Today's motto, which is startlingly pertinent to the weblog form, is from Jules Renard. Here's the quote:

Le plus artiste ne sera pas de s'atteler � quelque gros oeuvre, comme la fabrication d'un roman, par exemple o� l'esprit tout entier devra se plier aux exigences d'un sujet absorbant qu'il s'est impos� ; mais le plus artiste sera d'�crire, par petits bonds, sur cent sujets qui surgiront � l'improviste, d'�mietter pour ainsi dire sa pens�e. De la sorte, rien n'est forc�. Tout a le charme du non voulu, du naturel. On ne provoque pas : on attend.

Let's see, the translation goes roughly: What becomes the artist most isn't going to come out of harnessing oneself to some huge work, like the fabrication of a novel, where the spirit bows to the exigencies of a wholly absorbing subject it has imposed on itself; instead, it will come from writing, by little jumps, on a hundred subjects which spontaneously emerge - to crumble into palpable bits, so to speak, one's bright ideas. Nothing is forced, this way, and everything has the improvisational charm of the natural, of what isn't willed. One doesn't provoke - one awaits."

As you can see, even when the French is simple, the translation is tortured. "Improvisational charm", for instance, is obviously not there, and yet the preceding sentence, with its "a l'improviste", has an on tiptoes lightness which I was determined to pull into the translation, in spite of the leaden footing of my "spontaneously emerge." The point is that Renard saw his journal as the ultimate expression of his peculiar genius, and he was right. Supposedly Becket was inspired to his most pared down passages by reading the Journal.

I'm not that kind of writer - my pared down passages, under revision, have a magical tendency to branch out, to luxuriate - but I like the hundred hops, the bouncing ball brain.