.

I very humbly confess my pride. 

1892

We are all poor fools (of course I am speaking of myself), incapable of being either good or bad for two consecutive hours.

When he looked at himself in a mirror, he was always tempted to wipe the glass.

Oscar Wilde next to me at lunch. He has the oddity of being an Englishman. He gives you a cigarette, but he selects it himself. He does not walk around a table, he moves a table out of the way. His face is kneaded with tiny red worms, and he has long teeth, containing caves. He is enormous, and he carries an enormous can.

In art, never do as others do; in morals, act like everybody else.

At twenty, one thinks profoundly and badly.

There is in my heart something like the reflection of a beautiful dream that I no longer remember.

He is deaf in the left ear: he does not hear on the side of the heart.

The fear of boredom is the only excuse for working.

To be a boy, and to play alone, in full sunlight, in the square of a little town.

He had a fear of working, and was annoyed because he did not work.

He wept cats and dogs.

1893

When he praises anyone, he feels that he is slightly disparaging himself.

The more one reads, the less one imitates.

It is now the fashion, when one has completed someone’s portrait in the blackest of strokes, to add: “But he is very nice.”

To spend one’s life judging oneself is very entertaining, and, on the whole, not very difficult. 

I am moved by nature because, when I look at her, I need not worry about looking stupid.

If the word arse appears in a sentence, even in a sublime sentence, the public will hear only that one word.

And the brook murmurs without pause against the stones that try to prevent it from flowing.

A village where only the trees are capable of emotion.

How to describe the delicate thing that happens when a brilliant insect alights on a flower? Words, with their weight, fall upon the picture like birds of prey.

I am never bored anywhere: being bored is an insult to oneself. 

The clouds, their bellies swollen with rain, crawl over the woods like black spiders.

He has always encumbered himself with unnecessary friendships.

It is, when all is said and done, when faced with the subject of death that we feel most bookish.

The reward of great men is that, long after they have died, one is not quite sure that they are dead.

I don’t care about knowing many things: I want to know the things I care about. 

1894

As sad to watch as someone you love disappearing into the fog.

There are no friends; only moments of friendship.

Life can do without logic; literature cannot.

Thirty years old! Now I am sure that I shall not escape death.

Who will tell, who will paint the strange things I see?

To think is to search for clearings in a wood.

Happy people have no talent.

All day, I was drugged with sadness.

I like rain that lasts all day, and don’t feel that I am really in the country until I am well caked with mud.

We spend our lives talking about this mystery: our life.

Lifting one’s head, one could see up there, between the top branches of the trees, a river of sky flowing.

What does the bird do in a tempest? It does not cling to the branch: it follows the storm.

When I have experienced great difficulty in writing a page, I consider it well written.

Suppose, instead of earning a lot of money in order to live, we should try to live on little money?

1895

The good that one expects does not come to pass, but unexpected good does. There is justice, but he who dispenses it is playful. He is a jovial judge, who laughs at us, plays tricks on us, but who, when all is weighed, never makes a mistake.

There are good writers and great ones. Let us be the good ones.

Toulouse-Lautrec. The oftener you see him, the taller he grows. He ends up by being taller than average.

In literature, the real is distinguishable from the false as fresh flowers are from artificial flowers: by a sort of inimitable scent.

With its purring, the cat accompanies the tick-tock of the clock; it is the only music in the room.

What pleases women most is gross flattery concerning their intelligence.

All our criticism consists of reproaching others with not having the qualities that we believe ourselves to have.

At work in the morning: at first, mist, sometimes impenetrable. And, gradually, clearing. It is like a small sun slowly rising in the brain.

The truly free man is the one who will turn down an invitation to dinner without giving an excuse.

Literature, a queer sort of occupation: the less one produces, the better it must be.

1896

To take notes is to play the scales of literature.

The little light existing in the mystery that surrounds us comes from ourselves: it is a false light. The mystery has never shown us its own.

There is in me a substratum of coarseness that allows me to understand peasants and to enter deeply into their lives.

It is cheating to try to be kind. You must be born kind or never meddle with it.

I am made only to listen to the earth and watch it live.

Put a little moon into what you write.

Incapable of sustained effort, I read here and there, and write here and there. But I do believe that this is the lot of the true artist.

We did not have the same thoughts, but we had thoughts of the same color.

A morning so gray that the birds went back to bed.

There is no paradise on earth, but there are pieces of it. What there is on earth is a broken paradise.

We are never happier than when our jokes have made the maid laugh.

It is in the cafés of small towns that one sees humanity at its most hideous.

1897

I have not renounced ambition. The fire still burns in me—a banked fire, but alive.

A man in love with truth need not be either great or a poet. He is both without trying.

Men like my father respect only those that get rich, and admire only those that die poor.

I am a realist bothered by reality.

Nothing adds to your age like the death of a father. What? So I am now father Renard, and Fantec, from being a grandson, becomes a son.

Half-past one. Death of my father.

One can say of him: “This was only a man, merely a mayor of a poor little village,” and yet speak of his death as though it were the death of Socrates. I do not reproach myself for not having loved him enough. I do reproach myself for not having understood him.

For a while, his death made me feel uprooted.

My father. The next day I had to leave the table in order to go away and weep. It was the first time, in the twenty hours that I had sat by him. Floods of tears came to my eyes; I had not been able to squeeze out one before.

He killed himself, not because he suffered too much, but because he did not want to live otherwise than in good health.

I read what I write as though I were my mortal enemy.

It is in the gentle climate of this woman that I should like to live and die.

1898

Failure is not our only punishment for laziness: there is also the success of others.

I was brought up by a library.

When I give a hundred-franc bill, I give the dirtiest one.

First you love nature. It is only much later that you reach man.

If you want to please women, tell them the things you would not want other men to tell your wife.

Inspiration is perhaps only the joy of writing; it does not precede writing.

Our egoism is so excessive that, in a storm, we believe the thunder to be directed only at us.

Death is comforting: it delivers us from the thought of death.

A stupid faith cannot but displease God.

Let us stay at home: there we are decent. Let us not go out: our defects wait for us at the door, like flies.

There is nothing like a disciple to show us our faults.

I turn home, my heart filled with anguish because I have watched the sun set and heard the birds sing, and because I shall have had so few days on this earth I love, and there are so many dead before me.

One could say of almost all literature that it is too long.

God does not believe in our God.

I always feel like saying to music: “It isn’t true! You lie!”

1899

I feel that someone guides me.

I was born with two wings, one of them broken.

Spiders draw plans of capital cities.

The cat is the life of furniture.

The gentle melancholy of working on Sunday, when the others are loafing.

I am not content with intermittent life: I must have life at each instant.

For a writer who has been working, to read is like getting into a carriage after a toilsome walk.

I am not content with intermittent life: I must have life at each instant.

In an instant, the mind travels over immense dream countries, while the eyes go over reality like tortoises.

At the bottom of all patriotism there is war: that is why I am no patriot.

The air, at midday, burns and hums.

To think is not enough; you must think of something.

Our life seems like a trial run. 

Meadows are meadows, but fields are earth.

Return to Paris. The setting sun is pink like the interior of a seashell.

One should have the courage to prefer the intelligent man to the very nice man.

Style is the habit, the second nature of thought.

Jules Renard

__________

The highlights of Jules Renard’s journal entries, 1887 to 1900.

Be on the lookout for highlights from the second half of his journals, which I’ll hopefully post in the next few weeks.

If you liked these, read more reflections from a variety of thinkers on the quotes page.

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