Flaubert handed over a glass of Bordeaux red wine, which shimmered with a ruby-like blush in the flickering firelight of the fireplace.
Lionel felt the coolness of the crystal glass and fell into contemplation.
The living room instantly quieted down, all eyes focused on him—Zola with inquiry and expectation, Goncourt stroking his beard thoughtfully, Maupassant a little nervous, Daudet with a gentle gaze...
Everyone was waiting for this rising star of the literary world to declare his allegiance.
Lionel knew that what Flaubert handed him was not just wine, but a blank flag, waiting for him to draw his emblem.
He could no longer be as equivocal as before.
Lionel raised his glass:
"Thank you for the fine wine, Monsieur Flaubert, and thank you all for your attention to The Curious Case of Benjamin Button."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone, his tone becoming clear and firm:
"However, I must frankly say, just as when I wrote The Old Guard or Letter from an Unknown Woman—
When I conceived the story of Benjamin Button, I didn't deliberately think about 'naturalism' or 'documentary fiction,' or even the concepts of 'realism' or 'romanticism'."
At these words, Zola's brow furrowed slightly, and Goncourt stopped stroking his beard.
In this era, it was incredible to write a novel without adhering to a certain 'ism', especially for someone so young.
A flash of understanding and interest flickered in Flaubert's eyes:
"Oh? Are you planning to be the Baudelaire among novelists?"
Baudelaire, the author of Les Fleurs du Mal, was a pioneer of French Symbolist poetry, known for rejecting tradition and forging his own path at the beginning of his career.
But Lionel, at least at this stage, didn't want to be a renegade standard-bearer.
He put down his wine glass and shook his head:
"Allow me to explain. I greatly admire naturalism's persistent excavation of reality, detail, and human nature; I also agree with Monsieur Goncourt's advocacy of the 'documentary style'—
It demands that the author be as rigorous as a historian, building a convincing world upon the bedrock of solid details.
Of course, there is also realism; Monsieur Balzac's The Human Comedy encompasses everything, setting an unparalleled monument for us.
As for the once-popular 'romanticism' and 'fantasy fiction,' their unrestrained imagination has also provided me with endless inspiration."
He candidly acknowledged the value of various schools, which somewhat softened Zola's and Goncourt's expressions.
Flaubert's interest deepened; he was very curious where Lionel would ultimately go.
Maupassant, Huysmans, and others looked confused.
Was Lionel still planning to be an elusive eel?
"But,"
Lionel's tone shifted, and a surge of enthusiasm came into his voice:
"In my opinion, these great 'isms' are more like a dazzling array of precious ingredients placed before a chef, rather than a recipe dictating which dish he must make.
If I were this chef, I wouldn't tell myself, 'You must cook French,' or 'You must cook Italian,' 'You must cook Spanish.' I simply want to make a delicious dish, not worry about which cookbook it belongs to."
"Ha, fortunately you didn't say 'English'!"
Maupassant suddenly interjected playfully, and a light laugh rippled through the room.
Lionel didn't mind, but continued:
"If it were literature, 'English' could also be a good dish."
Then he returned to the main topic:
"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is just such a 'dish.' When I needed to depict Paris in the scorching heat of 1789, the details of the 'documentary style' were my most solid support.
I had to make readers feel Luc Button's painful choices under immense fear, and naturalism's profound insight into human nature was a crucial reference for portraying his psychology.
I longed to show the infant born old, whose very existence questioned the normal course of life and the laws of time.
At this point, 'romanticism' and 'fantasy fiction' endowed me with the courage and imagination to break the shackles of reality.
And when I wanted to open the entire story with Daphné's dying recollections amidst the smoke and fire of the Paris Commune, realism's delicate portrayal of atmosphere, emotion, and character relationships became indispensable."
He looked around at everyone, finally resting his gaze on Flaubert, his eyes bright and candid:
"So, you ask me which 'ism' I belong to? Monsieur Flaubert, I can only say that I belong to the needs of the story itself.
What I desire is to have such freedom in creation—when the story requires precise historical research, I can be as rigorous as an archivist;
When it needs to explore how human nature is alienated by environment, I can be as cold as an anatomist;
When it needs a sensational setting to question human existence itself, I am like a wizard in a fable."
A silence fell over the living room.
This creative view of "free choice and mixed application" undoubtedly challenged the clear boundaries of 19th-century literary circles, which were accustomed to classifying writers by genre.
Maupassant couldn't help but speak, with a hint of confusion and curiosity:
"Lionel, that sounds... very free. But wouldn't such freedom lead to chaos?
Without a core idea or method as an anchor point, how can a work maintain stylistic unity and thematic depth?"
This was almost everyone's question, especially among the younger writers.
Lionel looked at Maupassant:
"Guy, that's a good question. The anchor point for this freedom is not in the dogma of some external 'ism,' but internally—in 'man' himself."
Huysmans laughed:
"That sounds like something from 400 years ago."
Lionel knew he was referring to humanism and anthropocentrism during the Renaissance, but he didn't rush to refute, instead emphasizing the word again:
"'Man'! This is the ultimate direction of all our writing.
Monsieur Flaubert once taught us, 'Madame Bovary, c'est moi!' Doesn't that reveal the deepest mystery of literature?
We write about man, understand man, ultimately to understand ourselves.
We are firmly bound to our physical bodies—hunger, illness, aging, death are iron laws, the domain of naturalist observation.
We also live in specific social environments—the storm of the Revolution, the glory of the Empire, the blood and fire of the Commune... this is the land cultivated by realism.
However, neither this heavy flesh nor the shackles of reality can prevent us from soaring unrestrainedly with imagination! Even allowing time to flow backward, and the dead to rise again."
He paused for a moment, letting everyone digest his words.
"Benjamin Button."
Lionel's voice deepened, full of emotion.
"He is an ultimate symbol, a vehicle that pushes this 'mixed' essence of man to an extreme.
I write about him not to prove the correctness of a certain 'ism,' but to attempt, through this extreme, fictional 'man,' to reflect, to magnify, to question the common dilemmas and hopes of all of 'us' in the face of time, destiny, loneliness, love, and being loved."
Lionel concluded, his gaze clear and firm:
"Therefore, my creative philosophy might be called a 'free mixture in service of humanity.'
I freely use the tools provided by various 'isms'—the depiction of reality, the observation of nature, the precision of documentation, the wings of fantasy, the poetry of symbolism—but all of this revolves tightly around the exploration, understanding, and expression of 'man.'
Not 'ism for the sake of 'ism', but writing for humanity. Man himself is the most marvelous and complex mixture of reality and fantasy, flesh and spirit, history and the present, the concrete and the symbolic.
As for which ready-made drawer it should be placed in? I believe time will provide the answer, or perhaps, it was never meant to be put in any ready-made drawer at all."
As Lionel's words faded, the salon fell into a longer silence.
The light of day streamed in through the windows, illuminating the complex expressions on everyone's faces—deep thought, shock, doubt, and also a glimmer of sudden understanding.
After a long time, Flaubert let out a hearty laugh.
He clapped Lionel vigorously on the shoulder, his eyes full of admiration:
"Good! Well said! 'Writing for humanity'! 'Man is a marvelous mixture'!"
Flaubert raised his glass: "To Lionel Sorel! To his 'freak baby'!"
Everyone raised their glasses, and the atmosphere became lively again.
Although the seeds of doubt and debate had been sown, at least for this moment, Lionel had declared in a not sharp, yet very clear way, that he was not an appendage to any camp or school.
(End of this chapter)
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