Whenever Christopher Moore deviates from his usual vampire stories (which are great, by the way), it's worth paying attention, because those are some of his best books. See Lamb, for example. He obsessed over the French impressionist painters for years, even lived in France for a few months. The result is high quality historical fiction, with the Christopher Moore trademarks of well developed characters that are well cared for by the author and readers.
Quotes:
How do you know, when you think blue—when you say blue—that you are talking about the same blue as anyone else?
“I’ve just been mercilessly flirted with by a strange woman,” said Pissarro.
“Whistler,” Manet called. “How’s your mother?”
Now the ragpicker threw his head back and laughed in the way only a Frenchman with seven teeth and a conscience soaked in wine can laugh, the sound his donkey might make if he were a heavier smoker and had just licked the devil’s ass to chase all taste of goodness from his tongue. The ragpicker wasn’t a scoundrel, but scoundrels envied his laugh.
“Love them all,” said Renoir. “That is the secret, young man. Love them all.” The painter let go of his arm and shrugged. “Then, even if your paintings are shit, you will have loved them all.”
“Nonsense. Syphilis is a myth. It’s Greek, I think—everyone has heard of the myth of syphilis.” “That’s the myth of Sisyphus. He spends his whole life pushing a large stone up a hill.”
“Who—what, what are you?” said Lucien. “I am a muse,” said Juliette. “And you—you? What do you do?” “I amuse,” she said.
“There’s always a price, Lucien,” she said softly, looking down.
“Yes,” she said. “Do you think great art comes at no cost? There’s a price to be paid.”
Once it was determined that Lucien and Henri were, indeed, wretched creatures with ethical compasses that pivoted around a point at their groins, which is to say, men, and that Juliette was also a creature of abstract, if not altogether absent, ethics herself, although with some fealty to beauty, which is to say, a muse, it was further determined, by unanimous consent, that in order to proceed with her revelation, more alcohol would be required, which left only to be decided the matter of where.
“Well, this should be fun,” she said in their language (a language poor in vocabulary yet rich with gesture), which involved the roll of her eyes, a joyful screech, a pelvic thrust, and a finger pointing into the future.
I love you, Lucien, but I am a muse, you are an artist, I am not here to make you comfortable.”
I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING: “WELL THANKS LOADS, CHRIS, now you’ve ruined art for everyone.” You’re welcome. It’s my pleasure.
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