At one of the exhibitions in small talk, a conversation accidentally comes up about a new, recently published novel. At first no one or almost no one knows about him, but suddenly interest in him wakes up. Critics consider it their duty to admire the Golden Fruits as the purest example of high art - a thing enclosed within itself, perfectly polished, the pinnacle of modern literature. A laudatory article was written by a certain Brule. No one dares to object, even the rebels are silent. Having succumbed to the overwhelming wave, the novel is read even by those who never have enough time for modern writers.
Someone who is authoritative, to whom the weakest “poor ignoramuses”, wandering at night, getting stuck in a quagmire, praying to express their own judgment, dare to note that for all the indisputable merits of the novel there are some flaws in it, for example, in language. In his opinion, there is a lot of confusion in him, he is clumsy, even sometimes heavy, but the classics, when they were innovators, also seemed confused and clumsy. In general, the book is modern and perfectly reflects the spirit of the times, and this is what distinguishes real works of art.
Someone else, not succumbing to a general epidemic of enthusiasm, does not express his skepticism aloud, but pretends to be a contemptuous, slightly annoyed look. His like-minded person, only in private with him, dares to admit that he also does not see merits in the book: in her opinion, she is difficult, cold and seems fake.
Other experts see the value of the “Golden Fruits” in that the book is true, it has amazing accuracy, it is more real than life itself. They seek to unravel how it is made, relish individual fragments, like juicy slices of some exotic fruit, compare this work with Watteau, with Fragonard, with ripples of water in the moonlight.
The most exalted ones fight in ecstasy, as if pierced by electric current, others convince that the book is false, it doesn’t happen in life, others climb into them with explanations. Women compare themselves with the heroine, suck the scenes of the novel and try them on themselves.
Someone is trying to analyze one of the scenes of the novel out of context, it seems far from reality, devoid of meaning. The only thing known about the scene is that the young man threw a shawl on the girl’s shoulders. Those who are in doubt ask the staunch supporters of the book to explain some details to them, but the "stern" start backing away from them, as from heretics. They attack the lonely Jean Labori, who is especially diligently silent. A terrible suspicion gravitates over him. He begins, stammering, making excuses, calming the rest, let everyone know: he is an empty vessel, ready to accept everything with which they wish to fill it. Who does not agree - pretends to be blind, deaf. But there is one who does not want to give in: it seems to her that the Golden Fruits are mortal boredom, and if there are any virtues in the book, she asks to prove them with the book in her hands. Those who think the same way she straighten her shoulders and smile gratefully at her. Maybe they saw the merits of the work for a long time themselves, but decided that because of such a smallness you can’t call the book a masterpiece, and then they will laugh at the others, at the un-spoiled, contented “liquid gruel for toothless”, they will treat them like children. However, a fleeting flash is immediately dimmed. All eyes turn to two venerable critics. In one hurricane, a powerful mind is raging, thoughts wandering in his eyes feverishly. The other is like a wineskin filled with something valuable, which it shares only with the elect. They decide to put this idiotic, this outrageous calm in their place and explain the merits of the work with abstruse terms that confuse the listeners even more. And those who for a moment were eager to go to the "sunny expanse" again find themselves driven into the "endless expanse of the ice tundra."
Only one of the whole crowd comprehends the truth, notices the conspiratorial look that those two exchange before locking themselves with a triple lock from the others and expressing their judgment. Now everyone worships them slavishly, he is lonely, “comprehended the truth”, everyone is looking for a like-minded person, and when he finally finds them, those two look at them as mentally retarded, who cannot understand the intricacies, chuckle at them and are surprised that they have been discussing the Golden Fruits for so long.
Critics soon appear - such as a certain Mono who calls the Golden Fruits "zero"; The metetad goes further and sharply opposes Breye. A certain Marta finds the novel ridiculous, considers it a comedy. Any epithets are suitable for the "Golden Fruits", it has everything in the world, some say it is a real, real world. There are those who came before the Golden Fruits, and those after. We are the generation of the Golden Fruits, they will call us that, others pick up. The limit is reached. However, voices calling the novel cheap, vulgar, empty place are heard more clearly. Faithful supporters claim that the writer made some flaws on purpose. They object that if the author decided to introduce the elements of vulgarity deliberately into the novel, he would have thickened the paints, made them juicier, turned them into a literary device, and hiding the flaws under the word “on purpose” is ridiculous and unjustified. Someone this argument is confusing.
However, a benevolent critic, a crowd hungry for truth asks with a book in his hands to prove its beauty. He makes a feeble attempt, but his words, torn from his tongue, “fall into limp leaves,” he cannot find a single example to confirm his laudatory reviews and retreats in disgrace. The characters themselves are surprised at how they happen to be present all the time with incredible changes in their attitude to the book, but this already seems quite familiar. All these causeless sudden hobbies are like massive hallucinations. More recently, no one dared to object to the merits of the Golden Fruits, and it soon turns out that they are being talked about less and less, then they completely forget that such a novel has ever existed, and only descendants will be able to say for sure in a few years whether this book is true literature or not.
