Today, we have grown somewhat weary of fervent passion; we hold only cool respect for Victor Hugo and prefer the simplicity of Bach, the pure lyricism of Mozart, and the depth of Beethoven over the complexities of the Richard Wagner school. The desire for objectivity has also taken hold of our aesthetic cravings; we wish for art to be as pure and concentrated as possible and prefer the apparatus that conveys it to be as clumsy as the librettos of Italian operas, as it allows us to reach the content of the frame more quickly. The audience was no more outraged by Manet's breakfast in the open air, Renoir's early studies of flesh, or Seurat's Grande Jatte than when Delacroix's massacre at Chios was presented. The first bourgeois critique of painting without drawing was written about the Dante barque; the unbearably often repeated phrase about the unfinished painting was sc.