this morning: i lost two novels

from the journal of edmond de goncourt (1850?)

I have had happily confirmed the confidences of Gavarni on the economical manner in which Balzac dispensed his sperm. Lovey-dovey and amorous play, up to ejaculation, would be all right, but only up to ejaculation. Sperm to him meant emission of purest cerebral substance, and therefore a filtering, a loss through the member, of a potential act of artistic creation. “I don’t know what occasion, what unfortunate circumstance caused him to ignore his pet theory, but he arrived at Latouche’s once, exclaiming ‘This morning I lost a novel.’

indeed, a better euphemism does not yet exist.

addendum: i remember reading something similar about the equally kooky, george “nard dog” shaw—but i am in too much of a post-coital novel-losing stupor and thus am not able to find the reference.