Marot and Rabelais are inexcusable for having mixed trash into their works: both had enough genius and natural power to be able to do without it, even among readers who look more to laugh at than admire an author. Rabelais above all is incomprehensible: his book is an enigma, whatever people say, it is inexplicable; it's a chimera, it's the face of a beautiful woman with the feet and tail of a serpent, or of some other misshapen beast; it's a monstrous assemblage of subtle and ingenious morality and of foul corruption. When it is bad, it passes far beyond the worst things, it's the charm of the canaille; when it is good, it is exquisite and excellent, it can be enjoyed by the most delicate tastes.