His Masterpiece by Emile Zola (most inspirational books of all time txt) 📕

Pursues Me At Luncheon--I Audibly Chew My Sentences With My Bread.

Next It Accompanies Me When I Go Out,  Comes Back With Me And Dines Off

The Same Plate As Myself; Lies Down With Me On My Pillow,  So Utterly

Pitiless That I Am Never Able To Set The Book In Hand On One Side;

Indeed,  Its Growth Continues Even In The Depth Of My Sleep. And

Nothing Outside Of It Exists For Me. True,  I Go Upstairs To Embrace My

Mother,  But In So Absent-Minded A Way,  That Ten Minutes After Leaving

Her I Ask Myself Whether I Have Really Been To Wish Her Good-Morning.

My Poor Wife Has No Husband; I Am Not With Her Even When Our Hands

Touch. Sometimes I Have An Acute Feeling That I Am Making Their Lives

Very Sad,  And I Feel Very Remorseful,  For Happiness Is Solely Composed

Of Kindness,  Frankness And Gaiety In One's Home; But How Can I Escape

From The Claws Of The Monster? I At Once Relapse Into The Somnambulism

Of My Working Hours,  Into The Indifference And Moroseness Of My Fixed

Idea. If The Pages I Have Written During The Morning Have Been Worked

Off All Right,  So Much The Better; If One Of Them Has Remained In

Distress,  So Much The Worse. The Household Will Laugh Or Cry According

To The Whim Of That All-Devouring Monster--Work. No,  No! I Have

Nothing That I Can Call My Own. In My Days Of Poverty I Dreamt Of Rest

In The Country,  Of Travel In Distant Lands; And Now That I Might Make

Those Dreams Reality,  The Work That Has Been Begun Keeps Me Shut Up.

There Is No Chance Of A Walk In The Morning's Sun,  No Chance Of

Running Round To A Friend's House,  Or Of A Mad Bout Of Idleness! My

Strength Of Will Has Gone With The Rest; All This Has Become A Habit;

I Have Locked The Door Of The World Behind Me,  And Thrown The Key Out

Of The Window. There Is No Longer Anything In My Den But Work And

Myself--And Work Will Devour Me,  And Then There Will Be Nothing Left,

Nothing At All!'

He Paused,  And Silence Reigned Once More In The Deepening Gloom. Then

He Began Again With An Effort:

'And If One Were Only Satisfied,  If One Only Got Some Enjoyment Out Of

Such A Nigger's Life! Ah! I Should Like To Know How Those Fellows

Manage Who Smoke Cigarettes And Complacently Stroke Their Beards While

They Are At Work. Yes,  It Appears To Me That There Are Some Who Find

Production An Easy Pleasure,  To Be Set Aside Or Taken Up Without The

Least Excitement. They Are Delighted,  They Admire Themselves,  They

Cannot Write A Couple Of Lines But They Find Those Lines Of A Rare,

Distinguished,  Matchless Quality. Well,  As For Myself,  I Bring Forth

In Anguish,  And My Offspring Seems A Horror To Me. How Can A Man Be

Sufficiently Wanting In Self-Doubt As To Believe In Himself? It

Absolutely Amazes Me To See Men,  Who Furiously Deny Talent To

Everybody Else,  Lose All Critical Acumen,  All Common-Sense,  When It

Becomes A Question Of Their Own Bastard Creations. Why,  A Book Is

Always Very Ugly. To Like It One Mustn't Have Had A Hand In The

Cooking Of It. I Say Nothing Of The Jugsful Of Insults That Are

Showered Upon One. Instead Of Annoying,  They Rather Encourage Me. I

See Men Who Are Upset By Attacks,  Who Feel A Humiliating Craving To

Win Sympathy. It Is A Simple Question Of Temperament; Some Women Would

Die If They Failed To Please. But,  To My Thinking,  Insult Is A Very

Good Medicine To Take; Unpopularity Is A Very Manly School To Be

Brought Up In. Nothing Keeps One In Such Good Health And Strength As

The Hooting Of A Crowd Of Imbeciles. It Suffices That A Man Can Say

That He Has Given His Life's Blood To His Work; That He Expects

Neither Immediate Justice Nor Serious Attention; That He Works Without

Hope Of Any Kind,  And Simply Because The Love Of Work Beats Beneath

His Skin Like His Heart,  Irrespective Of Any Will Of His Own. If He

Can Do All This,  He May Die In The Effort With The Consoling Illusion

That He Will Be Appreciated One Day Or Other. Ah! If The Others Only

Knew How Jauntily I Bear The Weight Of Their Anger. Only There Is My

Own Choler,  Which Overwhelms Me; I Fret That I Cannot Live For A

Moment Happy. What Hours Of Misery I Spend,  Great Heavens! From The

Very Day I Begin A Novel. During The First Chapters There Isn't So

Much Trouble. I Have Plenty Of Room Before Me In Which To Display

Genius. But Afterwards I Become Distracted,  And Am Never Satisfied

With The Daily Task; I Condemn The Book Before It Is Finished,  Judging

It Inferior To Its Elders; And I Torture Myself About Certain Pages,

About Certain Sentences,  Certain Words,  So That At Last The Very

Commas Assume An Ugly Look,  From Which I Suffer. And When It Is

Finished--Ah! When It Is Finished,  What A Relief! Not The Enjoyment Of

The Gentleman Who Exalts Himself In The Worship Of His Offspring,  But

The Curse Of The Labourer Who Throws Down The Burden That Has Been

Breaking His Back. Then,  Later On,  With Another Book,  It All Begins

Afresh; It Will Always Begin Afresh,  And I Shall Die Under It,  Furious

With Myself,  Exasperated At Not Having Had More Talent,  Enraged At Not

Leaving A "Work" More Complete,  Of Greater Dimensions--Books Upon

Books,  A Pile Of Mountain Height! And At My Death I Shall Feel

Horrible Doubts About The Task I May Have Accomplished,  Asking Myself

Whether I Ought Not To Have Gone To The Left When I Went To The Right,

And My Last Word,  My Last Gasp,  Will Be To Recommence The Whole Over

Again--'

He Was Thoroughly Moved; The Words Stuck In His Throat; He Was Obliged

To Draw Breath For A Moment Before Delivering Himself Of This

Passionate Cry In Which All His Impenitent Lyricism Took Wing:

Ah,  Life! A Second Span Of Life,  Who Shall Give It To Me,  That Work

May Rob Me Of It Again--That I May Die Of It Once More?'

It Had Now Become Quite Dark; The Mother's Rigid Silhouette Was No

Longer Visible; The Hoarse Breathing Of The Child Sounded Amidst The

Obscurity Like A Terrible And Distant Signal Of Distress,  Uprising

From The Streets. In The Whole Studio,  Which Had Become Lugubriously

Black,  The Big Canvas Only Showed A Glimpse Of Pallidity,  A Last

Vestige Of The Waning Daylight. The Nude Figure,  Similar To An

Agonising Vision,  Seemed To Be Floating About,  Without Definite Shape,

The Legs Having Already Vanished,  One Arm Being Already Submerged,  And

The Only Part At All Distinct Being The Trunk,  Which Shone Like A

Silvery Moon.

After A Protracted Pause,  Sandoz Inquired:

'Shall I Go With You When You Take Your Picture?'

Getting No Answer From Claude,  He Fancied He Could Hear Him Crying.

Was It With The Same Infinite Sadness,  The Despair By Which He Himself

Had Been Stirred Just Now? He Waited For A Moment,  Then Repeated His

Question,  And At Last The Painter,  After Choking Down A Sob,

Stammered:

'Thanks,  The Picture Will Remain Here; I Sha'n't Send It.'

'What? Why,  You Had Made Up Your Mind?'

'Yes,  Yes,  I Had Made Up My Mind; But I Had Not Seen It As I Saw It

Just Now In The Waning Daylight. I Have Failed With It,  Failed With It

Again--It Struck My Eyes Like A Blow,  It Went To My Very Heart.'

His Tears Now Flowed Slow And Scalding In The Gloom That Hid Him From

Sight. He Had Been Restraining Himself,  And Now The Silent Anguish

Which Had Consumed Him Burst Forth Despite All His Efforts.

'My Poor Friend,' Said Sandoz,  Quite Upset; 'It Is Hard To Tell You

So,  But All The Same You Are Right,  Perhaps,  In Delaying Matters To

Finish Certain Parts Rather More. Still I Am Angry With Myself,  For I

Shall Imagine That It Was I Who Discouraged You By My Everlasting

Stupid Discontent With Things.'

Claude Simply Answered:

'You! What An Idea! I Was Not Even Listening To You. No; I Was

Looking,  And I Saw Everything Go Helter-Skelter In That Confounded

Canvas. The Light Was Dying Away,  And All At Once,  In The Greyish

Dusk,  The Scales Suddenly Dropped From My Eyes. The Background Alone

Is Pretty; The Nude Woman Is Altogether Too Loud; What's More,  She's

Out Of The Perpendicular,  And Her Legs Are Badly Drawn. When I Noticed

That,  Ah! It Was Enough To Kill Me There And Then; I Felt Life

Departing From Me. Then The Gloom Kept Rising And Rising,  Bringing A

Whirling Sensation,  A Foundering Of Everything,  The Earth Rolling Into

Chaos,  The End Of The World. And Soon I Only Saw The Trunk Waning Like

A Sickly Moon. And Look,  Look! There Now Remains Nothing Of Her,  Not A

Glimpse; She Is Dead,  Quite Black!'

In Fact,  The Picture Had At Last Entirely Disappeared. But The Painter

Had Risen And Could Be Heard Swearing In The Dense Obscurity.

'D--N It All,  It Doesn't Matter,  I'll Set To Work At It Again--'

Then Christine,  Who Had Also Risen From Her Chair,  Against Which He

Stumbled,  Interrupted Him,  Saying: 'Take Care,  I'll Light The Lamp.'

She Lighted It And Came Back Looking Very Pale,  Casting A Glance Of

Hatred And Fear At The Picture. It Was Not To Go Then? The Abomination

Was To Begin Once More!

'I'll Set To Work At It Again,' Repeated Claude,  'And It Shall Kill

Me,  It Shall Kill My Wife,  My Child,  The Whole Lot; But,  By Heaven,  It

Shall Be A Masterpiece!'

Christine Sat Down Again; They Approached Jacques,  Who Had Thrown The

Clothes Off Once More With His Feverish Little Hands. He Was Still

Breathing Heavily,  Lying Quite Inert,  His Head Buried In The Pillow

Like A Weight,  With Which The Bed Seemed To Creak. When Sandoz Was On

The Point Of Going,  He Expressed His Uneasiness. The Mother Appeared

Stupefied; While The Father Was Already Returning To His Picture,  The

Masterpiece Which Awaited Creation,  And The Thought Of Which Filled

Him With Such Passionate Illusions That He Gave Less Heed To The

Painful Reality Of The Sufferings Of His Child,  The True Living Flesh

Of His Flesh.

On The Following Morning,  Claude Had Just Finished Dressing,  When He

Heard Christine