Dear master, dear friend of the good God, “let us talk a little of Dozenval,” let us roar at M. Thiers! Can a more triumphant imbecile, a more abject dabster, a more stercoraceous bourgeois be found! No, nothing can give the idea of the puking with which this old diplomatic idiot inspires me in piling up his stupidity on the dung-hill of bourgeoisie! Is it possible to treat philosophy, religion, peoples, liberty, the past and future, history, and natural history, everything and more yet, with an incoherence more inept and more childish! He seems to me as everlasting as mediocrity! He overwhelms me!
But the fine thing is the brave national guards whom he stuffed in 1848, who are beginning to applaud him again! What infinite madness! That proves that everything consists of temperament. Prostitutes — like France — always have a weakness for old buffoons.
Furthermore, I shall try in the third part of my novel (when I reach the reaction that followed the days of June) to insert a panegyric about him a propos of his book: De la propriete, and I hope that he will be pleased with me.
What form should one take to express occasionally one’s opinion on the things of this world, without the risk of passing later for an imbecile? It is a tough problem. It seems to me that the best thing is simply to depict the things which exasperate one. To dissect is to take vengeance. Well! it is not he with whom I am angry, nor with the others but with OURS.
If they had paid more attention to the education of the SUPERIOR classes, delaying till later the agricultural meetings; in short, if the head had been put above the stomach, should we have been likely to be where we are now?
I have just read, this week, Buchez’ Preface to his Histoire parlementaire. Many inanities which burden us today come from that among other things.
And now, it is not good of you to say that I do not think of “my old Troubadour”; of whom then, do I think? perhaps of my wretched book? but that is more difficult and less agreeable.
How long do you stay at Cannes?
After Cannes shan’t you return to Paris? I shall be their towards the end of January.
In order to finish my book in the spring of 1869, I must not give myself a week of holiday; that is why I do not go to Nohant. It is always the story of the Amazons. In order to draw the bow better they crushed their breast. It is a fine method after all.
Adieu, dear master, write to me, won’t you?
I embrace you tenderly.
Last updated Monday, December 22, 2014 at 10:50