LOVE, HAPPINESS AND ART
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orner; and he must see the stars only in reference to plants. From
this combination of innateness and education results sureness of touch,
individual manner, taste, spontaneity-in short, illumination. How
often have I heard people tell my father that he diagnosed illnesses
without knowing how or why! The same feeling that made him in–
stinctively decide on the remedy must enable us to hit on the right
word. One doesn't achieve this unless one has-first-been born to
one's calling, and-second-practised it long and stubbornly.
We marvel at the men of the age of Louis XIV, and yet they
were not men of great genius. Reading them we experience none
of that awe which makes us feel that Homer, R abelais, and above
all
Shakespeare are more than human; certainly not. But what con–
scientious workmen! How they strained to find the exact expression
for their thought! Such labor! Such tireless revision! How they
asked each other's advice! How well they knew Latin! How slowly
they read! That is why we have their thought in its entirety; that
is why their form is whole, crammed full of substance to the bursting
point. In this domain there are no degrees: one work well done is
equal in value to any other. LaFontaine will live as long as Dante,
and Boileau as long as Bossuet or even Hugo.
June 1, 1853
There are certain things that tell me immediately with what
manner of man I have to deal: ( 1) admiration for Beranger; (2)
dislike of perfumes; (3) liking for thick cloth; (4) a fringe beard;
(5) aversion to brothels. How many worthy young men I have
known who had a pious horror of "houses" and yet picked up the
most beautiful cases of clap you can imagine from their so-called
mistresses. The Latin Quarter is full of this doctrine and such hap–
penings.
It is perhaps a perverse taste, but I like prostitution-and
for its own sake, quite apart from what lies underneath. My heart
has never failed to miss a beat at the sight of one of those provoc–
atively dressed women walking in the rain under the gas lamps, just
as the sight of monks in their robes and knotted girdles touches some
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ascetic, hidden corner of my soul. Prostitution is a meeting point of
so
many elements-lechery, frustration, negation of human relation–
ship, physical frenzy, the clink of gold- that a glance into its depths
