The Spanish newspaper man is endowed with an extraordinary lack of
imagination and of curiosity. I recall having given a friend, who was a
journalist, a little book of Nietzsche's to read, which he returned with
the remark that he had not been able to get through it, as it was
insufferable drivel. I have heard the same opinion, or similar ones,
expressed by journalists of Ibsen, Schopenhauer, Dostoievsky, Stendhal
and all the most stimulating minds of Europe.
The wretched Saint Aubin, wretched certainly as a critic, used to
ridicule Tolstoi and the illness which resulted in his death,
maintaining that it was nothing more than an advertisement. The most
benighted vulgarity reigns in our press.
Upon occasion, vulgarity goes hand in hand with an ignorance which is
astounding. I remember going to a cafe on the Calle de Alcala known as
la Maison Doree one afternoon with Regoyos. Felipe Trigo, the novelist,
sat down at our table with a friend of his, a journalist, I believe,
from America. I have never been a friend of Trigo's, and could never
take any interest either in the man or his work, which to my mind is
tiresome and commercially erotic, besides being absolutely devoid of all
charm.
Regoyos, who is effusive by nature, soon became engaged in conversation
with them, and the talk turned upon artistic subjects, in which he was
interested, and then to his travels abroad.
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