Loti’s novels are never complicated with a mass of incidents.  The characters are of humble station and their life is as simple as their soul. Aziyade, The Romance of a Spahi, An Iceland Fisherman, Ramuntcho, all present the story of a love and a separation.  A departure, or death itself, intervenes to put an end to the romance.  But the cause matters little; the separation is the same; the hearts are broken; Nature survives; it covers over and absorbs the miserable ruins which we leave behind us.  No one better than Loti has ever brought out the frailty of all things pertaining to us, for no one better than he has made us realize the persistency of life and the indifference of Nature.

This circumstance imparts to the reading of M. Loti’s works a character of peculiar sadness.  The trend of his novels is not one that incites curiosity; his heroes are simple, and the atmosphere in which they live is foreign to us.  What saddens us is not their history, but the undefinable impression that our pleasures are nothing and that we are but an accident.  This is a thought common to the degree of triteness among moralists and theologians; but as they present it, it fails to move us.  It troubles us as presented by M. Loti, because he has known how to give it all the force of a sensation.

How has he accomplished this?

He writes with extreme simplicity, and is not averse to the use of vague and indefinite expressions.  And yet the wealth and precision of Gautier’s and Hugo’s language fail to endow their landscapes with the striking charm and intense life which are to be found in those of Loti.  I can find no other reason for this than that which I have suggested above:  the landscape, in Hugo’s and in Gautier’s scenes, is a background and nothing more; while Loti makes it the predominating figure of his drama.  Our sensibilities are necessarily aroused before this apparition of Nature, blind, inaccessible, and all-powerful as the Fates of old.

It may prove interesting to inquire how Loti contrived to sound such a new note in art.

He boasted, on the day of his reception into the French Academy, that he had never read.  Many protested, some smiled, and a large number of persons refused to believe the assertion.  Yet the statement was actually quite credible, for the foundation and basis of M. Loti rest on a naive simplicity which makes him very sensitive to the things of the outside world, and gives him a perfect comprehension of simple souls.  He is not a reader, for he is not imbued with book notions of things; his ideas of them are direct, and everything with him is not memory, but reflected sensation.

On the other hand, that sailor-life which had enabled him to see the world, must have confirmed in him this mental attitude.  The deck officer who watches the vessel’s course may do nothing which could distract his attention; but while ever ready to act and always unoccupied, he thinks, he dreams, he listens to the voices of the sea; and everything about him is of interest to him, the shape of the clouds, the aspect of skies and waters.  He knows that a mere board’s thickness is all that separates him and defends him from death.  Such is the habitual state of mind which M. Loti has brought to the colouring of his books.