Phil made a gesture of protest.
“No commonplace book,” Caracal went on, “but a bitter, bleeding slice of life—something which takes you by the throat, makes you weep and shriek and pant!”
The Cow Painting
Caracal explained his book. The general idea (an idea of genius, according to him) was this: A vast house rises in the midst of Paris, all of glass, transparent from top to bottom, without curtains. Therein swarm all the vices; yet there are no crimes, so soft and weak-willed are the personages, so incapable of anger or hatred. And they drag themselves from floor to floor, on all-fours like swine. Title, “The House of Glass”—and there you are!
“And you offer me collaboration in such nastiness?” said Phil.
“Do you know what you are saying?” replied Caracal.
“It’s my idea of your literature, and I say what I think.”
“Let it be so, mon cher; we’ll say no more about it. Rather let us look at your beautiful works. That cow painting is superb! It’s as fine as a Millet. If it’s for sale, I’ll buy it!”