It had been nearly two years since Durtal had ceased to associate with other men of letters. In books, above all, but also in newspaper gossip columns, and in biographies and memoirs, the literary world flaunted itself as the diocese of intelligence, a patrician paradise of wit and intellect. If one were to believe half of what was written, the repartee which flowed whenever a group of writers gathered together was like a verbal fireworks display. Durtal had difficulty explaining the persistence of this old wives’ tale since, in his experience, writers belonged to one of two classes: the unspeakably rapacious or the unspeakably ill-mannered.
The first group consisted of the public’s favorites and, though corrupted by their popularity, there was no doubting they had arrived. Ever in need of more attention, they imitated the ways of big business, rejoiced in gala dinners, hosted evening parties, spoke of copyrights, sales figures and box office receipts, and generally proclaimed their prosperity.
The second group was made up of the dregs of society, the flotsam and jetsam of the capital’s bars and cheap watering holes. There were vaunted their inferior wares, full of self-loathing as they did so, gave free range to their particular form of genius and vented their spleen, while all the time lolling around on benches, pouring beer down their gullets.
No intermediate state existed between the promiscuity of the overcrowded cafés and that of the drawing-room, both offering boundless opportunity for gossip and back-stabbing. Places where one could meet and chat intimately, exchange ideas with a few like-minded artists, untroubled by the presence of women, had almost ceased to exist.
In short, no aristocracy of the soul existed in the world of letters; no view was expressed which might provoke consternation; no sudden, breathtaking flight of fancy was ever allowed. The conversations which occurred were the same ones every night whether they occurred in the rue du Sentier or the rue Cujas.
Knowing by experience that one cannot associate with cormorants, ever on the lookout for some new prey to devour, without becoming a scavenger oneself, Durtal had broken off relations which would have transformed him in turn into victim or executioner.
—J.K. Huysmans, La-bas, 1891 (trans. Terry Hale)
[Des Esseintes} got to his feet to break the horrid fascination of his nightmare vision, and coming back to present-day preoccupations he felt suddenly uneasy about the tortoise.
It was lying absolutely motionless. He touched it; it was dead. Accustomed no doubt to a sedentary life, a modest existence spent in the shelter of its humble carapace, it had not been able to bear the dazzling luxury imposed upon it, the glittering cape in which it had been clad, the precious stones which had been used to decorate its shell like a jewelled ciborium.
– J.K. Huysmans, A Rebours (tr. Robert Baldick)
Flaubertine wins. As much as I like the La Bas–for its fond reminder of Zeroville, among other things–nothing tops that tortoise scene.