Flaubert, for instance, hated the works of Dickens: “What defective composition!”
But he himself reproduces the same saying about Flaubert wanting to write a novel about nothing.
His clarity of conviction prompts him to praise Flaubert, Henry James, and Joyce, though the praise is qualified.
James Wood reminds us again and again that Flaubert invented realism and Bloom that Shakespeare invented us.
Like Flaubert, Tolstoy and Stendhal greatly admired Walter Scott.
The rich continence of Flaubert, the stippled concision of Mérimée or the dry-sherry wit of Voltaire are surer guides.
I did not attempt a monument in the frozen manner of your Flaubert.
There is no truth in the gossip that Guy was the son of Flaubert.
Therefore, Flaubert did not express himself thus because he was not successful.
The classic modern example of the tragedy of the artist who repudiates the world is Flaubert.