The taste of honey

In Short

This collection acts as a personal, unvarnished notebook of a dedicated linguist and critic. It is a mosaic of observations on world literature, spanning Persian poets, Latin rhetoricians, and South American novelists. Rather than a structured history, it functions as a curated wander through the author’s private library, emphasizing the necessity of beauty, the danger of a purely commercial society, and the enduring vitality of the "old arts." It remains a testament to the idea that true literature is a universal, life-giving bridge between eras and cultures.

The Story

The narrative arc of the book is defined not by a plot, but by the movement of a mind through history and geography. It opens with an intimate confession: these notes were never intended for public consumption but were preserved for personal pleasure, gathered from loose pages written over a lifetime. The speaker establishes the primary conflict at the outset: the erosion of individual, reflective life in the face of a modern, mechanical, and commercialized civilization. The "story" is the search for a remedy to this sterility.

The author moves from the gardens of the Luxembourg, where she sits in spirit with Pierre Loti, to the heat of Palermo, where she traces the footsteps of Wagner and the ancient ghosts of Sicily. She evaluates the giants of literature—Goethe, Heine, Horace, and the Persian master Hafiz—not merely as historical figures, but as living companions who offer the "taste of honey" in a bitter world. Along the way, she offers sharp critiques of contemporary editors and critics, lamenting the loss of the "rich, deep-pigmented" prose she prizes in favor of sanitized, palatable commodities.

As the journey progresses, the focus shifts to the "new world" of the Americas and the struggle to sustain high art in an environment dominated by the dollar and the machine. She explores the cultural richness of Venezuela, Brazil, and the African diaspora, finding in their stories a raw, unexpanded power that she believes will define the future. She reflects on the nature of words themselves—how they carry the "phosphoric, ancient visions" of the races that formed them—and warns that as languages lose their vigor, so too do we lose our capacity for nobility.

The resolution, if one can call it that, is an insistence on the persistence of the human spirit. She concludes not with a finality, but with a series of meditations on the "red earth" of human impulse that outlasts all empires and laws. She finds solace in the belief that the future belongs to the people, and that the "walled gardens" of exclusive, high-culture preservation are crumbling. The final pages return to the importance of the "fine human instrument"—the ability to feel and respond to art without the need for intellectual armor—affirming that while the world may grow noisy and cold, the private act of reading remains an act of defiance, a way to keep the "flickering flame" of the past alive for a future that will, in turn, learn to read the "Book of Fate."

How It Unfolds

The private collection The volume begins by establishing its origins as a series of informal notes, intentionally unedited to preserve the sincerity of the original impressions. It frames reading as a personal pilgrimage rather than an academic exercise.

The critique of the modern The author contrasts the "noisy, grown-up toys" of a mechanical civilization with the quiet, reflective lives of the great poets. She warns that collective living and the dominance of the commercial mind are dulling the human senses.

The pilgrimage to Sicily The narrative moves to the physical and mental landscape of Palermo, linking the creation of music and poetry to specific, evocative locations. This section serves as a meditation on how geography fuels the artistic imagination.

The defense of the old masters By examining the works of Horace, Hafiz, and the Indian dramatists, the author argues that the "old arts" are life-giving. She posits that these writers possessed a balance of vision that modern intellectuals, preoccupied with cynicism and "pugilism," have lost.

The linguistic exploration The author shifts to the nature of words as vessels of history and culture. She argues that words like "Delhi" or "Agra" have internal textures, and that languages are losing their vigor due to a lack of pride in their heritage.

The future of the race-soul The final movement looks toward the contribution of the African continent and the Americas to global art. It concludes with the hope that, despite the sterility of the present, the underlying truth of human feeling will eventually break through the noise of the "bridge" we are currently crossing.

The People

The author herself is the central figure, a linguist and "prosaist" who values the life of the mind above all else. She is a woman who finds more kinship with dead poets than with her own neighbors.

She is guided by the spirits of figures like Hafiz, the Persian poet she admires for his youthful, joyous engagement with life, and Horace, whom she champions as the ultimate teacher of the "simple life" and the enemy of money-mad modernness. Petőfi, the Hungarian poet, appears as a tragic, flickering flame—a man who suffered for his art but never lost his revolutionary hope. Coelho Netto stands as a representative of the resourceful, versatile artist who manages to survive in the "resisting tropic wilderness" of Brazil, serving as a model for how one might maintain dignity in an unappreciative culture. Finally, she interacts with the ghosts of the great novelists like Zola and Maupassant, whom she treats as tragic, complex masters of the "hidden soul," whose genius was eventually consumed by the very scientific, cynical age they helped to usher in.

In Its Own Voice

"There is something I want and can not find; it is bad form however to look a fact too firmly in the face."

The author expresses her dissatisfaction with modern, watered-down biographies that offer "pleasant reading" but lack the depth of true, pigmented art.

"The individual is passing so rapidly in America, and collective living being substituted, that we can not expect to enjoy again such an exquisite personality."

She reflects on the decline of unique, idiosyncratic lives in an age dominated by radio, movies, and mass-market culture.

"Art is stenographic mind-reading of the trembling soul."

This definition underscores her belief that true creativity is not an intellectual puzzle, but a direct, sensitive transmission of human emotion.

What It's Really About

The central theme is the preservation of the "fine human instrument" in a world increasingly hostile to reflection. The author argues that modern, "scientifically-minded" civilization is sterile because it has lost the ability to feel and to cherish the irrational beauty of the past. She asks: how can we maintain our humanity when our language is becoming lean and our leisure is being replaced by noise? The book is an argument for the superiority of the "inner" life over the "outer" world of dollars and commerce. It posits that true understanding does not require a degree, but rather a "true heart" capable of engaging with the "wind of the infinite." It is a plea for the survival of the individual soul in an age of collective conformity.

Why Read It Today

Readers who feel overwhelmed by the relentless pace of contemporary digital life will find a quiet, resonant ally in these pages. The book feels like a conversation with an older, intensely well-read friend who has no interest in impressing you, but every interest in sharing a beautiful line of poetry or a forgotten historical anecdote.

However, the reader should be prepared for its idiosyncrasies. It is not a coherent, linear history; it is a fragment, a "note book," and it expects you to keep up with a mind that leaps effortlessly between languages and centuries. The tone is sometimes elitist, reflecting the period attitudes of an educated 1930s linguist, and the author’s disdain for "modern" editors and popular culture is absolute. There is no effort to make the text accessible to a beginner; she assumes you know who Loti or Petőfi are, or that you are willing to look them up.

Despite these challenges, the book is a rare, warm, and deeply sincere object. What stays with you is the author’s genuine, un-cynical love for the act of reading. It is a reminder that even in "feverish" periods, one can cultivate a private world of immense richness, making it a perfect companion for a quiet afternoon spent with a notebook of one’s own.