Vie de Henry Brulard

by Stendhal

On a écrit que l'auteur de "la Chartreuse de Parme" avait souhaité "d'être à soi-même plus intérieur et plus étranger qu'il n'est permis". Telle est l'ambiguïté de ce texte capital, véritable confession où Stendhal s'efforce de rejoindre Henri Beyle, et où, en retour, la vérité de l'autobiographie prépare et implique le mensonge, peut-être plus vrai, de la fiction romanesque.

"Je me trouvais ce matin, 16 octobre 1832, à San Pietro in Montorio, sur le mont Janicule, à Rome, il faisait un soleil magnifique. Une chaleur délicieuse régnait dans l'air, j'étais heureux de vivre... Quelle vue magnifique ! c'est donc ici que la Transfiguration de Raphaël a été admirée pendant deux siècles et demi. Ainsi pendant deux cent cinquante ans ce chef-d'oeuvre a été ici, deux cent cinquante ans ! ... Ah ! dans trois mois j'aurai cinquante ans, est-il bien possible ! 1783, 93, 1803, je suis tout le compte sur mes doigts... et 1833 cinquante. Est-il possible ! cinquante ! ... Je me suis assis sur les marches de San Pietro et là j'ai rêvé une heure ou deux à cette idée : Je vais avoir cinquante ans, il serait bien temps de me connaître."

Genres: France, Classics, French Literature, Biography, Nonfiction, Memoir, 19th Century

502 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1834

About the author

Marie-Henri Beyle, better known by his pen name Stendhal, was a 19th-century French writer. Known for his acute analysis of his characters' psychology, he is considered one of the earliest and foremost practitioners of realism in his two novels Le Rouge et le Noir (The Red and the Black, 1830) and La Chartreuse de Parme (The Charterhouse of Parma, 1839).

Reviews

[Ben Sharafski · Rating 5 out of 5]

This memoir is unfinished, unedited and definitely rough around the edges, but it displays the same genius for description and insight found in Stendhal's novels. What's more, it has weathered the test of time better than the celebrated novels, whose romantic ideals can appear to the twenty-first century reader outdated and trite.

[Brodolomi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ovo je baš bilo prijatno iznenađenje. Ne zato što sam sumnjao u Stendala, već zato što nisam znao da su mu memoari ovako šendistički zabavni i originalni. Naposletku, Stendal na više mesta u njima tvrdi da ih nije pisao za svoje savremenike (napisani su 1935.), već za čitaoce iz budućnosti; predviđa da će čitaoci tek 1880. godine moći da razumeju ovu knjigu, te je negde i ispao Baba Vanga jer je prvi put štampana 1890. A kakva je ova knjiga? Pa, vrlo raspričana, fragmentarna, sa brojnim digresijama, prolepsama, skretanjima, fusnotama gde autor demantuje samog sebe ili ga demantuju prijatelji, pripovedačkim obećanjima koja ostaju neispunjena, repetativna, nedovšenim rečenicama, crtama gde treba dopisati reč, gotovo nedskriptivna, sa šezdesetak nažvrljanih crteža (planova enterijera, oblasti, ulica), nastalih jer autor tvrdi da mrzi opise u stilu Valtera Skota, itd. Očigledan je uticaj „Tristrama Šendija” i sindroma „mnogo pričao a ništa nisam ispričao”, a opet i ne liči na Sterna, jer su postupci drugačiji – dok je u Šendiju sve unapred osmiljšeno da se čitalac što više izvuče za nos, a da od priče ne dobije gotovo ništa, „Život Anrija Brilara” više nalikuje na automatsko pisanje (ne znam da li je u pitanju stilizacija ili je Stendal zaista seo i knjigu napisao bez redigovanja teksta), a priča, uz sva skretanja, ipak postoji. Knjiga obuhvata prvih 17 godina Stendalovog života i većim delom je smeštena u njegov rodni Grenobl i nešto malo u Pariz.

Ovakav stil (ili način pisanja) sigurno je povezan delom i sa smenom književnih paradigmi, te su Stendalovi memoari vidno suprostavljeni Šatobrijanovim memoarima; gotovo da su postavljeni kao antipodi. Tamo gde je Šatobrijan vrhunski stilista, sentimentalan, hrišćanski i rojalistički apologeta, centar, naduven od umišljene istorijske važnosti i sa čvrstim egom koje postoji i „s onu stranu groba” odakle pripoveda, tamo je Stendal nemaran stilist, haotičan, sirov, republikanac, ateista, marginalac, neuspešan i sa fragmentarnim „ja” koji često nije u stanju da prošlog sebe razume. Čak, garantujem da je Stendal pišući poglavlje o šoranju iza prijateljskih stabala lipa, želeo da parodira Šatobrijanovo poglavlje o prijateljstvima sa drvećem.

I da, pošto Stendal na jednom mestu tvrdi da su spanać i memoari Sen Simona jedine dve stvari kojima je poklonio životnu ljubav, ostatku sveta je mogao da ponudi svoje gađenje. Po toj duhovitosti i mizantropiji podseća na Tomasa Bernharda smeštenog u 19. vek. Većina ljudi su opisani kao podlaci, licemeri, glupaci, Bogu se jedino obratio da mu se zahvali što mu je umrla tetka, prezirao sveštenike, voleo je sa radošću da urezuje imena giljotiranih prinčeva, radovao ga je teror Robespjera, simpatija među selebrtijima bila mu je Šarlota Korde, prezirao je aristokratiju i buržoaziju a nije mogao da živi sa plebsom, doduše, voleo je on i matematiku i knjige i dedu fontenelovske naravi i babu otmenog držanja, kojoj je Sid bio merilo koliko je nešto lepo, ali je Stendal uglavnom na svoj život gledao kao na skup fragmenata mizerije, a imao je dovoljno duha da na tu mizeriju gleda sa ironijom. Stoga me ne čudi da je sećajući se trenutka kada je kao sedamnaestogodišnjak krenuo kao deo Napoleonove trupe u pohode na Italiju i doživeo neviđenu sreću, prestao da piše svoje memoare – nije znao da pripoveda naširoko o sreći ili kako stoji u poslednjoj rečenici „Čovek pokvari tako nežna osećanja kad ih priča potanko”.

[Jonfaith · Rating 5 out of 5]

Spinach and St-Simon have been my only enduring tastes, at least after that of having lived in Paris on a hundred louis a year, writing books.

This was likely my favorite book since Čapek's Newts earlier this surreal year of anxiety and pestilence. This was nearly a perfect time to read this, as the author was essentially my age when he attempted to look back and gauge the defining events of his childhood. I don't believe I am in shape for a similar escapade but I thoroughly enjoyed his account of a lonely Republican spirit in a house of bigoted Royalists, though he's quick to admit that in terms of personal contact he couldn't live with proles. His adventures in the Grande Armée confirmed that, though he is likewise both suspicious of and hostile to the aristocracy. He regards his account as a summary of the fluctuations of the heart and that's what makes it wonderful, not just the illegible diagrams but the recognition of his folly and caprice. Stendhal has pointed me in the direction of both Rousseau and Saint-Simon.

[Jim · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is the strangest of autobiographies: In fact, it is like a set of notes for an autobiography, with repetitions, footnotes that are nothing more than a reminder to the writer, and crude illustrations of rooms, streets, and scenes that played a part in the early life of Stendhal (Henri Marie Beyle).

And it is only the first twenty or so years in Stendhal's life that are covered, comprising his childhood in Grenoble, his first few months in Paris, and his happiness at joining Napoleon's army in its invasion of Italy.

Why is it called The Life of Henry Brulard when Stendhal's real name is Marie-Henri Beyle? If we learn anything in the first two-thirds of the book, it is that Marie-Henri loathes his father and his aunt Seraphie, who seems to spend most of her time belittling and punishing him. He refuses to call himself Beyle, adopting instead the name Brulard, which belonged to his late, beloved mother. When Seraphie dies and he finally gets to Paris, he is disconsolate because in Paris there are no mountains, as in his native Dauphiné. In fact, until the very end, when Stendhal falls in love with Italy, he is a young man not comfortable in his own skin:

"Is Paris no more than this?"

This meant: the thing I've longed for so much, as the supreme good, the thing to which I've sacrificed my life for the past three years, bores me. It was not the three years' sacrifice that distressed me; in spite of my dread of entering the Ecole Polytechnique next year, I loved mathematics; the terrible question that I was not clever enough to see clearly was this: Where, then, is happiness to be found on earth? And sometimes I got as far as asking: Is there such a thing as happiness on earth?

Although The Life of Henry Brulard lacks the formal excellence of a great literary biography such as we are accustomed to, it is so manifestly truthful and self-critical that, for once, we do not feel that the author is busily embroidering an alternate past for himself.

The whole book was written over a four-month period in the 1830s, when Stendhal was fifty-two. Reading The Life of Henry Brulard is like experiencing a great writer forgiving all the dead ends and defeats of his youth. It is, if anything, a kind of celebration of a wayward youth. Stendhal stops writing abruptly when he feels his life is on the right track. What we get are all the wrong tracks that threatened to overthrow his development.

Fortunately for all of us, Stendhal went on to become a great writer, one who was eventually happy within his own skin.

[Jesús De la Jara · Rating 3 out of 5]

"No he sido hombre galante, o por lo menos no lo suficiente; sólo me ocupaba de la mujer que amaba, y cuando no estaba enamorado, pensaba en el espectáculo de las cosas humanas, o leía con fruición a Montesquieu o a Walter Scott"

En verdad me parece muy adecuado haber leído primero de Stendhal sus grandes novelas antes de leer sus demás escritos, que pueden ser interesantes y entretenidos para los que conocemos ya a Stendhal y nos interesa saber peculiaridades de su vida y sus memorias nos da una idea de cómo así pudo Stendhal formar algunos de sus personajes en "Rojo y Negro" por ejemplo, ya sea tomando algunos conocidos suyos a lo largo de su vida de modelos de algunos personajes o ya sea imprimiendo en su personaje central Julián Sorel algunos detalles de su propio carácter o experiencias, ese descubrimiento de esas cosas fueron las partes más interesantes para mí.
Stendhal escribe aquí la biografía de sus primeros años, ahí es donde lamentablemente creo el libro puede aburrir pues no sólo Stendhal es repetitivo en muchas cosas: el amor a su madre, el odio a su padre y aversión a su tía Séraphie, la más odiada para él, tanto que hizo que agradezca al cielo su muerte. Tal vez la ausencia de una vida entretenida o llena de espectáculos hace su niñez aburrida, pues la verdad yo no saqué muchas cosas de ahí, más bien, siendo justos, debió haber sido un niño un poco perverso, malhumorado para muchos de los que lo conocieron incluso sus amigos. Y Stendhal es muy sincero aquí pues habla de sus defectos y muchas veces se autocalifica como "perverso". Tuvo realmente luego de su madre un hogar en el cual él no se sentía dichoso, al contrario, las maneras aristocráticas de las que su padre y su abuelo M. Gagnon se sentían tan orgulloso no gustaba del "jacobino" niño. Constantemente amaba lo que aborrecían su padre y su tía y odiaba lo que les parecía bueno. Él se queja que ellos no le dejaban socializar y de ahí nació su aversión. Comprendemos así a muchos personajes como digo de sus grandes novelas.
Lamentablemente, la parte que más me gustó se da casi al final y termina abruptamente. La llegada a Italia con el ejército napoleónico y su fascinación por Italia.
Es una pena que hay que agregar a todo lo que he dicho frecuentes lagunas en la cual Stendhal no recuerda bien lo que pasó (parece más producto de falta de poder revisar bien sus apuntes o perfeccionar pues creo que lo hubiera podido presentar de manera mucho más amena) o el desorden significativo de sus ideas en la cual pareciera más divagar que contar una memoria.
Es en realidad un libro que no me ha gustado sobre todo en la primera parte aunque me han encantado algunos apuntes literarios, históricos o militares. Siendo justos un 3 creo es la mejor calificación.

[Διόνυσος Ελευθέριος · Rating 5 out of 5]

This has to be one of the finest autobiographies ever written. I'm a little surprised to see the less than positive reviews of it here. I found Stendhal's meandering and picturesque tale of his formative years to be perpetually engaging, admirably honest, witty and intelligent throughout. I especially enjoyed his ongoing commentary on (and rejection of) bourgeois European life and the lasting and significant influence that great books (like those of Rousseau) had on him. Also, his mature recognition of youthful folly was constantly as humorous as it was courageous. A nearly unsurpassable masterpiece.

[Frank · Rating 1 out of 5]

If this hadn't been a work-related must read, I doubt I would have finished it. A rambling repetitive mess of chaotic thoughts and fragmentary recollections, a deluge of names and references to contemporary events, judgements and developments, none of which really come to life, and with only some vivid scenes, few and far between, that light up in the murk. Starting off on Stendhal with this would induce only a happy very, very few to move on to his great novels, I suspect.

Much of it is also simply incomprehensible. There are anecdotes I completely fail to see the point of.
Take this observation: 'I learnt English only many years later, when I invented the idea of learning by heart the first four pages of The Vicar of Wakefield [Ouaikefield:]. This, I fancy, was around 1800. Someone had had the same idea in Scotland, I believe, but I didn't find that out until 1818 when I got hold of some Edinburgh Reviews in Germany.'
Little or no connection with what precedes and follows this passage. It sounds like a madman's comments. 'Invented the idea'? What's the idea? How do you learn a language just by memorizing four pages of text in it? And who was that Scotsman? Didn't he speak English already? What is he talking about.
In the Dutch edition that I read, the notes don't help me either.
And it's full of these random jottings. The whole thing sounds like Stendhal muttering to himself rather than addressing any reader. (Of course, the thing was never finished or published in his lifetime.)
Granted, that is also what gives it some life.

And maybe memoirs (with all those names of people most everybody has now forgotten) just isn't my genre.

[Yani · Rating 3 out of 5]

Es una autobiografía lo suficientemente extensa como para abarcar los 50 y tantos años que Stendhal tenía en el momento de la escritura. El problema está en la selección (consciente o inconsciente) de los hechos que quiso contar e inmortalizar.

No voy a extenderme demasiado porque los únicos méritos que encontré en este libro son técnicos... y ni siquiera disfruté eso. Stendhal inserta dibujos y planos que parecen ayudarlo a rememorar y a convencernos de que lo que está diciendo fue real. En la narración hay una especie de fluir de la conciencia (no me estoy refiriendo al de Joyce, sólo estoy usando libremente los términos) que casi siempre vuelve a la época de la infancia. Y es que, justamente, para él todo empieza con la muerte de su madre.

Stendhal habla de todo: del odio hacia su padre, de su desdén por Francia, de sus amantes y amigos ( a veces suspende su propia vida para hablar de la de ellos con un tono de superioridad que me resultó insoportable), de su educación. No estoy mencionando todos, porque llega un momento en que uno se pregunta qué es interesante y qué no. Y duele saber que la respuesta es "casi nada".

Es un 2.5 a secas.

[Clara Collier · Rating 4 out of 5]

I wish there was a way to give this book five stars without indicating that I think most (or indeed, the vast majority of) people would enjoy it. So, a few caveats: Stendhal repeats himself constantly, the timeline manages to be highly confusing despite covering about ten years total, the footnotes all refer to things he's doing in Rome in 1843, at one point he tells us that his aunt was 24 in 1790 and that he has no idea how old she is in the same paragraph, which is characteristic of the general level of editorial oversight, and Brulard isn't actually his name. It's certainly not as compulsively readable as his novels, or even most of the travel writings and essays. At the same time, Stendhal is Stendhal: witty and charming and intelligent and fundamentally sincere and warm. It's a fascinating record of the mindset of a particular time and place, and of the origins of Stendhal's particular narrative fixations. This isn't exactly nonfiction: it's clear that he's telling a story about himself, and the story is pretty familiar. But then, Stendhal only really has one story, and I enjoy it every time.

[Czarny Pies · Rating 2 out of 5]

Henry Brulard was the draft of his autobiography that Stendhal never finished. Stendhal was certainly right not to publish it in his lifetime. The work was not complete and from what one can see from the document that exists, Stendhal had no idea where he wanted to go with the work.

It is the role of the scholar to take documents like Henry Brulard and draw from them to create a true biography. Packaging and presenting this as a somewhat complete work does a disservice to both Stendhal and the unfortunate person who pays for it.

[Zach]

i want to read this book so bad it's distracting. i don't have anytime to read it right now, and i'm already reading too many books. so instead of reading it right now, i just pick it up and look it over. i love stendhal. i can't wait to read new (to me) stendhal.

[Paul Kerschen]

It’s not the most _realized_ Stendhal, but all the rough patches are worth it for that wondrous, guileless ending where he finally approaches his long-anticipated first love, discovers he can’t write a word and breaks off the book.

[Cooper Renner · Rating 5 out of 5]

Much more consistently interesting than either "Red and the Black" or "Three Italian Chronicles", and full of the sense of who Stendhal was.

[Will · Rating 5 out of 5]

"The word genius was for me, at that time, what the word God is for a bigot." (Chapter XXVIII)

[Nick Backas · Rating 4 out of 5]

Stendhal led a fascinating life and wrote some books that still hold up well today. This autobiography, sadly, doesn't provide very much insight into the books he wrote, or the most interesting parts of his life, which I think are his time in Napoleon's army, and of course his literary career. Instead, what we get here is a pretty raw insight into the mind of a 50 year old man in the 1830s. His attempt to write through his life seems a bit poorly plotted out, and who can blame him, the modern autobiography had not yet rounded into form. He starts at the beginning, at his childhood home in Grenoble, and only is able to leave it 80% of the way through the book. There are many, many individuals people named, and most of them can be ignored.

What makes it interesting is that he acknowledges the reader throughout the book, and makes clear that what he is writing about is what he remembers, and that the book is more a practice in remembering than an attempt to write a popular memoirs. Most of what he remembers in this practice is old flames, family dynamics, his wasted potential, and Rousseau and Voltaire (always in passing). There are a lot of little jokes made seemingly for his own amusement.

It almost certainly could be edited to be a bit more readable, and indeed there are many notes included that Stendhal left -- either for himself at a later time or for a future editor. He left the work unread when he died, with instructions to publish it 15 or 20 years in the future, and to "change all of the names of women, and none of the names of men" that he mentions. From the later notes, it sounds as though he initially intended on writing several hundred more pages, but abandoned the effort.

I really wouldn't recommend this book unless you already enjoy Stendhal's writing, and would instead recommend The Charterhouse of Parma, which contains more of the spirit of the era in question. Still, the opportunities to get such an honest insight into the mind of an early 19th century individual are few and far between, and for that it was a worthwhile read.

[Kit · Rating 2 out of 5]

red & black & charterhouse are both incredible novels. this memoir is kind of dull.

[Wojciech · Rating 5 out of 5]

Happines.

[Antoine Vazquez · Rating 3 out of 5]

C'est une découverte. Il faut découvrir et apprendre les grands classiques, surtout quand c'est un nom comme Stendhal.
Mais j'ai eu du mal à me laisser transporter..

[Marcus · Rating 3 out of 5]

Rambling complaints about his childhood and with some humorous sections.

[Robert · Rating 4 out of 5]

Stendhal is a great writer so you cannot go wrong buying this book. Most readers are familiar with his two great and classic novels The Red and the Black and The Charterhouse of Parma. The present book, The Life of Henry Brulard, is much less known . He lived an eventful life so there’s a lot of material to make a compelling story. The book was written in 1835 when Stendhal was 52 years old (bn. 1783). Most of the book dwells on the author’s life as a child and young adult.

The main counterpoint of Stendhal’s childhood is his antipathy for his father versus his reverence for his grandfather. Satellite characters more or less align with one or the other, as “evil” or “good” forces in his life. Stendhal lived a suffocating life, prevented from knowing or playing with other boys, kept from exposure to the outside world, which he hated and struggle against constantly. The grandfather is his only real companion for many years, the only one with whom he can share ideas and agree.

Stendhal’s life shifts from the worst depression to the liveliest happiness when the liberty of which he had dreamed, came true at the Central school at age 11. Stendhal studied drawing and music extensively, along with Latin and others.

At age 17 he became a lieutenant of the 6th Dragoons. We see Stendhal transition into manhood at a young age, considering his sheltered youth. He engages in battles across Europe, which we see through his eyes, which see absurdity in everything.

Ultimately Milan became Stendhal’s favorite place to live, where he spent most of his time from 1800 to 1821. We learn this in the last few pages, and the story ends. The book is written in 1835, and he lives to 1842, but the book does not cover those later years.

Stendhal did not complete this book, and it was never published in his lifetime. It must be read in light of the fact that it is an unfinished draft of randomly recorded memories. In this light, it is an interesting study into Stendhal’s retrospection and the psychology of memory. He often comments on the tricks the mind plays on memory, and alternative ways of interpreting his childhood experiences.

The book is a must for anyone interested in Stendhal, or who enjoyed his novels. I also recommend it for anyone interested in history in general.

[Mshelton50 · Rating 4 out of 5]

A most interesting read. Stendhal's look at the first 17 years of his life, from his childhood in Grenoble, to his first sojourn in Paris, and ending with him accompanying Napoleon's army in Italy in 1800. His upper middle class family - particularly, his devout, scolding aunt - made his childhood a misery (he was not allowed to play with children his own age for fear they'd be too "common"), and gave him a detestation for the "bourgeois" that lasted the rest of his life. As a 10-yr.-old boy, he rejoiced in the news of the execution of Louis XVI, largely in reaction to his monarchist family's sadness at the event. He saw mathematics as his means of escape, and dreamt of Paris as the seat of his future happiness. The reality didn't live up to his Romantic expectations, however, and without his cousins, the Daru family, Stendhal might have died of the mystery illness that left him greatly weakened and temporarily bald. Eventually, his cousin Pierre Daru, the chief commissary of the French army in northern Italy, put the young Stendhal to work as a clerk in the War Ministry. Along the way, he gives portraits of the people who mattered in his life, from his grandfather, Doctor Gagnon, whom he adored, to the dreaded Aunt Seraphie, to the gruff, menacing-looking Captain Burelvilliers, who taught him to ride and safely shepherded him over the Great St. Bernard Pass. Throughout, Stendhal's honesty and basic goodness are clear to see.

[Grungy_Fairy_Reader · Rating 1 out of 5]

------------♡ Vie de Henry Brulard ♡------------ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ★✰ ✰ ✰ ✰
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

���︎ Had to read it for college and I didn't even finish it, it was awful, I'm not usually the type to give so much negativity on a book, but seriously this was boring, and I don't think it was meant to be published, it wasn't even finished because Stendhal didn't want to. I feel like it should have never been edited and published, kind of a miss especially because it was my first experience with this author, but I'll try one of his novel just to make sure I didn't just hate it because of the editing and unfinished writing.

Thanks for reading ! - Your Friendly Goblin ✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧

[madison · Rating 3 out of 5]

Lots of interesting things going on here about the limits/biases of memory within an autobiography, and some occasional funny moments — still, long, winding, and unpolished. Might read more Stendhal later?

[Aurore Keunebroek · Rating 1 out of 5]

Un livre qui m’est tombé des mains à de nombreuses reprises. Intéressant d’un point de vue littéraire mais un calvaire à la lecture.

[Clémence d'Harville · Rating 5 out of 5]

Merveilleux !

[Steven Severance · Rating 5 out of 5]

a humoriously absurd and tedious memoir. I imagine Proust loved it very much.

Lots of maps and house plans included.

[David Madden · Rating 5 out of 5]

I feel duty-bound to recommend to all writers Stendhal's unfinished autobiography. THE LIFE OF HENRY BRULARD,The Life of Henry Brulardnot just because he is the author of THE CHARTERHOUSE OF PARMA and THE RED AND THE BLACK, which I also recommend ferociously, but because it is the most unique posthumous autobiography I know, full of commentary about what he is doing, wants to do, will do, maybe, from page to page, replete with his drawings on almost every page to orient himself for future revisions, additions, refinements. Brulard is one of Henri Beyle's [Stendhal's] many pseudonyms. He is witty almost line by line, ironic often, Byronically romantic, appealing very much to me at the moment, especially, because I am 900 pages into my memoir of my two years in the army [Korean "police action"] called MY INTELLECTUAL LIFE IN THE ARMY, in which page by page, I make the same kinds of instructions to myself and notes for the Promethean task of revision. I cannot imagine any writer not being entranced by this book.

[илайда · Rating 5 out of 5]

There aren’t many whose ramblings I endure, but for Stendhal I would. How amazing this is, I can’t explain. And what amazes me most: Stendhal stops writing when he has to describe how madly in love he was with a woman.

“Tender feelings are spoilt by being set down in detail.”