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Jurnal
“[…] lectura Jurnalului ne poartă pe câteva planuri paralele foarte deosebite. O latură documentară, interesantă, negreşit, ne aduce ceva din parfumul epocii, climatul ei; alta, mai importantă, ajută înţelegerea operei şi a scriitorului, indică surse, motive, schiţează proiecte, profilează personaje şi caractere, dă o seamă de date concrete deloc neglijabile. Dar dincolo de aceste aspecte, şi mai vrednic de atenţie, este ceea ce depăşeşte documentarul imediat, ceea ce ne înfăţişează – şi acesta ni se pare planul cel mai rezistent – omul şi aventura lui interioară aşa cum cititorul poate s-o reproiecteze în universal, pentru a descoperi, într-o specificitate de esenţă ce depăşeşte circumstanţialul, un argument de complicitate şi de solidaritate omenească. Şi aceasta rezultă dintr-un anumit ton al sincerităţii.”
Modest Morariu
Modest Morariu
567 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1927
69 people are currently reading
1754 people want to read
About the author
Jules Renard
419 books123 followersPierre-Jules Renard or Jules Renard (February 22, 1864- May 22, 1910) was a French author and member of the Académie Goncourt, most famous for the works Poil de Carotte (Carrot hair) (1894) and Les Histoires Naturelles (Natural Histories) (1896). Among his other works are Le Plaisir de rompre (The Pleasure of Breaking) (1898) and Huit jours à la campagne (Eight Days in the Countryside) (1906).
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 57 reviews
April 27, 2023
Vă vine să credeți? N-am citit Morcoveață (și nici Singur pe lume de Hector Malot), așa cum n-am citit o mulțime de cărți despre care colegii de școală vorbeau cu entuziasm.
Destinul meu de cititor a vrut ca din toată opera lui Jules Renard să citesc doar acest jurnal, îndată ce Modest Morariu a tradus cam o treime din el. În ediția franceză, are 1500 de pagini, e o operă impozantă. Se pare că jurnalul era și mai consistent, dar soția și editorii au cenzurat cu maxim sadism mari părți din el, iar restul l-au pus pe foc. Totuși, prin comparație cu Byron, Jules Renard (1864 - 1910) a avut noroc. Moștenitorii poetului englez i-au distrus în întregime însemnările personale.
Cu excepția lui Morcoveață, povestirile lui Jules Renard sînt modeste. Piesele de teatru nu ies din cenușiul comunului. Publicistica lui s-a perimat. Șansa scriitorului e de a fi redactat acest jurnal și de a fi fost sincer (adică necruțător) cu sine și foarte caustic cu ceilalți. În pofida misoginiei autorului (jurnalul cuprinde o mulțime de afirmații corozive la adresa femeilor), singurul personaj pozitiv din aceste pagini (în care mișună toată fauna literară pariziană de la finele secolului al XIX-lea) rămîne soția lui, discreta Marinette (de la Marie). Cînd s-au căsătorit, în 1888, ea avea 17 ani, el 24. Marie avea oarece avere, el, pe lîngă nimic, o mare sete de notorietate. Deși făcut din calcul, la rece, mariajul a fost unul fericit.
Notațiile cu privire la sine sînt, de cele mai multe ori, nemiloase. Jules Renard folosește jurnalul (și) ca pe un instrument de auto-cunoaștere: „mă voi privi cu lupa” (1 ianuarie 1887). Nu are milă de sine, dar nici de prieteni și cunoscuți. Notele despre Verlaine (ajuns un alcoolic lamentabil), despre George Sand („vaca bretonă a literaturii franceze”), despre Alphonse Daudet sau Marcel Schwob sînt extrem de malițioase (chiar meschine). Cu siguranță, Jules Renard n-a fost un bun creștin. Ce-i drept, la Paris, nimeni nu se îndura de nimeni, toți se elogiau cînd erau împreună și toți se bîrfeau imediat ce unul dintre ei pleca.
Portretistica lui Jules Renard poate fi comparată cu Caracterele lui La Bruyère. Cugetările și aforismele trimit la „maximele morale” ale ducelui François de La Rochefoucauld. Dar partea cea mai importantă a jurnalului este, neîndoielnic, analiza de sine, autoscopia. Nu Jules Renard a inaugurat genul, cum crede Modest Morariu, ci elvețianul Henri-Frédéric Amiel (1821 - 1881), în cele 18.000 de pagini ale jurnalului său intim. Ar trebui amintit, în fine, și jurnalul filosofului Maine de Biran (1766 - 1824).
Iată-l pe Jules Renard vorbindu-se de rău:
„Din fericire, două pagini de Taine mă curăță și iată-mă pe aripile fanteziei, deasupra lumii, înverșunat în studierea eului meu, a descompunerii sale, a neantului nostru” (19 martie 1889).
P. S. Jurnalul lui Renard a avut o certă înfluență asupra lui Mihail Sebastian (îl citea prin 1936). A și scris despre el: „Jules Renard este sinceritatea însăși. Jurnalul lui consemnează fără ipocrizie, tot ceea ce o conștiință de om poate cunoaște de-a lungul unei vieți care nu e totdeauna făcută din eroisme. El ne dezarmează prin curajul confesiunii. Puțini oameni au luat vreodată condeiul în mînă pentru a fi atît de necruțători cu ei înșiși... Examenul său intim e fără menajamente. El are curajul vanităților lui, curajul invidiilor lui, curajul lașităților lui. Le mărturisește direct, fără a se scuza, cu un fel de cruzime ironică, pe care numai copiii o au”. Mihail Sebastian consemnează în jurnal că l-a visat de cîteva ori pe Jules Renard.
Destinul meu de cititor a vrut ca din toată opera lui Jules Renard să citesc doar acest jurnal, îndată ce Modest Morariu a tradus cam o treime din el. În ediția franceză, are 1500 de pagini, e o operă impozantă. Se pare că jurnalul era și mai consistent, dar soția și editorii au cenzurat cu maxim sadism mari părți din el, iar restul l-au pus pe foc. Totuși, prin comparație cu Byron, Jules Renard (1864 - 1910) a avut noroc. Moștenitorii poetului englez i-au distrus în întregime însemnările personale.
Cu excepția lui Morcoveață, povestirile lui Jules Renard sînt modeste. Piesele de teatru nu ies din cenușiul comunului. Publicistica lui s-a perimat. Șansa scriitorului e de a fi redactat acest jurnal și de a fi fost sincer (adică necruțător) cu sine și foarte caustic cu ceilalți. În pofida misoginiei autorului (jurnalul cuprinde o mulțime de afirmații corozive la adresa femeilor), singurul personaj pozitiv din aceste pagini (în care mișună toată fauna literară pariziană de la finele secolului al XIX-lea) rămîne soția lui, discreta Marinette (de la Marie). Cînd s-au căsătorit, în 1888, ea avea 17 ani, el 24. Marie avea oarece avere, el, pe lîngă nimic, o mare sete de notorietate. Deși făcut din calcul, la rece, mariajul a fost unul fericit.
Notațiile cu privire la sine sînt, de cele mai multe ori, nemiloase. Jules Renard folosește jurnalul (și) ca pe un instrument de auto-cunoaștere: „mă voi privi cu lupa” (1 ianuarie 1887). Nu are milă de sine, dar nici de prieteni și cunoscuți. Notele despre Verlaine (ajuns un alcoolic lamentabil), despre George Sand („vaca bretonă a literaturii franceze”), despre Alphonse Daudet sau Marcel Schwob sînt extrem de malițioase (chiar meschine). Cu siguranță, Jules Renard n-a fost un bun creștin. Ce-i drept, la Paris, nimeni nu se îndura de nimeni, toți se elogiau cînd erau împreună și toți se bîrfeau imediat ce unul dintre ei pleca.
Portretistica lui Jules Renard poate fi comparată cu Caracterele lui La Bruyère. Cugetările și aforismele trimit la „maximele morale” ale ducelui François de La Rochefoucauld. Dar partea cea mai importantă a jurnalului este, neîndoielnic, analiza de sine, autoscopia. Nu Jules Renard a inaugurat genul, cum crede Modest Morariu, ci elvețianul Henri-Frédéric Amiel (1821 - 1881), în cele 18.000 de pagini ale jurnalului său intim. Ar trebui amintit, în fine, și jurnalul filosofului Maine de Biran (1766 - 1824).
Iată-l pe Jules Renard vorbindu-se de rău:
„Din fericire, două pagini de Taine mă curăță și iată-mă pe aripile fanteziei, deasupra lumii, înverșunat în studierea eului meu, a descompunerii sale, a neantului nostru” (19 martie 1889).
„Trec printr-un moment foarte păcătos. Mi-e greață de toate cărțile. Nu fac nimic. Mai mult ca niciodată, îmi dau seama că nu sînt bun de nimic. Simt că nu voi reuși nimic și rîndurile pe care le scriu acum mi se par puerile, ridicole, ba chiar, și mai ales, absolut inutile. Cum s-o scot la capăt? Am o soluție: ipocrizia. Rămîn încuiat ore întregi, și lumea își închipuie că lucrez de zor” (17 martie 1890).
P. S. Jurnalul lui Renard a avut o certă înfluență asupra lui Mihail Sebastian (îl citea prin 1936). A și scris despre el: „Jules Renard este sinceritatea însăși. Jurnalul lui consemnează fără ipocrizie, tot ceea ce o conștiință de om poate cunoaște de-a lungul unei vieți care nu e totdeauna făcută din eroisme. El ne dezarmează prin curajul confesiunii. Puțini oameni au luat vreodată condeiul în mînă pentru a fi atît de necruțători cu ei înșiși... Examenul său intim e fără menajamente. El are curajul vanităților lui, curajul invidiilor lui, curajul lașităților lui. Le mărturisește direct, fără a se scuza, cu un fel de cruzime ironică, pe care numai copiii o au”. Mihail Sebastian consemnează în jurnal că l-a visat de cîteva ori pe Jules Renard.
December 21, 2014
Montaigne for your library
Aurelius in your lodge
take LaRouchefoucauld walking
but leave Renard on your night stand so it can leaven your dreams and illuminate your mind when you wake before the sun rises.
Aurelius in your lodge
take LaRouchefoucauld walking
but leave Renard on your night stand so it can leaven your dreams and illuminate your mind when you wake before the sun rises.
March 10, 2020
Il diario di Renard che meraviglia! introvabile in libreria, ma resiste invitto nelle biblioteche. Tuttavia non riesco a capire come si possa non ripubblicarlo. Non c’è una sola riga “muffosa”, nel Diario di Renard: tutto sembra ancora scritto per noi, cittadini del 2020. Eccovi, una pagina perfetta:
Sono sempre più egoista: non c’è niente da fare. Devo sforzarmi di essere felice solamente perché rendo felici gli altri. Ho avuto troppa paura di ammirare tanto i libri quanto le azioni degli uomini. Che mania, dire alle persone delle battute spiritose quando invece si vorrebbe abbracciarle. Ipocritamente ho chiesto ai miei amici troppi elogi per «Pel di carota». Ho mangiato troppo, ho dormito troppo, ho avuto troppa paura dei temporali, ho speso troppo. Ho disprezzato troppo i consigli altrui nelle questioni gravi, e ho chiesto troppi consigli per delle frivolezze. Devo uscire con questo soprabito? Sta per piovere, ma io non prendo l’ombrello perché ho un bel bastone e voglio farlo vedere.
Mi sono troppo compiaciuto a impietosirmi sulle disgrazie degli altri. Ho preso abusivamente il tono di un uomo sicuro di sé. Ho guardato troppo nei chioschi dei giornali per vedere se c’era la mia caricatura. Ho letto troppi giornali per vedere se il mio nome era citato. Ho mostrato troppo di amare i miei bambini per recitare la parte del buon papà, e ho sbandierato troppo la fondamentale indifferenza del mio cuore per quanto riguarda la mia famiglia. Mi sono troppo intenerito per i poveri ma a loro non ho dato nulla con il pretesto che «non si sa mai».
Ho parlato troppo di me, troppo! troppo! Ho parlato troppo di Pascal, di Montaigne, di Shakespeare e non ho letto abbastanza né Shakespeare, né Pascal, né Montaigne. Ho detto troppe volte ai miei amici: «Se muoio prima di voi, ricordatevi che voglio essere seppellito a Chitry-les-Mines e che sulla mia tomba desidero soltanto un piccolo busto con i titoli delle mie opere, nient’altro che il titolo»; per aggiungere bruscamente: «D’altronde, vi seppellirò tutti».
Sono sempre più egoista: non c’è niente da fare. Devo sforzarmi di essere felice solamente perché rendo felici gli altri. Ho avuto troppa paura di ammirare tanto i libri quanto le azioni degli uomini. Che mania, dire alle persone delle battute spiritose quando invece si vorrebbe abbracciarle. Ipocritamente ho chiesto ai miei amici troppi elogi per «Pel di carota». Ho mangiato troppo, ho dormito troppo, ho avuto troppa paura dei temporali, ho speso troppo. Ho disprezzato troppo i consigli altrui nelle questioni gravi, e ho chiesto troppi consigli per delle frivolezze. Devo uscire con questo soprabito? Sta per piovere, ma io non prendo l’ombrello perché ho un bel bastone e voglio farlo vedere.
Mi sono troppo compiaciuto a impietosirmi sulle disgrazie degli altri. Ho preso abusivamente il tono di un uomo sicuro di sé. Ho guardato troppo nei chioschi dei giornali per vedere se c’era la mia caricatura. Ho letto troppi giornali per vedere se il mio nome era citato. Ho mostrato troppo di amare i miei bambini per recitare la parte del buon papà, e ho sbandierato troppo la fondamentale indifferenza del mio cuore per quanto riguarda la mia famiglia. Mi sono troppo intenerito per i poveri ma a loro non ho dato nulla con il pretesto che «non si sa mai».
Ho parlato troppo di me, troppo! troppo! Ho parlato troppo di Pascal, di Montaigne, di Shakespeare e non ho letto abbastanza né Shakespeare, né Pascal, né Montaigne. Ho detto troppe volte ai miei amici: «Se muoio prima di voi, ricordatevi che voglio essere seppellito a Chitry-les-Mines e che sulla mia tomba desidero soltanto un piccolo busto con i titoli delle mie opere, nient’altro che il titolo»; per aggiungere bruscamente: «D’altronde, vi seppellirò tutti».
February 21, 2014
This selection from Jules Renard’s journals is beautiful in itself, but also an invitation to read the full journals and some of his other works as well. He was a man whose whole life, to judge from these pages, was lived in reaction to his harridan of a mother. One of his best known works is Poil de Carotte, a ‘fiction’ about his life as a boy in the small town where they lived. His father, the mayor, solved the harridan problem by ceasing to speak to his wife--literally and absolutely- early in the marriage; their son had no such tool at his disposal. Yet what did Renard do as a man? Buy a small house in the same small town (or nearby?) and take his family there to live every summer under the constant watch of his mother. Very strange.
In part his return to the country is due to a profound love of nature. His Nature Stories are snippets of life that give various animals and insects a moment of close attention--their quotidian actions become poetic as he gives the animals full worth in creation.
Equally fascinating is his attitude toward peasants and servants. Nowhere else have I read such an honest and inclusive portrayal of actually living with servants in one’s house, their moving in and out of the rooms and commenting on one’s life and their lives. Hiring them, disciplining, firing, watching their slow decline and death. For Renard, some are comical adolescents, others pathetic declining dependents. He may describe living in close proximity with them, but for him they are also a different species; he speaks about peasants as a species somewhere between the animals in Nature Stories and the educated humans he sees as equals.
But Renard was also un homme de lettres complet in Paris. He was fully engaged in the theater, turning his novels into plays and writing other plays as original works. Many of the entries are about the perils of getting a play into shape on paper and on stage. Sarah Bernhardt and many others pepper the entries: Rostand, Mallarme, Daudet, Goncourt.
Finally there are the epigrams. This is a book to open again and again for a thought to carry about for the day, or to plunder for quotes.
For my Goodreads companions:
‘You have read everything, but they have read a book you ought to read, that makes them superior, and annuls all you have read.’
[early in his career] ‘The friendship of a talented man of letters would be a great benefaction. It is a pity that those whose good graces we long for are always dead.’
‘A little premontory shiver that comes when a beautiful sentence is about to take shape.’
‘My style, full of tours de force that no one notices.'
In part his return to the country is due to a profound love of nature. His Nature Stories are snippets of life that give various animals and insects a moment of close attention--their quotidian actions become poetic as he gives the animals full worth in creation.
Equally fascinating is his attitude toward peasants and servants. Nowhere else have I read such an honest and inclusive portrayal of actually living with servants in one’s house, their moving in and out of the rooms and commenting on one’s life and their lives. Hiring them, disciplining, firing, watching their slow decline and death. For Renard, some are comical adolescents, others pathetic declining dependents. He may describe living in close proximity with them, but for him they are also a different species; he speaks about peasants as a species somewhere between the animals in Nature Stories and the educated humans he sees as equals.
But Renard was also un homme de lettres complet in Paris. He was fully engaged in the theater, turning his novels into plays and writing other plays as original works. Many of the entries are about the perils of getting a play into shape on paper and on stage. Sarah Bernhardt and many others pepper the entries: Rostand, Mallarme, Daudet, Goncourt.
Finally there are the epigrams. This is a book to open again and again for a thought to carry about for the day, or to plunder for quotes.
For my Goodreads companions:
‘You have read everything, but they have read a book you ought to read, that makes them superior, and annuls all you have read.’
[early in his career] ‘The friendship of a talented man of letters would be a great benefaction. It is a pity that those whose good graces we long for are always dead.’
‘A little premontory shiver that comes when a beautiful sentence is about to take shape.’
‘My style, full of tours de force that no one notices.'
May 20, 2020
If I were to begin life again, I should want it as it was. I would only open my eyes a little more.
A highly quotable and poignant journal of Pierre-Jules Renard, a well known French author of the late 19th and early 20th century. I think his reflections on life and philosophy are the best parts of the journal. He does name drop frequently and meets many famous figures like Oscar Wilde, Sarah Bernhardt and Rodin. I didn’t find his commentary overly snarky, except with regard to Wilde, and there is a down to earth view to his writings that is refreshing.
This journal made Le Monde’s 100 books of the 20th century. I read the English translation.
4 stars.
A highly quotable and poignant journal of Pierre-Jules Renard, a well known French author of the late 19th and early 20th century. I think his reflections on life and philosophy are the best parts of the journal. He does name drop frequently and meets many famous figures like Oscar Wilde, Sarah Bernhardt and Rodin. I didn’t find his commentary overly snarky, except with regard to Wilde, and there is a down to earth view to his writings that is refreshing.
This journal made Le Monde’s 100 books of the 20th century. I read the English translation.
4 stars.
April 24, 2012
I am an avid reader, and have been since I was an asthmatic and myopic youth and found refuge in the world of ideas. In 3 decades, at say 50 books a year, I must be up to 1500 under my belt. This I would place in my top 5, I absolutely loved everything about this work, the character of the author, it is a journal, and the glimpses into the literary world of 1900s Paris. Mellarme, Verlain are there, Gide has a cold, and Lautrec and sarah Bernhardt are mentioned in snippets interspersed with aphorisms on , well everything, eg "the cat is the furniture of life" or "taste ripens at the expense of happiness". He writes about hie servants at home, the death of his brother, and suicide of his father, and the impossible temperament of his mother. This is the most human book I have read. Now I have to recall the other 4 top books.....
August 23, 2022
Jules Renard's The Journal of Jules Renard is one of a handful of great journals that set the mind to racing. I rank it with those of Sir Walter Scott, Albert Camus, and Dag Hammarskjold. One cannot be too philosophical in a journal entry without coming across as pompous and fake. What you get at best are fairly direct statements of how what feels and what one thinks.
Renard's journal is particularly illuminating. His was a life which was in the shadow of his own impending mortality. His father committed suicide; his mother died by falling backwards into a well and drowning; and he lost several of his siblings early in life. He was no believer in organized religion:
He could be very funny at times: "German, my favorite language in which to be silent."
I found this book by chance in the library. Now I want to buy a copy for myself.
Renard's journal is particularly illuminating. His was a life which was in the shadow of his own impending mortality. His father committed suicide; his mother died by falling backwards into a well and drowning; and he lost several of his siblings early in life. He was no believer in organized religion:
I'm happy to believe anything you suggest, but the justice of this world doesn't exactly reassure me about the justice of the next. I fear God will just carry on blundering: He'll welcome the wicked into Heaven, and boot the good down into Hell.And: "You must love nature and you must love man, in spite of the mud that clings to them both."
He could be very funny at times: "German, my favorite language in which to be silent."
I found this book by chance in the library. Now I want to buy a copy for myself.
January 15, 2022
Fun book - very much dip in and see what you find - interesting comments and quotes - made me laugh at his caustic humour and not backward in pointing out people's perceived faults.
September 19, 2018
It is impossible not to slowly fall in love with Renard and his style of writing throughout the entire journey through the selections from his journal. While most phrases are not connected to each other, thus making the work lack continuity in some parts of the book, the aphorisms themselves are simply splendid and often surprising. To see the world through Renard's eyes must be a delight. But the journal is much more than that; it covers parts of introspection regarding his work as a writer in comparison to his (possibly) aspirations or the work of contemporaries and authors he deeply admires ( Victor Hugo to name one), his childhood with a focus on the relationship with his mother, his father's suicide, his family life and love for his wife, but also his beliefs, doubts, struggles at times ( especially towards the end, but never in a distasteful way).
There is a quote from his journal which says " It must be exasperating not to be Victor Hugo" to which I say: It must be exasperating not to be Jules Renard.
There is a quote from his journal which says " It must be exasperating not to be Victor Hugo" to which I say: It must be exasperating not to be Jules Renard.
March 4, 2023
Gelesen und gelesen und gelesen und gelesen und gelesen und gelesen und gelesen und gelesen und die schönsten, besten, genialsten, tiefgründigsten, witzigsten, absurdesten, herrlichsten, metaphorischsten, prächtigsten Gedanken - praktisch das ganze Buch - abgeschrieben, zitiert, geliebt und jetzt: "Ich habe Lust, nach Italien, vor allem Neapel zu reisen, um mir den Vesuv anzuschauen. Auch ich habe nämlich von Zeit zu Zeit einen kleinen Ausbruch." 6.März 1908
December 20, 2012
possibly not an exaggeration to say that my writing life will be divided into the time before I read this book and after.
December 1, 2023
“Un mot si joli qu’on le voudrait avec des joues pour l’embrasser”
Qui sait si chaque événement ne réalise pas un rêve qu’on a fait, qu’a fait un autre, dont on ne se souvient plus, ou qu’on n’a pas connu ?
Trois ans. Qui peut dire toutes les fois
Que nous nous embrassâmes!
Il nous fallut, ainsi qu’un écheveau de laine
Chacun prenant son coeur, sa chair et son haleine
Démêler nos deux âmes
L’horreur des bourgeois est bourgeoise
Ça un poète? Il serait refuser à un concours d’acrostiches
C’est en pleine ville qu’on écrit les plus belles lignes sur la campagne
Il avait plus de cheveux blancs que de cheveux
Un aveugle, romancier, qui, aux descriptions visuelles, substituerait des descriptions olfactives
L’esprit n’accueille une idée qu’en lui donnant un corps ; de là les comparaisons
Rien de plus mauvais que les nouvelles de Balzac. C’est trop petit pour lui. D'ailleurs, quand il avait une idée, il en faisait un roman.
Quelque intégrité que nous ayons, on peut toujours nous classer dans une catégorie de voleurs.
Il était si laid que, lorsqu’il faisait des grimaces, il l’était moins
Le mouvement de l’artiste qui se retire à pas doux, écoutant si on l’applaudit
L’ironie est la pudeur de l’humanité
Sur moi l’ennui étend ses branches
Il s'agit, quand on est avec un peintre, de s’arrêter devant chaque arbre, de demander : « Comment vous voyez vous ça? Bleu, vert, violet ? » et d'ajouter : « Moi je vois ça bleu. »
Surtout si on le voit vert.
Il n'avait plus de mémoire, et, chaque matin, il s'éveillait sans souvenirs, jeune comme une feuille verte.
Quand nos confrères ne sont pas là et que nous lisons du Musset, nous nous sentons tout de suite émus. A la vérité, si l'on y regarde de près, ces vers paraissent mal faits, et loin de la perfection moderne. C'est donc quelque chose de bien nuisible, que la forme.
Le talent, c'est comme l'argent: il n'est pas nécessaire d'en avoir pour en parler.
J'ai déjà des ennemis parce que je n'ai pas pu trouver de talent à tous ceux qui m'ont dit que j'en étais plein.
Je veux, moi aussi, jouer l'automne sur mon flûteau, et tous les arbres s'agitent aux carreaux avec des gestes de serpents. On dirait qu'ils attendent que je leur ouvre la fenêtre. D'abord, les feuilles se décrochent, et je vois des choses qui sont restées cachées tout l'été. Je m'achète cinquante lives de bois, et je m'offre un hiver de quarante-huit heures.
Il pleurait à verse
Des idées trempées dans l’encre
Et le ruisseau murmure sans cesse contre les cailloux qui voudraient l’empêcher de courir.
Si le mot cul est dans une phrase, le public, fût-elle sublime, n’entendra que ce mot
.
Vous ne vous préoccupez que d'être sincère. Mais ne trouvez-vous pas un peu fausse et mensongère cette constante recherche de la sincérité?
Tu as assez d’ennemis pour que je ne manque pas d’amis.
Les arbres échangent des oiseaux comme des paroles.
Je n'ai pas pu m'empêcher de dire à la marchande de journaux:
- Il est de moi, ce petit bouquin-là.
Ah ! dit-elle, je n'en ai pas encore vendu.
——
L’homme vraiment libre est celui qui sait refuser une invitation à dîner, sans donner de prétexte
Prendre des notes, c’est faire des gammes de littérature
La rougeur, l’aurore des larmes qui vont tomber
Je jure que, si je savais que cette nuit encore je ferai ce rêve, au lieu de me coucher et de m’endormir je m’enfuirais de ma maison. Je marcherais jusqu’à l’aurore, et je ne tomberais pas de fatigue, car la peur me tiendrait debout, tout suant et tout courant.
Bêtise humaine. « Humaine »est de trop : il n’y a que les hommes qui soient bêtes.
L’espérance, c’est sortir par un beau soleil et rentrer sous la pluie.
La rêverie est le clair de lune de la pensée
On n’a pas le droit d’attaquer la vie privée des gens ; c’est pourtant de là qu’il faudrait déloger l’infâme.
L’oiseau, ce fruit nomade de l’arbre
Si j’étais oiseau, je ne coucherais que dans les nuages.
Le coeur baigne dans de la brume
Mon coeur bat comme un mineur enseveli qui, par des coups irréguliers, donnerait encore des signes de vie
Qui sait si chaque événement ne réalise pas un rêve qu’on a fait, qu’a fait un autre, dont on ne se souvient plus, ou qu’on n’a pas connu ?
Trois ans. Qui peut dire toutes les fois
Que nous nous embrassâmes!
Il nous fallut, ainsi qu’un écheveau de laine
Chacun prenant son coeur, sa chair et son haleine
Démêler nos deux âmes
L’horreur des bourgeois est bourgeoise
Ça un poète? Il serait refuser à un concours d’acrostiches
C’est en pleine ville qu’on écrit les plus belles lignes sur la campagne
Il avait plus de cheveux blancs que de cheveux
Un aveugle, romancier, qui, aux descriptions visuelles, substituerait des descriptions olfactives
L’esprit n’accueille une idée qu’en lui donnant un corps ; de là les comparaisons
Rien de plus mauvais que les nouvelles de Balzac. C’est trop petit pour lui. D'ailleurs, quand il avait une idée, il en faisait un roman.
Quelque intégrité que nous ayons, on peut toujours nous classer dans une catégorie de voleurs.
Il était si laid que, lorsqu’il faisait des grimaces, il l’était moins
Le mouvement de l’artiste qui se retire à pas doux, écoutant si on l’applaudit
L’ironie est la pudeur de l’humanité
Sur moi l’ennui étend ses branches
Il s'agit, quand on est avec un peintre, de s’arrêter devant chaque arbre, de demander : « Comment vous voyez vous ça? Bleu, vert, violet ? » et d'ajouter : « Moi je vois ça bleu. »
Surtout si on le voit vert.
Il n'avait plus de mémoire, et, chaque matin, il s'éveillait sans souvenirs, jeune comme une feuille verte.
Quand nos confrères ne sont pas là et que nous lisons du Musset, nous nous sentons tout de suite émus. A la vérité, si l'on y regarde de près, ces vers paraissent mal faits, et loin de la perfection moderne. C'est donc quelque chose de bien nuisible, que la forme.
Le talent, c'est comme l'argent: il n'est pas nécessaire d'en avoir pour en parler.
J'ai déjà des ennemis parce que je n'ai pas pu trouver de talent à tous ceux qui m'ont dit que j'en étais plein.
Je veux, moi aussi, jouer l'automne sur mon flûteau, et tous les arbres s'agitent aux carreaux avec des gestes de serpents. On dirait qu'ils attendent que je leur ouvre la fenêtre. D'abord, les feuilles se décrochent, et je vois des choses qui sont restées cachées tout l'été. Je m'achète cinquante lives de bois, et je m'offre un hiver de quarante-huit heures.
Il pleurait à verse
Des idées trempées dans l’encre
Et le ruisseau murmure sans cesse contre les cailloux qui voudraient l’empêcher de courir.
Si le mot cul est dans une phrase, le public, fût-elle sublime, n’entendra que ce mot
.
Vous ne vous préoccupez que d'être sincère. Mais ne trouvez-vous pas un peu fausse et mensongère cette constante recherche de la sincérité?
Tu as assez d’ennemis pour que je ne manque pas d’amis.
Les arbres échangent des oiseaux comme des paroles.
Je n'ai pas pu m'empêcher de dire à la marchande de journaux:
- Il est de moi, ce petit bouquin-là.
Ah ! dit-elle, je n'en ai pas encore vendu.
——
L’homme vraiment libre est celui qui sait refuser une invitation à dîner, sans donner de prétexte
Prendre des notes, c’est faire des gammes de littérature
La rougeur, l’aurore des larmes qui vont tomber
Je jure que, si je savais que cette nuit encore je ferai ce rêve, au lieu de me coucher et de m’endormir je m’enfuirais de ma maison. Je marcherais jusqu’à l’aurore, et je ne tomberais pas de fatigue, car la peur me tiendrait debout, tout suant et tout courant.
Bêtise humaine. « Humaine »est de trop : il n’y a que les hommes qui soient bêtes.
L’espérance, c’est sortir par un beau soleil et rentrer sous la pluie.
La rêverie est le clair de lune de la pensée
On n’a pas le droit d’attaquer la vie privée des gens ; c’est pourtant de là qu’il faudrait déloger l’infâme.
L’oiseau, ce fruit nomade de l’arbre
Si j’étais oiseau, je ne coucherais que dans les nuages.
Le coeur baigne dans de la brume
Mon coeur bat comme un mineur enseveli qui, par des coups irréguliers, donnerait encore des signes de vie
October 24, 2012
"Sa pictezi pe pinze de paianjen."
"Nu sintem fericiti: fericirea noastra este doar tacerea nefericirii."
"Reveria este clarul de luna al gindirii."
"Luna, medalion la gitul noptii."
"Ploaia aseza pe jos oglinzi pentru stele."
"Cind ma gindesc la toate cartile pe care mai trebuie sa le citesc, am certitudinea ca mai sint inca fericit."
"Felinarul: o luminare in inchisoare."
"Dupa o reverie pe banca, sa adormi cu ochii plini de stele."
"O ploaie amestecata cu picuri de pian."
"Nu sintem fericiti: fericirea noastra este doar tacerea nefericirii."
"Reveria este clarul de luna al gindirii."
"Luna, medalion la gitul noptii."
"Ploaia aseza pe jos oglinzi pentru stele."
"Cind ma gindesc la toate cartile pe care mai trebuie sa le citesc, am certitudinea ca mai sint inca fericit."
"Felinarul: o luminare in inchisoare."
"Dupa o reverie pe banca, sa adormi cu ochii plini de stele."
"O ploaie amestecata cu picuri de pian."
August 3, 2012
Peace in a paperback
March 13, 2014
it will be foolish to express opinions about this book.
January 1, 2021
Imprescindible. El Diario de diarios. Habríamos sido buenos amigos Jules y yo
June 24, 2022
Renard es un cascarrabias. Me he reído mogollón.
July 19, 2022
Cáustico, sarcástico y brillante. Tengo la sensación que muchos diaristas de hoy en día, le imitan.
February 23, 2009
It’s not Jules Renard that I’m giving two stars to in this review but to the editors/translators who put this compilation from his Journal together. The biggest complaint I have is the book’s lack of context. There’s only the sketchiest of biographies in the introduction. From this book you would have only the merest hints about Renard’s decidedly dysfunctional family, or the circle he ran with in Paris, or his career as a politician in Chitry (a rural French village). The nuggets you can extrapolate are frustratingly incomplete. And the stage-setting paragraphs at the beginning of each year are laughable . Examples: “1897 – Jules Renard began his Journal this year, at the age of twenty-three,” or “1910 – By the end of February, severe worsening of JR’s condition. May 22: death of JR in Paris of arteriosclerosis. Burial in Chitry.”
Bogan writes in the Preface, “Renard’s Journal, from its beginning, shows a young writer who is consciously moving away from early mistakes, whose goal is cleanness of style and precision of language” (p. 10). This may be true but one wouldn’t get that impression from the fragments reproduced here. She also writes, “Renard’s passion for factual truth and stylistic exactitude…remained central to his work throughout his career” and “(t)ruth about life…had been distorted by literature. He applied himself to correct that distortion…by an analysis based on sympathy, warmth, and tenderness” (p. 11). Again, the editors may be correct but the always-too-short selections translated here give only the faintest glimmer of that sensibility. In fact, from the extracts concerning the deaths of his father, brother and mother, one could develop exactly the opposite opinion.
And then there’s the problem that a reader in 2009 (especially an English-language one), unless they’re very exceptional, has little familiarity with the late-19th century French artistic scene, and the editors give us no help in this matter. Thus, names appear out of nowhere – some familiar enough (Rostand, Sarah Bernhardt), others less so (Goncourt, Guitry, Antoine). What’s worse, the “unknowns” of Renard’s life (his servants, family and friends) make cameos, disappear for long stretches and then pop back up in the author’s life. For example, it takes several entries to realize that “Philippe” and “Ragotte” are the couple who maintains Renard’s country estate, La Gloriette.
That said, the glimpses we do get of Renard as a writer, humanist and observer are interesting enough that I want to find a more complete translation of the Journal and perhaps read other examples of his writing.
There are pithy, little observations that become fewer and fewer as they years go by – “At twenty, one thinks profoundly and badly”; “He is deaf in the left ear; he does not hear on the side of the heart”; or “The fear of boredom is the only excuse for working” (pp. 54-5). As I’ve been emphasizing, it’s a bit hard to follow the evolution but Renard’s insights become deeper and more nuanced, and he begins to articulate his feelings without relying on the words of others. By the 1900s, Renard is confident enough to put his thoughts into his own words.
In 1906, at the age of 42, Renard produced an entry that reflected on what he had accomplished in his life. A subject of particular pertinence as I approach that benchmark this year (2009). Some of the more interesting (or depressing) observations:
Observations on hunting:
and
A few random thoughts:
and (one of my favorites)
And, finally, returning to my theme of incompleteness, there’s the frustrating instance of the lack of context about Renard’s marriage. Apparently, he was blessed with a truly happy marriage, the clearest indication being the following passage: “When I was ten years old I didn’t dream. Or, rather, I wanted to be happy day by day, no matter how. It is no secret that, for twenty years I have had the best of wives. My other dreams have never come true. No doubt it would be better not to say it, but it is thanks to her that, now and then, it has seemed to me that my other dreams might also be coming true” (p. 294).
On the whole, the reader would have been better served with a more complete and more fully annotated translation. As it stands, a better title for this book would be “The Witty Observations of Jules Renard, Without Context or Deeper Meaning.”
Bogan writes in the Preface, “Renard’s Journal, from its beginning, shows a young writer who is consciously moving away from early mistakes, whose goal is cleanness of style and precision of language” (p. 10). This may be true but one wouldn’t get that impression from the fragments reproduced here. She also writes, “Renard’s passion for factual truth and stylistic exactitude…remained central to his work throughout his career” and “(t)ruth about life…had been distorted by literature. He applied himself to correct that distortion…by an analysis based on sympathy, warmth, and tenderness” (p. 11). Again, the editors may be correct but the always-too-short selections translated here give only the faintest glimmer of that sensibility. In fact, from the extracts concerning the deaths of his father, brother and mother, one could develop exactly the opposite opinion.
And then there’s the problem that a reader in 2009 (especially an English-language one), unless they’re very exceptional, has little familiarity with the late-19th century French artistic scene, and the editors give us no help in this matter. Thus, names appear out of nowhere – some familiar enough (Rostand, Sarah Bernhardt), others less so (Goncourt, Guitry, Antoine). What’s worse, the “unknowns” of Renard’s life (his servants, family and friends) make cameos, disappear for long stretches and then pop back up in the author’s life. For example, it takes several entries to realize that “Philippe” and “Ragotte” are the couple who maintains Renard’s country estate, La Gloriette.
That said, the glimpses we do get of Renard as a writer, humanist and observer are interesting enough that I want to find a more complete translation of the Journal and perhaps read other examples of his writing.
There are pithy, little observations that become fewer and fewer as they years go by – “At twenty, one thinks profoundly and badly”; “He is deaf in the left ear; he does not hear on the side of the heart”; or “The fear of boredom is the only excuse for working” (pp. 54-5). As I’ve been emphasizing, it’s a bit hard to follow the evolution but Renard’s insights become deeper and more nuanced, and he begins to articulate his feelings without relying on the words of others. By the 1900s, Renard is confident enough to put his thoughts into his own words.
In 1906, at the age of 42, Renard produced an entry that reflected on what he had accomplished in his life. A subject of particular pertinence as I approach that benchmark this year (2009). Some of the more interesting (or depressing) observations:
“Forty-two years old. What have I achieved? Almost nothing, and already I am no longer achieving anything at all….
“Am I a better man? Not much. I have not the energy to do wrong….
“Out of forty-two years, I have spent eighteen with Marinette (his wife). I have become incapable of hurting her, but am I capable of any effort to do her good?....
“I still do certain good things pretty well: sleeping, eating, daydreaming….
“On the whole, I don’t care about women. Now and then, a romantic dream or so….
“There is nothing I desire ardently: I’d have to struggle too hard to get it….
“Nowadays, I am afraid of action itself, or, rather, I have acquired a taste for inaction….”
Observations on hunting:
“It is dangerous to carry a gun. You think it doesn’t kill. I shoot, not in order to kill the lark, but to see what will happen. I come near. It is lying on its belly; its claws flutter, its beak opens and closes, yawns open: the tiny scissors are cutting blood.
“Lark, may you become the subtlest of my thoughts and the dearest of my regrets!
“It died for the others.
“I have torn up my permit and hung my rifle on a nail”
and
“Advice to hunters: to go out some time without their gun and walk through the fields where they have killed. The magpie becomes familiar. The partridges sit still until one comes quite near. The prunelles wait to be picked, and the juicy little wild pear.
“The ox stops and looks around, and the ox that follows him licks his hindquarters with a lazy tongue.
“The meadow draws to itself the entire green blanket.
“And one has not murdered: that at least is something.”
A few random thoughts:
“I am in no great hurry to see the society of the future: ours is helpful to writers. By its absurdities, its injustices, its vices, its stupidities, it feeds a writer’s observation. The better men will become, the more colorless man will be”(p. 249);
“Imagine life without death. Every day, you would try to kill yourself out of despair”(p. 234);
and (one of my favorites)
“`I have no religion,’ says Borneau, ‘but I respect the religion of others. Religion is sacred.’ Why this privilege, this immunity?... A believer creates God in his own image; if he is ugly, his God will be morally ugly. Why should moral ugliness be respectable?”(Apropos of this sentiment, I would recommend Tanith Lee’s “Paid Piper,” which traces a god’s descent into such a condition.)
And, finally, returning to my theme of incompleteness, there’s the frustrating instance of the lack of context about Renard’s marriage. Apparently, he was blessed with a truly happy marriage, the clearest indication being the following passage: “When I was ten years old I didn’t dream. Or, rather, I wanted to be happy day by day, no matter how. It is no secret that, for twenty years I have had the best of wives. My other dreams have never come true. No doubt it would be better not to say it, but it is thanks to her that, now and then, it has seemed to me that my other dreams might also be coming true” (p. 294).
On the whole, the reader would have been better served with a more complete and more fully annotated translation. As it stands, a better title for this book would be “The Witty Observations of Jules Renard, Without Context or Deeper Meaning.”
December 12, 2020
Vijf sterren, zij het dan met een kritische kanttekening aan het adres van uitgever De Arbeiderspers dat het voorwoord (van mede-vertaler Frans de Haan) wel heel erg weinig biografische gegevens bevat, dat ook het namenregister buitengewoon summier is en dat van voet- of eindnoten met enige toelichting of verheldering geen sprake is. Wat zulke dingen betreft komt de lezer van andere uitgaven in de reeks privé-domein, zoals brievenboeken van Gustave Flaubert en de dagboeken van Edmond en Jules de Goncourt, over het algemeen veel beter aan zijn trekken.
Maar o, wat zijn die dagboeknotities van Jules Renard een genot om te lezen, hoe hartverwarmend is alleen al een passage als: "Ik luister naar de pad. Met regelmatige tussenpozen laat ze een soort druppel vallen, een treurige noot, die niet van beneden lijkt te komen, maar veeleer doet denken aan de klacht van een vogel ergens hoog in een boom. [...] Het blaffen van een hond, het geluid van een deur brengen de pad tot zwijgen. Dan begint ze weer: 'Oe! Oe! Oe!' Maar dat is het niet. Er komt een medeklinker vóór die lettergreep, een keelklank, ik weet niet welke, een licht aangeblazen h, zoiets als het geluid van een luchtbel die uiteenspat aan de oppervlakte van een moeras".
Hoe herkenbaar, dit alles. In de eerste jaren dat ik mijn vakanties doorbracht in Nièvre, bijna een eeuw nadat Jules Renard in datzelfde departement de notities maakte die in dit Dagboek 1887-1899 zijn opgenomen, meende ik zo af en toe het geluid van een dwergooruiltje te horen - tot een vriend me erop wees dat het wel om een vroedmeesterpad zou gaan...
Maar o, wat zijn die dagboeknotities van Jules Renard een genot om te lezen, hoe hartverwarmend is alleen al een passage als: "Ik luister naar de pad. Met regelmatige tussenpozen laat ze een soort druppel vallen, een treurige noot, die niet van beneden lijkt te komen, maar veeleer doet denken aan de klacht van een vogel ergens hoog in een boom. [...] Het blaffen van een hond, het geluid van een deur brengen de pad tot zwijgen. Dan begint ze weer: 'Oe! Oe! Oe!' Maar dat is het niet. Er komt een medeklinker vóór die lettergreep, een keelklank, ik weet niet welke, een licht aangeblazen h, zoiets als het geluid van een luchtbel die uiteenspat aan de oppervlakte van een moeras".
Hoe herkenbaar, dit alles. In de eerste jaren dat ik mijn vakanties doorbracht in Nièvre, bijna een eeuw nadat Jules Renard in datzelfde departement de notities maakte die in dit Dagboek 1887-1899 zijn opgenomen, meende ik zo af en toe het geluid van een dwergooruiltje te horen - tot een vriend me erop wees dat het wel om een vroedmeesterpad zou gaan...
June 8, 2023
La sottile grandezza di Jules Renard: adeguare la propria tristezza al mondo, adattarla sufficientemente da evitare lo sprofondamento. Chi riesce mai in un’impresa simile ?
August 13, 2022
So many gems here. A small fraction of the ones I copied:
1889 The friendship of a talented man of letters would be a great benefaction. It is a pity that those whose good graces we yearn for are always dead.
1890 Met Alphonse Daudet this morning. … He talked to us a bit about everything, without show of wit, but with breadth, good sense.
1891 [Daudet:] “You will get there Renard .. but to do that you will now and then have to give yourself a kick in the pants …”
1891 A clean-shaven gent speaks to me interminably about my books. How insufferable I should find him if he talked about anything else!
1893 I like Maupassant because he seems to be writing for me, not for himself. He seldom goes in for confessions. He does not say: “Here is my heart,”
I am never bored anywhere: being bored is an insult to oneself.
To leave each thing unfinished, in order to be able to recopy it, later on, with interest and taste.
1894 What is long and difficult is to put oneself into the state of mind, to create the atmosphere, of what one is going to write.
What I write is like letters to myself that I would then permit you to read.
30th birthday: no one writes to me; no one sends me a mark of sympathy concerning this lamentable occurrence.
Let the hand that writes always ignore the eye that reads!
1895 Be modest! It is the kind of pride least likely to offend.
Papa walked with me as far as the Bargeot field, and he wearies me. When we get back, he said: “I am no more tired than when we started, because at my age you are always tired.”
Rostand: I am shaking, and his lips are white. And perhaps we are both experiencing a savage joy to be turning our backs upon each other. One friend less, what a relief!
We are never happier than when our jokes have made the maid laugh.
To rub one’s hands like a fly.
1897 If you write to Lemaitre, write on the envelope “of the Academie Francaise.” It will give pleasure to Lemaitre, and also to the postmistress of your village.
Papa: it is thirty years since he has said a word.
Half-past one. Death of my father.
I do not reproach myself for not having loved him enough. I do reproach myself for not having understood him.
What a beautiful death! … One should not lessen the merit of his act. He killed himself, not because he suffered too much, but because he did not want to live otherwise than in good health.
Daudet is dead. We should not take note when it passes;it might come less often. It has no importance whatsoever.
1898 The best among us has a few small murders to reproach himself with.
1899 For a writer who has been working, to read is like getting into a carriage after a toilsome walk.
Little by little, I give up a great many things that I cannot have.
1900 One should not speak of rereading the classical masterpieces–one always seems to be reading them for the first time.
1902 Please, God, don’t make me die too quickly! I shouldn’t mind seeing how I die.
Weep! But not one of your tears must reach the tip of your pen and mix itself with your ink.
1903 Antoine, who is sitting next to me, turns toward me, which I coyly affect not to notice.
A grasshopper played the fiddle; a tree-frog, the bag-pipe.
1904 writing: If I didn’t do what I must do, I’d die of boredom, of disgust.
As mayor, I am supposed to look after the maintenance of the rural roads; as a poet, I like them better neglected.
Lazy, like all sedentary men who have too much time in which to do their work.
1905 I live like an old man. I read the papers a little, a few pieces out of books, I set down a few notes, I keep warm, and, often, I nap.
The train, the automobile of the poor. All it lacks is to be able to go everywhere.
I keep within me a fund of essential naivete that is like eternal youth. I defy anything that is beautiful, alive, and simple not to affect me.
I do not care about the immortality of my name any more than for that of my soul.
1906 The leaf, poor relation of the flower.
I have certain feelings of guilt, but am dexterous enough to find fault with myself for having them, and so I diminish them. Truly, I find none of them unbearable.
Imagine life without death. Every day, you would try to kill yourself out of despair. [Groundhog Day]
If I were to begin life again, I should want it as it was. I would only open my eyes a little more.
If I were to try to work again regularly … not in order to make money, not to be famous, but in order to leave something, a little book, a page, a few sentences? Because I am not at peace.
Artists Independent. It is the one place in the world where I am bored the most. … a few young masters who take enormous pains to make us vomit.
A 13 year old boy from the orphan asylum, a little deaf, said he receives 120 francs for 15 months. I am thoughtless enough to say it is not much. Whereupon, lifting his eyes, which he had kept lowered, says with pride: “There’s something else too. You get your washing done, and a pair of shoes.”
Philippe drank like a calf. … “Well, listen, find someone else to take my place. I see all right it can’t go on like that.” … For a bout of drinking, he would put himself and his wife out to starve. And as for me, it’s as if I’d been hit with a fist. … I am furious with this angry man who doesn’t have a word of regret. He stands there like a proud lump of earth.
I may be my age and a mayor: when I see a policeman I am uneasy. [Hitchcock]
What is the use of travel! There is nature, life, history, everywhere.
I have come to the age where I can understand how deeply I must have annoyed my masters when I went to see them and never talked to them about themselves.
1907 I feel that things are passing. … If I want to do something, the time is now.
The goldfinch: the jewel among birds.
We are in the world to laugh. In purgatory or in hell we shall no longer be able to do so. And in heaven it would not be proper.
In the path, the caterpillar plays a soundless little tune on its accordion.
1908 A window on the street is as good as a stage.
Writing for someone is like writing to someone: you immediately feel obliged to lie.
Every morning, upon waking, you should say: “I see, I hear, I move, I am not in pain. Thank you! Life is lovely.”
I know only one truth: work alone creates happiness. I am sure only of that one thing, and I forget it all the time.
How few there are who can look at something beautiful without thinking that they will now be able to say: “I have seen something beautiful!” [Social media!]
One of the small benefits of fear: trying to buck up others.
1909 One should say nothing, because everything offends.
Maman. The women come to visit her like thieves. She has given everything away [Zorba]
Last words heard from my mother:
“Are you coming back soon? Thanks for coming to see me.”
1910 The detestable pleasure, almost in the nature of a restorative, of venting one’s bad humor upon others.
Read thanks to Patrick Kurp's Anecdotal Evidence: https://evidenceanecdotal.blogspot.co...
1889 The friendship of a talented man of letters would be a great benefaction. It is a pity that those whose good graces we yearn for are always dead.
1890 Met Alphonse Daudet this morning. … He talked to us a bit about everything, without show of wit, but with breadth, good sense.
1891 [Daudet:] “You will get there Renard .. but to do that you will now and then have to give yourself a kick in the pants …”
1891 A clean-shaven gent speaks to me interminably about my books. How insufferable I should find him if he talked about anything else!
1893 I like Maupassant because he seems to be writing for me, not for himself. He seldom goes in for confessions. He does not say: “Here is my heart,”
I am never bored anywhere: being bored is an insult to oneself.
To leave each thing unfinished, in order to be able to recopy it, later on, with interest and taste.
1894 What is long and difficult is to put oneself into the state of mind, to create the atmosphere, of what one is going to write.
What I write is like letters to myself that I would then permit you to read.
30th birthday: no one writes to me; no one sends me a mark of sympathy concerning this lamentable occurrence.
Let the hand that writes always ignore the eye that reads!
1895 Be modest! It is the kind of pride least likely to offend.
Papa walked with me as far as the Bargeot field, and he wearies me. When we get back, he said: “I am no more tired than when we started, because at my age you are always tired.”
Rostand: I am shaking, and his lips are white. And perhaps we are both experiencing a savage joy to be turning our backs upon each other. One friend less, what a relief!
We are never happier than when our jokes have made the maid laugh.
To rub one’s hands like a fly.
1897 If you write to Lemaitre, write on the envelope “of the Academie Francaise.” It will give pleasure to Lemaitre, and also to the postmistress of your village.
Papa: it is thirty years since he has said a word.
Half-past one. Death of my father.
I do not reproach myself for not having loved him enough. I do reproach myself for not having understood him.
What a beautiful death! … One should not lessen the merit of his act. He killed himself, not because he suffered too much, but because he did not want to live otherwise than in good health.
Daudet is dead. We should not take note when it passes;it might come less often. It has no importance whatsoever.
1898 The best among us has a few small murders to reproach himself with.
1899 For a writer who has been working, to read is like getting into a carriage after a toilsome walk.
Little by little, I give up a great many things that I cannot have.
1900 One should not speak of rereading the classical masterpieces–one always seems to be reading them for the first time.
1902 Please, God, don’t make me die too quickly! I shouldn’t mind seeing how I die.
Weep! But not one of your tears must reach the tip of your pen and mix itself with your ink.
1903 Antoine, who is sitting next to me, turns toward me, which I coyly affect not to notice.
A grasshopper played the fiddle; a tree-frog, the bag-pipe.
1904 writing: If I didn’t do what I must do, I’d die of boredom, of disgust.
As mayor, I am supposed to look after the maintenance of the rural roads; as a poet, I like them better neglected.
Lazy, like all sedentary men who have too much time in which to do their work.
1905 I live like an old man. I read the papers a little, a few pieces out of books, I set down a few notes, I keep warm, and, often, I nap.
The train, the automobile of the poor. All it lacks is to be able to go everywhere.
I keep within me a fund of essential naivete that is like eternal youth. I defy anything that is beautiful, alive, and simple not to affect me.
I do not care about the immortality of my name any more than for that of my soul.
1906 The leaf, poor relation of the flower.
I have certain feelings of guilt, but am dexterous enough to find fault with myself for having them, and so I diminish them. Truly, I find none of them unbearable.
Imagine life without death. Every day, you would try to kill yourself out of despair. [Groundhog Day]
If I were to begin life again, I should want it as it was. I would only open my eyes a little more.
If I were to try to work again regularly … not in order to make money, not to be famous, but in order to leave something, a little book, a page, a few sentences? Because I am not at peace.
Artists Independent. It is the one place in the world where I am bored the most. … a few young masters who take enormous pains to make us vomit.
A 13 year old boy from the orphan asylum, a little deaf, said he receives 120 francs for 15 months. I am thoughtless enough to say it is not much. Whereupon, lifting his eyes, which he had kept lowered, says with pride: “There’s something else too. You get your washing done, and a pair of shoes.”
Philippe drank like a calf. … “Well, listen, find someone else to take my place. I see all right it can’t go on like that.” … For a bout of drinking, he would put himself and his wife out to starve. And as for me, it’s as if I’d been hit with a fist. … I am furious with this angry man who doesn’t have a word of regret. He stands there like a proud lump of earth.
I may be my age and a mayor: when I see a policeman I am uneasy. [Hitchcock]
What is the use of travel! There is nature, life, history, everywhere.
I have come to the age where I can understand how deeply I must have annoyed my masters when I went to see them and never talked to them about themselves.
1907 I feel that things are passing. … If I want to do something, the time is now.
The goldfinch: the jewel among birds.
We are in the world to laugh. In purgatory or in hell we shall no longer be able to do so. And in heaven it would not be proper.
In the path, the caterpillar plays a soundless little tune on its accordion.
1908 A window on the street is as good as a stage.
Writing for someone is like writing to someone: you immediately feel obliged to lie.
Every morning, upon waking, you should say: “I see, I hear, I move, I am not in pain. Thank you! Life is lovely.”
I know only one truth: work alone creates happiness. I am sure only of that one thing, and I forget it all the time.
How few there are who can look at something beautiful without thinking that they will now be able to say: “I have seen something beautiful!” [Social media!]
One of the small benefits of fear: trying to buck up others.
1909 One should say nothing, because everything offends.
Maman. The women come to visit her like thieves. She has given everything away [Zorba]
Last words heard from my mother:
“Are you coming back soon? Thanks for coming to see me.”
1910 The detestable pleasure, almost in the nature of a restorative, of venting one’s bad humor upon others.
Read thanks to Patrick Kurp's Anecdotal Evidence: https://evidenceanecdotal.blogspot.co...
December 28, 2015
CITAS: 29 de julio. Toda nuestra crítica consiste en reprochar a otros que no tengan las cualidades que nosotros creemos tener.
24 de abril. Subir al cielo por la soga de un ahorcado.
2 de enero. Se puede ser poeta y llevar el pelo corto.
28 de enero. Los burgueses son los demás.
16 de junio. Parece que esté uno obligado a escribir una novela, como a hacer el servicio militar.
12 de diciembre. Yo nací para el éxito en el periodismo, la gloria cotidiana, la literatura abundante: leer a los grandes escritores lo cambió todo. De ahí, la desgracia de mi vida.
11 de junio. Me siento triste como un Verlaine de pueblo.
3 de noviembre. Versos, versos, y ni una línea de poesía.
9 de junio. Los hombres como papá solo estiman a los que se enriquecen, y solo admiran a los que mueren pobres.
29 de setiembre. Hay hombres que parecen haberse casado solo para impedir a sus esposas casarse con otros.
1 de marzo. Mallarme, intraducible, incluso al francés.
24 de abril. Subir al cielo por la soga de un ahorcado.
2 de enero. Se puede ser poeta y llevar el pelo corto.
28 de enero. Los burgueses son los demás.
16 de junio. Parece que esté uno obligado a escribir una novela, como a hacer el servicio militar.
12 de diciembre. Yo nací para el éxito en el periodismo, la gloria cotidiana, la literatura abundante: leer a los grandes escritores lo cambió todo. De ahí, la desgracia de mi vida.
11 de junio. Me siento triste como un Verlaine de pueblo.
3 de noviembre. Versos, versos, y ni una línea de poesía.
9 de junio. Los hombres como papá solo estiman a los que se enriquecen, y solo admiran a los que mueren pobres.
29 de setiembre. Hay hombres que parecen haberse casado solo para impedir a sus esposas casarse con otros.
1 de marzo. Mallarme, intraducible, incluso al francés.
January 17, 2016
French authors are amazing. Compared to the other author notebooks I've read so far, the French authors (Renard, Camus, Joubert) have been the move lovely and interesting.
Jules Renard was easy to read and incredibly talented. I had sticky notes all over my copy to refer to so many of his beautiful notes and aphorisms. I wonder if any of his works have been translated into English.
Jules Renard was easy to read and incredibly talented. I had sticky notes all over my copy to refer to so many of his beautiful notes and aphorisms. I wonder if any of his works have been translated into English.
Read
January 29, 2009Requires some skimming, but still, I would have parts of this book tattooed on my body.
June 1, 2011
The book the inspired Maugham to write The Writer's Notebook. Fantastic read.
March 22, 2014
why have i put this book on hold for such a long time? i guess i forgot that i had it on my shelf. review to come!
June 16, 2025
(3.5 stars). Not quite as good as I'd been told to expect -- the hit-to-miss ratio is surprisingly high -- but Renard at his best is quite impressive:
A bird enveloped in mist, as though bringing with it fragments of cloud torn with its beak.
Talent is a question of quantity.
A scrupulous inexactness.
The chatting of the chairs, lined up before the guests arrive on a reception day.
It should be forbidden, under penalty of a fine or even imprisonment, for a modern writer to borrow similes from mythology, to talk of harps, lyres, of muses, of swans. Storks might pass.
One may well believe that the eyes of the newborn, those eyes that do not see and into which one finds it difficult to look, contain a little of the abyss from which they come.
To have a horror of the bourgeois is bourgeois.
It is pretty unfortunate that our taste improves while out talent stands still.
There is in my heart something like the reflection of a beautiful dream that I no longer remember.
You can be a poet and pay your rent; even though you are a poet, you can sleep with your wife.
The brain should always be as pure as the air in cold weather.
What does the bird do in a tempest? It does not cling to the branch; it follows the storm.
Do not say that what I write is not true. Everything is true: say that I have written it badly.
In literature, the real is distinguishable from the false as fresh flowers are from artificial flowers; by a sort of inimitable scent.
The real sky is the one you see at the bottom of the water.
Flowers on a grave turn ugly, like old signboards above pot-houses.
No one will ever stop me from being moved when I look at a field, when I walk up to my knees through oats that spring up behind me. What thought is as fine as this blade of grass?
All day, the woods hold in their branches a little of the night.
I turn home, my heart filled with anguish because I have watched the sun set and heard the birds sing, and because I shall have had so few days on this earth I love, and there are so many dead before me.
I always feel like saying to music: "It isn't true! You lie!"
Bells live in the air, like birds.
Our life seems like a trial run.
What is that star? We read its name in a book and think we know it.
Birds made of sunlight have alighted on the ground, and hide and move about with the movement of the leaves.
The white blackbird exists, but it is so white that it cannot be seen, and the black blackbird is only its shadow.
Evening. The moon, Jupiter. Moving mists. A troop of trees fording a river. A dog out hunting. Invisible oxen.
The dripping countryside. Raindrops threaded on narrow branches. Now and then, in a sweep of light, the sun slowly wipes dry a field, a village, a wood.
Ah, no! I am not one of those who need to go to Venice in order to experience an emotion.
Books have lost their savor. They no longer teach me anything. It is as though one were to suggest to a painter that he copy a painting. O nature! There is only you left.
A bird enveloped in mist, as though bringing with it fragments of cloud torn with its beak.
Talent is a question of quantity.
A scrupulous inexactness.
The chatting of the chairs, lined up before the guests arrive on a reception day.
It should be forbidden, under penalty of a fine or even imprisonment, for a modern writer to borrow similes from mythology, to talk of harps, lyres, of muses, of swans. Storks might pass.
One may well believe that the eyes of the newborn, those eyes that do not see and into which one finds it difficult to look, contain a little of the abyss from which they come.
To have a horror of the bourgeois is bourgeois.
It is pretty unfortunate that our taste improves while out talent stands still.
There is in my heart something like the reflection of a beautiful dream that I no longer remember.
You can be a poet and pay your rent; even though you are a poet, you can sleep with your wife.
The brain should always be as pure as the air in cold weather.
What does the bird do in a tempest? It does not cling to the branch; it follows the storm.
Do not say that what I write is not true. Everything is true: say that I have written it badly.
In literature, the real is distinguishable from the false as fresh flowers are from artificial flowers; by a sort of inimitable scent.
The real sky is the one you see at the bottom of the water.
Flowers on a grave turn ugly, like old signboards above pot-houses.
No one will ever stop me from being moved when I look at a field, when I walk up to my knees through oats that spring up behind me. What thought is as fine as this blade of grass?
All day, the woods hold in their branches a little of the night.
I turn home, my heart filled with anguish because I have watched the sun set and heard the birds sing, and because I shall have had so few days on this earth I love, and there are so many dead before me.
I always feel like saying to music: "It isn't true! You lie!"
Bells live in the air, like birds.
Our life seems like a trial run.
What is that star? We read its name in a book and think we know it.
Birds made of sunlight have alighted on the ground, and hide and move about with the movement of the leaves.
The white blackbird exists, but it is so white that it cannot be seen, and the black blackbird is only its shadow.
Evening. The moon, Jupiter. Moving mists. A troop of trees fording a river. A dog out hunting. Invisible oxen.
The dripping countryside. Raindrops threaded on narrow branches. Now and then, in a sweep of light, the sun slowly wipes dry a field, a village, a wood.
Ah, no! I am not one of those who need to go to Venice in order to experience an emotion.
Books have lost their savor. They no longer teach me anything. It is as though one were to suggest to a painter that he copy a painting. O nature! There is only you left.
November 12, 2025
Este libro es el ejemplo de lo que debe ser un diario de escritor:
Sentencias filosóficas, humorísticas y breves -no por nada Ramón lo llamaba precursor de sus greguerías aunque también recuerda a Lichtenberg o a ciertas ocurrencias del surrealismo-; puterío sobre el mundillo de artistas (incluyendo a Jarry, Schwob, Móreas, Toulouse Lautrec y Capus entre otros) ante el cual Renard reacciona en su mayoría de manera cruel y ácida "nunca somos justos con nuestros contemporáneos, por eso no los leo" dirá en una entrada.; reflexiones sobre la muerte y sus variaciones predilectas (duda sobre el talento, página en blanco, recepción inadecuada de sus obras, la muerte misma de seres queridos).
Lo malo que tiene este libro se opaca por la cantidad obscena de frases espectaculares y chusmeríos magníficos del arte que mantienen enganchado en todo momento. Ni bien lo terminé, ya quería releerlo y comprarlo en físico para volver a marcarlo con lápiz. Es una joya sin lugar a dudas. Quiero olvidar la autoría -para volverla mía- de frases como "las frases largas no se leen, se adivinan", "no olvidaré jamás el favor que le he hecho a usted", "como solo puedo leer cosas perfectas no leo nada" "el cerebro no tiene pudor" o incluso "Usted es la "e" muda que tanto ruido hace" entre muchas que me pasaría todo el día citándole a la gente en la calle para que se sonrían como yo al leerlas.
Es en definitiva, el mundo extrañado de un hombre hipermoderno perdido en una francia provinciana en el recambio de siglo, lo cual lo hace más singular y espectacular, sumándolo a Macedonio, el citado Ramón, Cocteau y unos pocos más.
Sentencias filosóficas, humorísticas y breves -no por nada Ramón lo llamaba precursor de sus greguerías aunque también recuerda a Lichtenberg o a ciertas ocurrencias del surrealismo-; puterío sobre el mundillo de artistas (incluyendo a Jarry, Schwob, Móreas, Toulouse Lautrec y Capus entre otros) ante el cual Renard reacciona en su mayoría de manera cruel y ácida "nunca somos justos con nuestros contemporáneos, por eso no los leo" dirá en una entrada.; reflexiones sobre la muerte y sus variaciones predilectas (duda sobre el talento, página en blanco, recepción inadecuada de sus obras, la muerte misma de seres queridos).
Lo malo que tiene este libro se opaca por la cantidad obscena de frases espectaculares y chusmeríos magníficos del arte que mantienen enganchado en todo momento. Ni bien lo terminé, ya quería releerlo y comprarlo en físico para volver a marcarlo con lápiz. Es una joya sin lugar a dudas. Quiero olvidar la autoría -para volverla mía- de frases como "las frases largas no se leen, se adivinan", "no olvidaré jamás el favor que le he hecho a usted", "como solo puedo leer cosas perfectas no leo nada" "el cerebro no tiene pudor" o incluso "Usted es la "e" muda que tanto ruido hace" entre muchas que me pasaría todo el día citándole a la gente en la calle para que se sonrían como yo al leerlas.
Es en definitiva, el mundo extrañado de un hombre hipermoderno perdido en una francia provinciana en el recambio de siglo, lo cual lo hace más singular y espectacular, sumándolo a Macedonio, el citado Ramón, Cocteau y unos pocos más.
December 18, 2017
This review is for the newly re-issued version by Tin House Books, November 2017.
Required reading for writers and would be writers.
"The yellowing leaves make the trees look as though they were ripe."
There are beautiful memorable lines on every page of this journal/collection of quotes/aphorisms.
Some of the best treat of nature, laziness, the writer "in town", and peasants.
It would have helped if I had read Poil de Carotte beforehand, owing to the frequent references to this book and play, but the Journal was still easy to enjoy and it is not a pre-requisite.
Mostly light hearted... Learned about this book by Canetti's mention of it in one of his own books of aphorisms. Those are worth checking out as well. If you enjoyed "The Journal of Jules Renard", look up Canetti's "The Agony of Flies" or "Notes from Hampstead" for a similar scrapbook look into the mind of the writer.
Required reading for writers and would be writers.
"The yellowing leaves make the trees look as though they were ripe."
There are beautiful memorable lines on every page of this journal/collection of quotes/aphorisms.
Some of the best treat of nature, laziness, the writer "in town", and peasants.
It would have helped if I had read Poil de Carotte beforehand, owing to the frequent references to this book and play, but the Journal was still easy to enjoy and it is not a pre-requisite.
Mostly light hearted... Learned about this book by Canetti's mention of it in one of his own books of aphorisms. Those are worth checking out as well. If you enjoyed "The Journal of Jules Renard", look up Canetti's "The Agony of Flies" or "Notes from Hampstead" for a similar scrapbook look into the mind of the writer.
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