Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 493 The Iceberg Theory!

"Isn't Lionel Sorel only working with 'Modern Life' and 'Le Petit Parisien'? How come his new novel was given to 'Le Figaro'?"

This is the first reaction in the minds of all readers.

But soon, their attention was drawn to the single epigraph preceding the main text of the novel—

You are a lost generation!

This sentence seemed to have a magical power, instantly penetrating the minds of Parisian readers and sparking endless associations in them.

"A lost generation?"

In the café, a young man put down his newspaper, looking somewhat lost in thought. His friend leaned over to look: "Who? Us?"

Another elderly gentleman pushed up his glasses and snorted, "Arrogant! He thinks he can define an entire generation? Who does he think he is?"

Unlike the audiences of newspapers such as "Live Moderne" and "Le Petit Parisien", the readers of "Le Figaro" consider themselves the backbone of France and representatives of the national elite.

Even for an established author like Lionel Sorel, they would approach reading with a critical eye.

However, the sentence was so captivating that everyone eagerly read on.

The novel's first sentence is simple: "At four o'clock in the afternoon, Jacques de Barnes woke up."

At four o'clock in the afternoon, Jacques de Baner woke up.

The sun slanted down from behind the bell tower of Saint-Germain-des-Prés Church, cutting bright bands of light across the floor through the shutters.

The room was stuffy, filled with the smell of smoke and alcohol from the previous night.

Jacques lay motionless on the bed, listening to the sound of the carriage outside. After a while, he reached out and touched the wine bottle on the bedside table.

There was still a little brandy left in the bottle. He took a sip, and his throat burned even more.

When he came downstairs, the landlady was in the kitchen, but she only glanced at him and didn't say anything.

Just around the corner is the "Double" café, where Robert Cohen is already sitting outside with a cup of coffee in front of him.

He was dressed neatly in a gray suit and a properly tied tie. When he saw Jacques, he waved.

"Did you sleep well?" Cohen asked.

"It's alright." Jacques sat down and called to the waiter, "Coffee, no sugar."

……

Berthe de Isabella arrived at five o'clock.

She wore a light blue dress, and the feathers on her hat fluttered in the wind.

As she walked over, all the men on the street were watching her.

"Gentlemen," she said, sitting down in an empty chair and taking a cigarette case from her handbag, "anyone have a light?"

Cohen quickly handed over the matches.

"Where's Fargo?" she exhaled a puff of smoke.

"They haven't arrived yet," Jacques said.

Berthe laughed: "He's always late. Last night I was dancing at Mathilde's house until three o'clock."

Her new lover was a banker, as fat as a pig, but he drank quite well.

The waiter came again, and Bell ordered champagne.

"Drinking champagne in the middle of the afternoon?" Cohen asked.

“Why not?” Bert glanced at him. “The sun is still in the sky. We should drink something stronger after it sets.”

Jacques looked across the street and saw an old man walking slowly with a dog that had a limp.

……

As darkness fell, the gas lamps lit up one by one, their yellowish glow spreading across the twilight.

They still went to the "Silver Tower," where they could see most of the lights of Paris from the windows.

The shop was filled with smoke, and the piano music was mixed with the voices, making the melody indistinct.

Belt knew the owner. They were led to a table in the corner, and the drinks were served immediately.

Today's singer is a red-haired woman, dressed very scantily, and sings in a flippant manner, as if she's mocking someone.

“She sings terribly,” Cohen said.

“Who cares what she sings?” Bert said. “Look at her legs, such beautiful legs.”

Jacques was drinking, seemingly oblivious to what they were saying.

The red-haired woman finished singing, bowed, and revealed a large expanse of white skin on her chest.

“I want to sleep with her,” Cohen suddenly said.

Belt laughed: "Then you'll have to wait in line, honey. See that bald guy over there? He's a regular customer."

……

It was almost eleven o'clock when we came out of the "Silver Tower". The wind was cold, and Belt wrapped her shawl tighter.

"Where to next?" she asked, exhaling white breath.

No one answered.

A horse-drawn carriage passed by, its headlights illuminating their faces.

“I know a place,” Bert said. “On Pigal Street. Newly opened. Good wine, good girls.”

……

The newly opened shop is called "Moulin Rouge," and it's packed with people. The music is so loud it makes the floor vibrate, and men and women are dancing close together on the dance floor, their sweat and perfume mingling together.

They found a table, the drinks were served quickly, and the girls arrived just as quickly.

A blonde girl sat down next to Jacques and put her hand on his shoulder.

"Want me a drink?" she whispered in his ear.

Jacques nodded, the girl smiled, and beckoned to the waiter.

Cohen has already started talking to another girl.

He was talking about his novel, and the girl listened, but her eyes were looking elsewhere.

Saint-Falgo lay slumped on the table, as if asleep.

Bertie was dancing with a tall man, their faces close together, letting his hands touch her back.

Jacques was drinking when the blonde girl leaned against him, pressing her breasts against his arm.

"Do you want to go upstairs?" the girl asked. "No."

"Why? Am I not pretty?"

"pretty."

"Why then?"

Jacques didn't say anything. The girl shrugged and got up to go find someone else.

……

At three in the morning, they came out of the "Moulin Rouge".

Saint-Falgo vomited and his face turned pale.

Cohen supported him, but he himself couldn't stand steadily.

Belt lost one of his shoes, so he simply threw the other one away, stood barefoot on the stone road, and laughed loudly.

……

The next afternoon, they met again at "Double Pair".

"Where tonight?" Cohen asked.

No one answered.

But they will always find a place, they always will.

...]

The first installment of "The Sun Also Rises," serialized in the literary supplement of Le Figaro, left all readers completely bewildered.

In places like Boulevard Saint-Germain, Montparnasse, and Montmartre—places where literary figures often gather—the novel began to be discussed.

Have you read Sorel's new novel?

"Looked."

"How about it?"

People who ask often shrug or shake their heads, unable to explain.

It's not that it's bad-looking, but it's different from anything I've seen before.

Readers only know that the background is that France had just lost the war with Prussia not long ago, and the young people who appear have all experienced this huge defeat to some extent.

In the novel, they are always talking, always drinking, always wandering from one place to another—but the author doesn't tell you why they do this.

Without explaining why Jacques had no interest in women, why Berthe married a dead man, why Cohen insisted on writing about war, or why Saint-Falgo was afraid of his father…

Lionel simply writes about what "he" said, what "she" did, and what "they" did.

A sense of confusion and even unease began to spread.

On the one hand, the Parisian life depicted in the novel is not unfamiliar to many readers, and may even be too familiar to them.

Those figures who only begin to awaken in the afternoon, lingering in the Double Couple, Flor, Round Pavilion, and Dom Café;
Those men and women in salons who fill the long nights with alcohol, cigarettes, and ambiguous words;

That sense of lethargy—a feeling of being unable to muster any enthusiasm for anything yet unable to stop—is a true reflection of the lives of the "fashionable young men" in postwar Paris.

Readers recognized the scenes described and could even identify certain well-known figures in social circles.

Some scoffed, criticizing in the salon: "What can Sorel's characters do besides squander their inheritance and talk about non-existent suffering?"

Some people also sensed a cold reality and an indescribable sense of nothingness between the lines.

“Jacques didn’t say anything, but you could tell he was finished just by looking at him sitting there.”

“Belte was involved with every man, but her eyes were empty.”

"Cohen always seems to be trying to grasp something, but he only manages to grasp thin air."

"Saint-Falgo uses jokes to cover everything up... The description is too accurate, so accurate it's painful."

Those who were between thirty and fifty years old and had personally experienced the Franco-Prussian War reacted the most strongly.

However, what sparked even more widespread discussion and surprise was Lionel's tone in handling this subject matter.

This was quite different from the lengthy psychological analyses and emotional outpourings popular at the time, or the naturalistic literature's obsession with piling up details—

The narrative of "The Sun Also Rises" is so calm and objective that it borders on cruel!

The author is like an emotionless mirror, placed on the streets of Paris, reflecting a certain café and a certain group of people.

He uses only simple dialogue and actions to present the characters, then changes the scene and repeats everything, rarely directly stating what the characters encountered in the past.

The reader can vaguely sense that Jacques was wounded in the war and suffered great psychological trauma, yet the author deliberately avoids any psychological description.

Everything was revealed through sporadic conversations, evasive behavior, and snippets of conversation from others.

There's also the emptiness behind Bert's indulgence, the barely suppressed anxiety beneath Cohen's nonchalant demeanor, and Saint-Falgo constantly teetering on the brink of collapse...

There is no direct description; everything is hidden in those extremely short dialogues and actions, leaving us only to speculate rather than to be certain.

Even this novel doesn't tell the "story" they expected—

There is no complete plot progression, no clear timeline, only fragmented days, one drinking session after another, and one conversation after another.

But strangely enough, these fragments stick to the reader's mind and can't be shaken off.

On his way home in a carriage, a bank clerk suddenly remembered a line from the novel spoken by Berthe: "It's the same everywhere; you can only carry yourself with you."

He looked out the window at the Parisian streets rushing by and suddenly felt tired—he had been going back and forth between home and the bank every day for ten years.

He walked with himself for ten years, but everything remained the same.

A retired professor was in a coffee shop, wearing reading glasses, reading carefully, then putting down the newspaper and staring blankly into space.

He taught for forty years, instructing countless students, many of whom enrolled in the years following the war and were in the same situation described in novels—

His eyes were vacant, and he often couldn't find his focus. If no one was there to urge him on, he would just drift through each day in a daze.

Parisian readers unanimously groaned in anguish: "What on earth is Sorel writing?"

The same question was asked by Maupassant on Saturday at Zola's Villa Médan.

He added, "Leon, this time your writing is much shorter than the teacher's, giving the reader too little information. Why did you write it this way?"

Lionel, sitting by the fireplace, smiled slightly: "Do you know what an iceberg looks like?"

All eyes were on him, and Chekhov's eyes shone like stars.

(Two chapters finished. Thank you everyone. Please vote with your monthly tickets.)

(End of this chapter)