author - "Émile Zola"
Description
His Masterpiece, sometimes translated as “The Work” or “The Masterpiece,” is Zola’s 14th entry in his Rougon-Macquart series of novels. In it we see Claude Lantier, a painter with obvious talent, struggle to leave a revolutionary mark on the art world of 19th-century Paris. The novel deftly explores the themes of genius, poverty, purity in art, art as a beaurocratic institution, obsession, and madness.
The book is notable not just for its accurate portrayal of the art world of the time, but also for the interesting personal details Zola incorporated into the book. Lantier is a pastiche of several famous painters Zola personally knew, including Paul Cézanne, Claude Monet, and Édouard Manet; Lantier’s masterpiece is based on Manet’s revolutionary painting Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe; and the novel’s accuracy is even blamed on ending the long friendship between Zola and Cézanne. Zola himself includes a self-portrait, as the character Pierre Sandoz.
Vizetelly’s translation is fresh and readable, and Zola’s rendition of Paris and the surrounding countryside is vibrant and engrossing. Rarely do we get such a close and engaging window into bohemian life in old Paris.
ocean. However, some footsteps were heard, and Abbe Rose, againmistrustful, saw a man go by, a tall and sturdy man, who wore clogs andwas bareheaded, showing his thick and closely-cut white hair. "Is notthat your brother?" asked the old priest.
Pierre had not stirred. "Yes, it is my brother Guillaume," he quietlyresponded. "I have found him again since I have been coming occasionallyto the Sacred Heart. He owns a house close by, where he has been livingfor more than twenty years, I think. When we meet we shake hands, but Ihave never even been to his house. Oh! all is quite dead between us, wehave nothing more in common, we are parted by worlds."
Abbe Rose's tender smile again appeared, and he waved his hand as if tosay that one must never despair of love. Guillaume Froment, a savant oflofty intelligence, a chemist who lived apart from others, like one whorebelled against the social system, was now a parishioner of the abbe's,and when the latter passed the house where Guillaume lived with his
ing her,he seized hold of her by the arms, shook her violently and sent hersprawling upon the bed of the children, who recommenced crying. And helay down again, mumbling, like a man resolving on something that hepreviously hesitated to do:
"You don't know what you've done, Gervaise. You've made a big mistake;you'll see."
For an instant the children continued sobbing. Their mother, whoremained bending over the bed, held them both in her embrace, and keptrepeating the same words in a monotonous tone of voice.
"Ah! if it weren't for you! My poor little ones! If it weren't foryou! If it weren't for you!"
Stretched out quietly, his eyes raised to the faded strip of chintz,Lantier no longer listened, but seemed to be buried in a fixed idea.He remained thus for nearly an hour, without giving way to sleep, inspite of the fatigue which weighed his eyelids down.
He finally turned toward Gervaise, his face set hard in determination.She had gotten the children up and dressed and had almost fini
it a bit," replied Fauchery. "I certainly must make theacquaintance of your Nana before talking about her. Besides, I'vemade no promises."
Then to put an end to the discussion, he introduced his cousin, M.Hector de la Faloise, a young man who had come to finish hiseducation in Paris. The manager took the young man's measure at aglance. But Hector returned his scrutiny with deep interest. This,then, was that Bordenave, that showman of the sex who treated womenlike a convict overseer, that clever fellow who was always at fullsteam over some advertising dodge, that shouting, spitting, thigh-slapping fellow, that cynic with the soul of a policeman! Hectorwas under the impression that he ought to discover some amiableobservation for the occasion.
"Your theater--" he began in dulcet tones.
Bordenave interrupted him with a savage phrase, as becomes a man whodotes on frank situations.
"Call it my brothel!"
At this Fauchery laughed approvingly, while La Faloise stopped with
n ill-greased pulley, and ended by degenerating into a terrible spasm of coughing. The fire basket now clearly lit up his large head, with its scanty white hair and flat, livid face, spotted with bluish patches. He was short, with an enormous neck, projecting calves and heels, and long arms, with massive hands falling to his knees. For the rest, like his horse, which stood immovable, without suffering from the wind, he seemed to be made of stone; he had no appearance of feeling either the cold or the gusts that whistled at his ears. When he coughed his throat was torn by a deep rasping; he spat at the foot of the basket and the earth was blackened.
Étienne looked at him and at the ground which he had thus stained.
"Have you been working long at the mine?"
Bonnemort flung open both arms.
"Long? I should think so. I was not eight when I went down into the Voreux and I am now fifty-eight. Reckon that up! I have been everything down there; at first trammer, then putter, when I h
Description
His Masterpiece, sometimes translated as “The Work” or “The Masterpiece,” is Zola’s 14th entry in his Rougon-Macquart series of novels. In it we see Claude Lantier, a painter with obvious talent, struggle to leave a revolutionary mark on the art world of 19th-century Paris. The novel deftly explores the themes of genius, poverty, purity in art, art as a beaurocratic institution, obsession, and madness.
The book is notable not just for its accurate portrayal of the art world of the time, but also for the interesting personal details Zola incorporated into the book. Lantier is a pastiche of several famous painters Zola personally knew, including Paul Cézanne, Claude Monet, and Édouard Manet; Lantier’s masterpiece is based on Manet’s revolutionary painting Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe; and the novel’s accuracy is even blamed on ending the long friendship between Zola and Cézanne. Zola himself includes a self-portrait, as the character Pierre Sandoz.
Vizetelly’s translation is fresh and readable, and Zola’s rendition of Paris and the surrounding countryside is vibrant and engrossing. Rarely do we get such a close and engaging window into bohemian life in old Paris.
ocean. However, some footsteps were heard, and Abbe Rose, againmistrustful, saw a man go by, a tall and sturdy man, who wore clogs andwas bareheaded, showing his thick and closely-cut white hair. "Is notthat your brother?" asked the old priest.
Pierre had not stirred. "Yes, it is my brother Guillaume," he quietlyresponded. "I have found him again since I have been coming occasionallyto the Sacred Heart. He owns a house close by, where he has been livingfor more than twenty years, I think. When we meet we shake hands, but Ihave never even been to his house. Oh! all is quite dead between us, wehave nothing more in common, we are parted by worlds."
Abbe Rose's tender smile again appeared, and he waved his hand as if tosay that one must never despair of love. Guillaume Froment, a savant oflofty intelligence, a chemist who lived apart from others, like one whorebelled against the social system, was now a parishioner of the abbe's,and when the latter passed the house where Guillaume lived with his
ing her,he seized hold of her by the arms, shook her violently and sent hersprawling upon the bed of the children, who recommenced crying. And helay down again, mumbling, like a man resolving on something that hepreviously hesitated to do:
"You don't know what you've done, Gervaise. You've made a big mistake;you'll see."
For an instant the children continued sobbing. Their mother, whoremained bending over the bed, held them both in her embrace, and keptrepeating the same words in a monotonous tone of voice.
"Ah! if it weren't for you! My poor little ones! If it weren't foryou! If it weren't for you!"
Stretched out quietly, his eyes raised to the faded strip of chintz,Lantier no longer listened, but seemed to be buried in a fixed idea.He remained thus for nearly an hour, without giving way to sleep, inspite of the fatigue which weighed his eyelids down.
He finally turned toward Gervaise, his face set hard in determination.She had gotten the children up and dressed and had almost fini
it a bit," replied Fauchery. "I certainly must make theacquaintance of your Nana before talking about her. Besides, I'vemade no promises."
Then to put an end to the discussion, he introduced his cousin, M.Hector de la Faloise, a young man who had come to finish hiseducation in Paris. The manager took the young man's measure at aglance. But Hector returned his scrutiny with deep interest. This,then, was that Bordenave, that showman of the sex who treated womenlike a convict overseer, that clever fellow who was always at fullsteam over some advertising dodge, that shouting, spitting, thigh-slapping fellow, that cynic with the soul of a policeman! Hectorwas under the impression that he ought to discover some amiableobservation for the occasion.
"Your theater--" he began in dulcet tones.
Bordenave interrupted him with a savage phrase, as becomes a man whodotes on frank situations.
"Call it my brothel!"
At this Fauchery laughed approvingly, while La Faloise stopped with
n ill-greased pulley, and ended by degenerating into a terrible spasm of coughing. The fire basket now clearly lit up his large head, with its scanty white hair and flat, livid face, spotted with bluish patches. He was short, with an enormous neck, projecting calves and heels, and long arms, with massive hands falling to his knees. For the rest, like his horse, which stood immovable, without suffering from the wind, he seemed to be made of stone; he had no appearance of feeling either the cold or the gusts that whistled at his ears. When he coughed his throat was torn by a deep rasping; he spat at the foot of the basket and the earth was blackened.
Étienne looked at him and at the ground which he had thus stained.
"Have you been working long at the mine?"
Bonnemort flung open both arms.
"Long? I should think so. I was not eight when I went down into the Voreux and I am now fifty-eight. Reckon that up! I have been everything down there; at first trammer, then putter, when I h