Crying at the feet of Venus

Author: Zhou Guoping
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-08-01
Features: The Power of Conciseness – Reading Jules Renard's Carrot Mustache
Different books have different levels of value. Many books in the world have very low value, or are entirely barren mines. Poor readers with poor discernment laboriously mine them, only to gain nothing in return. Books with high value, contain substance, convey unique thoughts or feelings, and their second sentences are concise, giving these thoughts or feelings a concise form. Such books possess an penetrating power that touches the heart, leaving a lasting impression. In this regard, the works of French writer Jules Renard are. Carrot Mustache is Renard's masterpiece, in which he recreates his tragic childhood. I remember the first time I read this book, I couldn't help but tear up and burst into laughter. The child in the book, who suffers discrimination and abuse at home, is intelligent yet naive, mischievous yet obedient, full of childhood charm yet forced into premature adulthood—truly both adorable and pitiful. He clearly understands his position at home, so he dares not to be willful in anything but instead strives to guess and cater to the adults' minds, only to end up making things worse and suffering double humiliation. Of course, finally he rebelled, and his rebellion was unwavering. I believe that Renard's works excel in sharp observation and biting humor, which are related to his early life experiences. The torment from his relatives made him develop an early, critical attitude toward the world. Carrot Mustache is composed of a series of independent short stories, each with exceptionally clean text, making it easy to read without any hindrance—I almost finished it in one breath. Renard's meticulous observation and concise style are well-known, and Encyclopedia Britannica describes his prose as reaching the point of having no superfluous words. Consider his description of animals in Notes on Nature: the bat—a cluster of rags on the branches; the magpie—always wearing that tailcoat, truly a most French-looking bird; the flea—a spring-loaded tobacco seed; the snake—too long; the snail—he can only walk with his tongue. Renard has excellent eyesight and a strong pen. He consciously refines his writing skills, demanding himself to write like Rodin sculpting, chipping away all the excess. He believes that style is simply using only essential words, never writing long sentences, and preferably only using subjects, verbs, and predicates. Lamartine would spend five minutes thinking before writing for an hour; Renard says it should be the other way around. He even set a rule for himself: to write only one line a day. Indeed, he belongs to the category of authors with low output. The most incisive thing I've read by him is: "I call those who have not made literature their profession classic writers." The flaw of being a professional writer is that whether or not you have something to write, you must write anyway, making it inevitable that you'll write mediocrely. Of course, a professional writer can still write with a non-professional attitude, writing only what they truly want to write, just like Renard. For a writer, saving language is a fundamental virtue. What is meant by saving language is not deliberately writing less, but striving for authenticity regardless of how much you write. This requirement in rhetoric is to cut out all unnecessary words and phrases, achieving a concise style. Because of his frugality with words, his writing truly becomes gold, with every word sounding impactful. In today's flood of printed junk, I suddenly miss Renard.