"the cat asleep, well buttoned into its fur"

This is only the briefest of lines, one of a piquant handful scattered throughout Tin House's edition of The Journal of Jules Renard. Renard (1864-1910) was a French writer. He's not known well here in the States, but his personal journal is considered by many in the know as one of the greatest autobiographical works of the twentieth century. He sought absolute honesty of observation and style, and was unsparing not least of himself. He knew Sarah Bernhardt and Toulouse-Lautrec, and met Renoir. Still, he found it worthy to notice. . .

"The scorn of a cat for the calf that pursues it in a meadow."
"The vitality of the cat, who appears so lazy. His ears and his eyes are always at work. He has within him prepared leaps, and, under him, ready claws."
"The quail plays with little stones and thinks it is singing."
"Bouquin's dog barks every evening, not at the moon - there isn't any - but at mystery. He renders his homage to God."
"The ideal of calm exists in a sitting cat."

I wish I could read French so that I might enjoy more of his work. Learn more about Jules Renard via Answers.com.