Gustave Flaubert read and thought a great
deal; he was fortunate to have the leisure to do so, thanks to inherited money.
Browsing his comments and observations is like sitting down with him in his
parlor, over an aperitif. "A superhuman will is needed in order to
write," he said, "and I am only a man." But not just a man:
"I am a man-pen," he added. "I feel through the pen, because of
the pen." But what he felt was hopelessly inadequate, for (he said,
sighing), "Human language is like a cracked kettledrum on which we beat
out tunes for bears to dance to, when what we long to do is make music that
will move the stars to pity." But--finger upraised--how fortunate he was
no perfectionist, because "Artists who seek perfection in everything are
those who cannot attain it in anything." Still, he mused, "Of all
lies, art is the least untrue." Finally, dramatically, refilling our
glasses: "The most glorious moments in your life are not the so-called
days of success, but rather those days when out of dejection and despair you
feel rise in you a challenge to life, and the promise of future
accomplishments."
Merci, Gustave.
