We called the sixteenth century the
Renascence with admirable truth of language. That century was the dawn
of a new era. Men will continue to speak of it when all remembrance of
anterior centuries had passed away,--their only merit being that they
once existed, like the million beings who count as the rubbish of a
generation."
"Rubbish! yes, that may be, but my rubbish is dear to me," said the
Duc d'Herouville, laughing, during the silent pause which followed the
poet's pompous oration.
"Let me ask," said Butscha, attacking Canalis, "does art, the sphere
in which, according to you, genius is required to evolve itself, exist
at all? Is it not a splendid lie, a delusion, of the social man? Do I
want a landscape scene of Normandy in my bedroom when I can look out
and see a better one done by God himself? Our dreams make poems more
glorious than Iliads. For an insignificant sum of money I can find at
Valogne, at Carentan, in Provence, at Arles, many a Venus as beautiful
as those of Titian. The police gazette publishes tales, differing
somewhat from those of Walter Scott, but ending tragically with blood,
not ink.
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