Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 108 Written for Humanity

Flaubert handed over a glass of Bordeaux red wine, its jewel-like hue shimmering in the firelight of the fireplace.

Lionel felt the coolness of the crystal glass and fell into deep thought.

The living room fell silent instantly, all eyes fixed on him—Zola looked on with curiosity and anticipation, Goncourt stroked his beard thoughtfully, Maupassant seemed nervous, and Daudet's gaze was gentle…

Everyone was waiting for this rising literary star to announce his allegiance.

Lionel knew that Flaubert was offering not just wine, but a blank flag, and that once Flaubert drew his own mark, he could no longer remain vague as before.

Lionel raised his glass: "Thank you for your wine, Mr. Flaubert, and thank you all for your attention to Benjamin's Curiosities of Bouton."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, his tone becoming clear and firm: "However, I must be honest, just as when I wrote 'The Old Guard' or 'Letter from an Unknown Woman'—"

When I was conceiving Benjamin Boudon's story, I wasn't consciously thinking about 'naturalism' or 'documentary novel,' not even the concepts of 'realism' or 'romanticism.'

Upon hearing this, Zola's brow furrowed slightly, and Goncourt stopped stroking his beard.

In this day and age, it is inconceivable to write a novel without adhering to a certain ideology, especially for someone so young.

Flaubert's eyes flashed with understanding and interest: "Oh? Are you planning to become the Baudelaire of novelists?"

Baudelaire, the author of "Les Fleurs du Mal," was a pioneer of French Symbolist poetry. From the beginning of his fame, he was known for his rejection of tradition and his pioneering spirit.

But at least at this stage, Lionel did not want to be a standard-bearer of unorthodoxy.

He put down his glass and shook his head: "Please allow me to explain, I greatly admire naturalism's persistent exploration of reality, details, and human nature; I also agree with Mr. Goncourt's advocacy of 'documentary style'—"

It requires authors to be as rigorous as historians, using solid details as a foundation to build a convincing world.

Of course, there is also realism. Mr. Balzac's "The Human Comedy" is all-encompassing and has set an unparalleled monument for us.

As for those once-popular 'Romanticism' and 'fantasy novels,' their boundless imagination also provided me with endless inspiration.

He frankly acknowledged the value of each school of thought, which eased the tension between Zola and Goncourt, while Flaubert's interest grew even stronger; he was very curious about where Lionel would ultimately end up.

Maupassant, Huysmann, and others looked puzzled. Was Lionel still prepared to be a slippery eel?

“But,” Lionel’s tone shifted, a surge of enthusiasm rising in his voice, “to me, these great ‘isms’ are more like a dazzling array of precious ingredients laid out before a chef, rather than a recipe dictating which dish he must make.”

If I were that chef, I wouldn't tell myself, 'You have to make it French,' or 'You have to make it Italian,' or 'You have to make it Spanish.' I would just want to make a delicious dish, not worry about which cookbook it belongs to.

"Ha, thank goodness you didn't say 'English'!" Maupassant suddenly joked, eliciting a burst of laughter from the audience.

Lionel didn't seem to mind, and instead said, "If it's literature, 'English' isn't such a bad dish either."

He then returned to the main point: "The Curious Cases of Benjamin Bouton is such a 'dish.' When I needed to depict the scorching heat of Paris in 1789, the details of the 'documentary style' were my strongest support."

I had to make the reader feel Luc Bouton's painful choices under immense fear, and the profound insight of 'naturalism' into human nature is an important reference for portraying his psychology.

I long to portray that infant born to age, whose very existence questions the routines of life and the laws of time. It is at this moment that 'Romanticism' and 'fantasy novels' give me the courage and imagination to break free from the shackles of reality.

And when I wanted to use Daphne's dying recollections amidst the smoke of the Paris Commune to set the stage for the entire story, the realistic portrayal of atmosphere, emotions, and relationships between characters became indispensable.

He looked around at everyone, finally settling on Flaubert, his eyes bright and honest: "So, you ask me which 'ism' I belong to? Mr. Flaubert, I can only say that I belong to the needs of the story itself. What I yearn for is to have this kind of freedom in creation—when the story requires precise historical research, I can be as meticulous as an archivist;

When it requires exploring how humanity is alienated in the environment, I can be as cold-blooded as an anatomist;

When it requires a shocking premise to question the very existence of humanity, I feel like a wizard in a fable.

The living room was silent. This creative view of "free choice and mixed application" undoubtedly challenged the clear boundaries of the 19th century's habit of dividing writers into schools of thought.

Maupassant couldn't help but speak, a hint of confusion and curiosity in his voice: "Lionel, this sounds... very free. But won't this kind of freedom lead to chaos?"

Without a core concept or methodology as an anchor, how can a work maintain stylistic consistency and thematic depth?

This is a question on almost everyone's mind, especially among young writers.

Lionel looked at Maupassant: "Guy, good question. The anchor of this freedom is not in the dogma of some external 'ism,' but in the internal—in 'humanity' itself."

Yusman laughed: "That sounds like something from 400 years ago."

Lionel knew he was referring to the humanism and anthropocentrism of the Renaissance era, but instead of immediately refuting him, he emphasized the word again: "'Man'! That is the ultimate goal of all our writing."

Flaubert once taught us, 'Madame Bovary, that is me!' Doesn't that reveal the deepest mystery of literature? We write about people, we understand people, and ultimately we understand ourselves.

We are firmly bound to our physical bodies—hunger, sickness, aging, and death are the ironclad laws, the domain of naturalistic observation.

We live in a specific social environment—the storms of the Great Revolution, the glory of the Empire, the bloodshed of the Commune… This is the land cultivated by realism.

However, neither this heavy physical body nor the shackles of reality can stop us from soaring freely with our imagination! We can even turn back time and bring the dead back to life.

He paused for a moment, allowing everyone to process his words.

“Benjamin Boudon,” Lionel’s voice deepened, filled with emotion, “is an ultimate symbol, a vessel that pushes this ‘hybrid’ nature of humanity to its extreme.”

I wrote about him not to prove the correctness of any particular "ism," but to try to reflect, amplify, and question the common predicaments and hopes of all of us in the face of time, fate, loneliness, love, and being loved through this extreme, fictional "person."

Lionel concluded with a clear and firm gaze: "Therefore, my creative philosophy can perhaps be described as a 'free blend that serves humanity.'"

I freely use the tools offered by various 'isms'—the depiction of reality, the observation of nature, the precision of documents, the wings of imagination, the poetry of symbols—but all of these revolve closely around the exploration, understanding, and expression of 'humanity'.

It is not about writing for the sake of an ideology, but about writing for the sake of humanity. Human beings themselves are the most wondrous and complex mixture of reality and fantasy, body and spirit, history and the present, the concrete and the symbolic.

As for which existing drawer it should be placed in? I believe time will tell. Perhaps, it shouldn't have been put into any existing drawer in the first place.

As Lionel finished speaking, the salon fell into a longer silence. The bright sunlight outside the window reflected the complex expressions on everyone's faces—some thoughtful, some shocked, some doubtful, and some with a glimmer of enlightenment.

After a long silence, Flaubert finally let out a hearty laugh. He patted Lionel on the shoulder forcefully, his eyes full of admiration: "Good! Well said!"

'Writing for humanity'! 'Humans are a wondrous mixture'!
Flaubert raised his glass: "To Lionel Sorel! To his 'freak baby'!"

Everyone raised their glasses, and the atmosphere became lively again.

Although the seeds of doubt and controversy have been sown, at least for now, Lionel has declared in a way that is not sharp but clear that he is not a vassal of any camp or school of thought.

(End of this chapter)