Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 231 Crack
Zola's smile faded: "Oh? Léon, you believe that scientific methods cannot be applied to literature? Shouldn't we strive for truth and accuracy?"

He couldn’t interrupt Lionel as he had interrupted Maupassant.

Although Lionel was the youngest of the seven, he was second only to Lionel in literary achievement and was considered a minor figure in Parisian literary circles.

Lionel met his gaze: "The truth we seek may not be the same truth, Emile."

I believe there are several difficulties in your theory that may be difficult to overcome.

Zola's breathing quickened, but he ultimately just took a deep drag on his cigar: "Tell me, Leon. Maybe, maybe it's just a misunderstanding..."

Lionel organized his thoughts and chose the most intuitive starting point: "First, it's about the 'experiment' itself."

In the laboratory, chemists can control temperature, pressure, purity... all variables, and then repeat the experiment countless times to get almost identical results.

But you, Emile, how do you, the author, 'control' the characters you create?
Balzac could have ensured that Rastignac, at the end of Le Père Goriot, would say to Paris, "Shall we two fight it out now?"
Perhaps at some point, out of inner compassion or the needs of the narrative, the writer might make his characters make slightly different choices.

However, this kind of 'control' is incomplete; literary 'experiments' cannot be precisely replicated and verified like scientific experiments!

Maupassant slapped his thigh: "Yes! That's exactly it! Sometimes characters come to life on their own! Léon is absolutely right!"

Zola's face darkened: "But this is precisely the direction we need to strive for! Through more in-depth research, more rigorous design..."

Lionel gently interrupted him: "This leads to my second concern, Emile, concerning 'determinism'."

Your theory seems to suggest that once a character's genetic disease and environment are set, their fate is as immutable as the laws of physics.

Is this judgment of human nature too simplistic and crude?

He paused, taking a moment to find a suitable metaphor: "A person's alcoholism may be due to genetic weakness, the oppression of poverty, or simply a sense of emptiness and boredom."

Can the randomness of this choice really be completely covered by genetics and environment?

If everything is predetermined, then where does the tragedy and power in Oedipus's struggle, Hamlet's hesitation, and even the workers' resistance in your novel "Germinal" come from?

Aren't these moments of humanity's defiance of fate the most moving glimpses of literature?

Huysman nodded thoughtfully: "That makes sense. Absolute determinism does seem... boring."

Zola frowned: "But what we are revealing is the law! The inevitability of society and physiology!..."

He was at a loss for words because Lionel had also used his work as an example.

Lionel maintained his point: "Thirdly, regarding the writer's 'objectivity.' You demand that the writer be as calm and neutral as a scientist, not intervening in the narrative, not making judgments—"

This is a paradox in itself.

César asked in surprise, "Paradox? Isn't that what you did in 'The Old Guard'?"

Lionel looked at him: "If The Old Guard is really so 'calm,' why do people still sympathize with The Old Guard?"

Séral was speechless for a moment.

Lionel then turned to Zola: "Emile, when you choose to depict miners rather than nobles, you are inherently imbued with strong emotions."

The choice of what to write, how to write it, and from what angle to write it—all of these are permeated with the writer's subjectivity.

Demanding absolute objectivity is like asking someone to lift themselves off the ground by their own hair.

We may be able to pursue the most detached description possible, but we cannot completely eliminate the existence of the self.

Your novel, *The Little Hotel*, is most moving because of its compassion for working people!

Zola was speechless. His works were indeed full of strong social concern and moral passion, which even he himself could not deny.

Lionel began to summarize earnestly: "What I worry about is that overemphasizing 'experimentation' and 'testing theories' might stifle or even harm the creative process itself. If a writer conceives a novel in order to test the 'law' that 'alcoholism inevitably destroys families,' the characters may very well be nothing more than symbols from the very beginning."

He will lack vitality and be merely an argument to prove a theory, rather than a living person.

I believe that what truly moves us in great literature is precisely that kind of emotional impact that cannot be calculated with a formula.

After Lionel finished speaking, a long, almost awkward silence fell over the living room, with only the oak wood in the fireplace still burning tirelessly.

Zola's face appeared somewhat unpredictable in the firelight.

His theory, which he had poured so much effort into, was refuted by Lionel, leaving him somewhat hurt.

The others looked at each other, not daring to utter a sound.

After a long silence, Zola finally spoke, his voice low and weary: "Lional... your views... are very insightful."

I need to... I need to think about it carefully and improve it..."

He reached out and took back the stack of manuscripts, clutching them tightly in his hand.

The original enthusiastic atmosphere in the salon vanished, replaced by heaviness and awkwardness.

After sitting for a while longer and finishing the rest of his drink, Lionel was the first to rise and say goodbye: "Thank you for lunch and for sharing, Emil."

As always, it was delicious and plentiful. Please excuse me for leaving now!

Zola simply nodded, without offering his usual enthusiastic attempts to persuade him to stay.

Maupassant also took the opportunity to stand up: "Oh, I have to go too, I have some things to do back in Paris."

Huysmann and the others would usually spend the night at Zola's house to sober up before returning to Paris the next day.

Zola silently escorted Lionel and Maupassant to the door.

Leaving the villa in Meitang and walking along the path leading to the train station, Lionel and Maupassant both breathed a sigh of relief as the cold winter wind blew.

Maupassant glanced back at the villa with lingering fear: "Good heavens, Leon, you really dare to say that! This is the first time I've ever seen Emile speechless like that."

However, what you said is excellent! You've perfectly articulated all those vague feelings I had!

Lionel shook his head: "I was just stating my thoughts. I hope I didn't hurt Emil's feelings too much."

He was a true giant, but sometimes too stubborn, always wanting to set rules for everything.

Although that's what he said, Lionel knew that there was already an irreparable rift between him and Zola.

Maupassant shrugged: "He wanted to stop the Seine with a low dam."

But Leon, what exactly is your philosophy? Don't give me that 'writing for people' nonsense—

Those words were beautifully spoken, but I know they weren't what you truly felt..."

Lionel didn't answer Maupassant's question, but instead pointed ahead: "We're almost at the train station. Where are you going today?"

Maupassant was somewhat embarrassed. In the past, after attending parties, he would usually take a train to Austerlitz station, which was located in the 13th arrondissement and had a brothel he was familiar with.

He would fool around there all night, then return to his apartment smelling terrible.

Lionel's question reminded him of Flaubert's instructions, and his expression began to turn unnatural...

(End of this chapter)