How to Swim in a Sea of Shit
A famous writer wrote the last bit of the title you’ve just read and I’ve always wanted to quote him. When I first discovered the correspondence between Flaubert and Turgenev fifteen years ago, I laughed aloud at several lines. Every year or two, as the age-gap closes between myself and the writers, I flip through the book and find more to laugh about.
In Paris, on November 8th, 1872, Turgenev laments sympathetically: “It’s the boredom and disgust with all human activity; it’s nothing to do with politics, which after all is no more than a game; it’s the sadness of one’s fiftieth year. And that’s why I admire Mme Sand: such serenity, such simplicity, such an interest in everything, such goodness! If for that one has to be a bit over idealistic, democratic or even evangelising—by God!—let’s put up with such excesses . . .”
From Croisset, on November 13, Flaubert responds: “Thank you for your encouragement! But alas, I fear that my sickness is incurable. Apart from personal sources of grief, the state of society is crushing me. It may be stupid. But there you are. I am overwhelmed by public Stupidity. Since 1870, I’ve been a patriot. Seeing my country die has made me realize that I love it. Prussia may dismantle her guns. We don’t need her to bring about our demise.
“The bourgeoisie is so stunned that it no longer even has the instinct of self-preservation; and what will follow will be worse! . . . I feel a wave of relentless Barbarism rising up from below the ground. I hope to be dead before all is swept away. But in the meantime, it is no joke. Never have affairs of the mind counted for less. Never have hatred of everything that is great, contempt for all that is beautiful, abhorrence for literature been so manifest.
“I have always tried to live in an ivory tower; but a sea of shit is beating up against its walls, enough to bring it down. It’s not a question of politics, but of the mentality prevalent in France . . . I can no longer talk with anyone without getting angry; and all the contemporary writing I read makes me wild. A fine state of affairs!—all of which doesn’t stop me planning a book in which I shall try to spit out my rancour. I am not admitting defeat, as you see. If I didn’t work there would be nothing for it but to throw myself in to the river with a stone round my neck . . .
“. . . then [in December] I hope to pay you a visit. In the meantime, try to bear your gout, poor dear friend; and believe that I love you.”
Must I say more? Isn’t it enough, really, to quote these two?
Of course not! I can't shut up. For more, please see the blog post here.