Théocrine knows things which are rather useless; his ideas are always strange, his memory always at work. He is a supercilious dreamer, and always seems to laugh at those whom he considers as his inferiors. I read my book to him; he listens. Afterwards, he speaks to me about his own book. What does he think of mine? I told you so before: he speaks to me of his own work! What an amazing difference there is between a beautiful book and a perfect book! When a book elevates your mind, and inspires you with noble thoughts, you require nothing else to judge it; it is a good and masterly work. The fools do not understand what they read. The mediocre think they understand thoroughly. Great minds do not always understand every page of a book; they think obscure that which is obscure, and clear that which is clear. The pedantic find obscure that which is not, and refuse to understand that which is perfectly clear. Molière would have been a perfect writer had he only avoided jargon and barbarisms, and written more purely. Ronsard had in him enough good and bad to form great disciples in prose and verse. Corneille, at his best, is original and inimitable, but he is uneven. He had a sublime mind, and has written a few verses which are among the best ever written. Racine is more human. He has imitated the Greek classics, and in his tragedies there is simplicity, clearness, and pathos. Corneille paints men as they ought to be; Racine paints them as they are. Corneille is more moral; Racine is more natural. The former, it seems, owes much to Sophocles; the latter, to Euripides. How is it that people at the theatre laugh so freely, and yet are ashamed to weep? Is it less natural to be moved by all that is worthy of pity than to burst out laughing at all that is ridiculous? Is it that we consider it weak to cry, especially when the cause of our emotion is an artificial one? But the cause of our laughter at the theatre is also artificial. Some persons think it is as childish to laugh excessively as to sob. Not only should plays not be immoral; they should be elevating. Logic is the art of convincing oneself of some truth. Eloquence is a gift of the soul which makes one capable of conquering the hearts and minds of the listeners and of making them believe anything one pleases. He who pays attention only to the taste of his own century thinks more of himself than of his writings. One should always aim at perfection. If our contemporaries fail to do us justice, posterity may do so. Horace and Boileau have said all this before. I take your word for it; but may I not, after them, "think a true thought," which others will think after me? There are more tools than workers, and among the latter, more bad than good ones.