The history of literature resembles a pendulum that sometimes swings towards the new and sometimes back towards the old. The first movement is preceded by boredom with the old forms, the old models and the old rules, while the second occurs after realizing that the new creation is worse than the old practice, which now seems as beautiful and rich as ever. In both impulses, there is something sincere and something unreasonable. Literature is always renewed and, if great, it is never created from scratch.