This youthful criticism, as serious as the other is frivolous, as learned as the other is ignorant, has already established organs that are listened to, and one is sometimes surprised to find, even in the least important sheets, excellent articles emanating from it.
Joining hands with all that is fearless and superior in letters, it will deliver us from two scourges: tottering _classicism_, and false _romanticism_, which has the presumption to show itself at the feet of the true.

For modern genius already has its shadow, its copy, its parasite, its _classic_, which forms itself upon it, smears itself with its colours, assumes its livery, picks up its crumbs, and, like _the sorcerer's pupil_, puts in play, with words retained by the memory, elements of theatrical action of which it has not the secret.
Thus it does idiotic things which its master many a time has much difficulty in making good.

But the thing that must be destroyed first of all is the old false taste.

Present-day literature must be cleansed of its rust.

In vain does the rust eat into it and tarnish it.