[Bfbtester-checkins] an intense and profound ad

[Malahan <pro...@mp...>]

E is at least an artist, and when he thinks of the artist and forgets
the prophet, as in "Les Chansons des Rues et des Bois," his juggling
with the verse is magnificent, superb. "Comme un geai sur l'arbre Le roi
se tient fier; Son coeur est de marbre, Son ventre est de chair. "On a
pour sa nuque Et son front vermeil Fait une perruque Avec le soleil. "Il
regne, il vegete Effroyable zero; Sur lui se projette L'ombre du
bourreau. "Son trone est une tombe, Et sur le pave Quelque chose en
tombe Qu'on n'a point lave." But how to get the first line of the last
stanza into five syllables I cannot think. If ever I meet with the
volume again I will look it out and see how that _rude dompteur de
syllables_ managed it. But stay, _son trone est la tombe_; that makes
the verse, and the generalisation would be in the "line" of Hugo.
Hugo--how impossible it is to speak of French literature without
referring to him. Let these, however, be the concluding words: he
thought that by saying everything, and saying everything twenty times
over, he would for ever render impossible the advent of another great
poet. But a work of art is valuable, and pleasurable in proportion to
its rarity; one beautiful book of verses is better than twenty books of
beautiful verses. This is an absolute and incontestable truth; a child
can burlesque this truth--one verse is better than the whole poem: a
word is better than the l