of books, written with such lightheartedness,
so absolute and with such daring, not counting on any responsibility
toward people, that even those who received them without any scruples
began to be overcome with astonishment. It seemed that every author
forced himself to go further than they expected him to. In that way
they succeeded in being called daring thinkers and original artists.
The boldness in touching certain subjects, and the way of interpreting
them, seemed to be the best quality of the writer. To that was joined
bad faith, or unconscious deceiving of himself and others. Analysis!
They analyzed in the name of truth, which apparently must and has the
right to be said, everything, but especially the evil, dirt, human
corruption. They did not notice that this pseudo-analysis ceases to be
an objective analysis, and becomes a sickish liking for rotten things
coming from two causes: in the first place from the corruption of the
taste, then from greater facility of producing striking effects.

They utilized the philological faculty of the senses, on the strength
of which repulsive impressions appear to us stronger and more real
than agreeable, and they abused that property beyond measure.

There was created a certain kind of travelling in putridness, because
the subjects being exhausted very quickly, there was a necessity to
find something new which could attract. The truth itself, in the name
of which it was done, was put in a corner in the presence of such
exigencies. Are you familiar with Zola's "La Terre"? This novel is to
represent a picture of a French village. Try and think of a French
village, or of any other village. How does it look altogether? It is
a gathering of houses, trees, fields, pastures, wild flowers, people,
herds, light, sky, singing, small country business, and work. In all
that, without any doubt, the manure plays an important part, but there
is something more behind it and besides it. But Zola's village looks
as if it was composed exclusively of manure and crime. Therefore
the picture is false, the truth twisted, because in nature the true
relation of things is different. If any one would like to take the
trouble of making a list of the women represented in French novels,
he would persuade himself that at least ninety-five per cent. of
them were fallen women. But in society it is not, and cannot be, so.
Probably even in the countries where they worshipped Astarte, there
were less bad women