This is perhaps my least favourite novel by this author. It is still worth reading - he is still one of my favourite authors - it is just that it is missing something, unlike the other novels by him which I don't think are lacking in anything at all. I think this was because at first what I thought this would be about - you know, the 'big themes'- ended up being what the book turned out to be about. Never a particularly fun thing to find out about a book. There isn't much I can say about this, as just about anything I do say will be a spoiler.

The parrot is obviously going to be an important 'character'. And so then you are expected to think of all of the things that parrots stand for - think voices, think repetition, think someone who speaks for some one else - it isn't too hard to make the connection that the guy telling this story - a Flaubert obsessive - is obviously a major candidate for the parrot in question.

The problem is, though, when you read a book about some one who obsesses about an author, it is hard to not wonder what does this book say about the 'actual' author? You know, he has invented a character, that character is interested in another, historical author and then this character starts telling you things about what authors are really like and why he doesn't like critics - well, it is hard not to wonder how much of what is said by the character is the same as what the author himself might have said if you asked him.

Ironically enough, for a book that, at least in part, is about telling the life story of someone we are reputedly assured did not really want to be known for his life, but rather have his novels literally out live him, this book tells you, naturally enough, much more about Flaubert than about his novels.

Freud has much to say about these sorts of obsessions - not necessarily obsessions with dead French authors, but that any obsession is really about other things. That we become obsessed with things that perhaps provide us with comfort and that we may not be fully aware, or fully understand, what comfort that really is providing us with, but that digging around in the metaphors and story lines associated with our obsessions is likely to tell us much more about ourselves than about the thing we obsess about. If you haven't read this book and are thinking of reading it, I guess that would be my advice, think about what the obsessions say about the character. I guess my problem with the book was that I didn't really come away from it liking the main character all that much. And that is a shame, as I think we have more in common than not, in some ways. There are lots of little bits to this novel that are meant for the 'second reading'. Things that on a second reading that are meant to make you go, 'Oh, yes, that makes sense now - that fits with ...' Look, this isn't a bad novel, not at all, but it is also not my favourite of maybe six or so of his others I've read.

You might think this is a book about Flaubert's parrot. The title would indicate that this is not such a preposterous assumption to make. Or at least, if not the parrot, then about Flaubert himself, maybe the parrot is just a way in to a biography of the man? Again, not entirely erroneous. What we get, though, isn't really much of a biography at all, more the musings of a man called Geoffrey Braithwaite, who has a long-term obsession with the Frenchman and would like to write the definitive life, but finds himself overwhelmed by the wealth of material, none of which is to be trusted. When writing the biography of a writer, is his work a legitimate source of material to make assumptions about the man, even if he does famously, infamously say "Madame Bovary, c'est moi"? I'd say no, definitely not, but then his letters? Are they any more reliable as a key to The Real Flaubert? He was a writer after all, so was he writing letters as a screen onto which he could project a better version of himself, more virile, more unconventional, more charismatic, more amusing, more more? Just more.

So, it's not about parrots, or Flaubert, but about biographies and how to write them? Well, it goes even further, I'd go further, I'd go a long way with Mr. Barnes: it's a biography that questions the whole dubious undertaking of writing a biography. The initial choice of subject - what questionable motives are involved there? The crass mistakes that can be made because of the biographer's lack of understanding of a foreign language, or an alien culture (or both). Tendentiousness, bias, the biographer wanting to make some point about the past or the present that can best be proved by skewering a famous icon of an age. Getting bogged down in futile searches for the genuine detail, the documented evidence - which parrot? (does it matter at all?). How much of the biographer is allowed to be in there, anyway? None? Not possible; then there would be no biography, the writer could just open the archives and ask the reader to get on with it. There is a biographer behind every biography, (duh) giving it form, structure, shaping it, patting it and cutting bits off there and lopping a bit off here, and adding a comment here and a slightly disapproving intake of breath there: how much is (s)he allowed to intrude?

So it goes further, again: a book that isn't about parrots, or Flaubert, or his works, or Geoffrey Braithwaite, or the art of biography, or writing generally, but in fact manages to tell you an awful lot about all of those things, within 190 pages. You know what I think this is about? It's about irony.

REMINISCENCE
[I Remember Guildford]:

I bought my copy of this novel in a second-hand bookshop in Guildford (in Surrey, England), in late 1984. It's a first edition hardback.

I don't recall the exact location of the bookshop. Was it High Street or Jenner Road? I suppose I could Google it, but that would probably result in more information than is necessary to tell my story. There's no need to remember the precise address, or the cathedral or the pool, if there was a pool. I'd prefer to hold on to the concrete memories that I have, rather than fabricate more.

Nothing struck me as unusual about the book when I first picked it off the shelf, although I was attracted to the illustration on the front cover. It consisted of a black and white drawing of a man, presumably Flaubert himself, and a water colour of a parrot. I've always been fascinated by parrots, most likely since, when in the Boy Scouts, I had been the patrol leader of Rosella Patrol.

I quickly decided to purchase the book, and, when I walked up to the front counter, I was served by a gentleman who was probably aged in his late 40's or early 50's. When I handed the book to him, he responded, "This was my daughter's copy. She's just finished reading it, and she loved it."

It was then that he opened the book and revealed what appeared to be two letters tucked in behind the back dust jacket, one hand-written, and the other type-written. He spread them both out on the counter.

I focussed on the type-written letter first, because it was easier to read upside down. It was only one page long, and I could see that it was signed by Julian, and addressed to Louise.

The hand-written letter was a carbon copy of a letter addressed to Mister Barnes, and was evidently signed Louise. The hand writing was neat cursive. I suspected that Louise must have been in her mid-teens.

I responded to the owner, "I don't mind, if you don't want to sell it."

He jokingly answered, "We wouldn't put it on the shelf, if we didn't want to sell it."

Just then, a girl, who I assumed was Louise, joined him at the counter.

I said to her, "You can keep the letters, if you'd like to."

She replied, "Oh, no, they belong with the book."

I took her word for it, and quickly completed my transaction with her father. I didn't even know what was in the letters at the time.


Julian Barnes' Parrot Source


ONE TO ONE CORRESPONDENCE:

Dear Mr. Barnes,

I just finished reading your novel, and I loved it.

If I was you or Doctor Braithwaite, I wouldn't worry about what critics might say about it. Please excuse the French, but my father always says, "Opinions are like a_ _e-h_ _ _s, everybody has one."

Sometimes, it seems like critics are being paid to find fault with a book, rather than to show how good it is (and why).

I've already told all of my friends at school how much fun your book is. It was a gift from my father, and I'm so grateful. He owns a bookshop, so we can read just about anything we want.

Yours sincerely,

Louise C_ _ _ t
Year 10, Guildford High School


Dear Louise,

Thank you for your kind letter.

I have to say that your letter means more to my narrator and me than the opinion of any critic, whether positive or negative (obviously, in the latter case, I suppose).

I hope your friends enjoy our playful little novel as much as you did. It's nice to know that there are readers like you around.

Yours sincerely,

Julian



SOUNDTRACK:

The Beatles - "And Your Bird Can Sing"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uq0ae...

Grace Slick - "Come Again? Toucan

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RuSl3...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RK7v2...

"Mistakes are made because
Words are misunderstood
It's all, all in how you talk
Walking over somebody,
Sounds like a strange thing to do,
But it's all, all, all, all,
All in how you walk."

Robyn Hitchcock - "No, I Don't Remember Guildford"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kJScQ...

Robyn Hitchcock - "No, I Don't Remember Guildford" [Live]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LaY5n...

"You know, when you think you're right about things, life can make you very bitter. If the rest of the world hasn't happened to go along with your way of seeing things, and if the rest of the world includes someone you've been close to, then you feel worse."


Grace Slick's eyes and lips Source




"PERHAPS, AFTER ALL, MY PARROT MIGHT FLY"

"...my nerves were finally calmed by the first letter I got from someone not professionally (or amicably) involved with the book. It came not from a university lecturer in French literature, but from a 15-year-old schoolgirl working in her father's bookshop in Guildford. She had never read a word of Flaubert, but had picked up my novel and raced through it, finding hindrance in neither the unfamiliar subject matter nor the peculiar structure. So, perhaps, I thought, the book wouldn't be condemned to a coterie readership; perhaps, after all, my Parrot might fly."

Julian Barnes, "When Flaubert Took Wing"

n  
n  "Louise, c'est moi."n  
n

جولین بارنز نویسنده سرشناس انگلیسی در کتاب طوطی فلوبر ، زندگی نامه و آثار ادبی گوستاو فلوبر نویسنده فرانسوی و خالق مادام بوآری را در هم آمیخته و نتیجه آن کتاب متفاوت طوطی فلوبر شده است .
کتاب او از آن جهت متفاوت است که نه داستان است و نه زندگی نامه . کتاب او خط داستانی مشخص ندارد و اگرپرداختن به زندگی و کتاب های فلوبر را همانند بخشی از زندگی نامه او بدانیم ، آن هم بی طرفانه نبوده و راوی داستان با شور و علاقه و شیدایی آن را نوشته است .
از آن جایی که آشنایی چندانی با فلوبر و کتاب ها و اندیشه های او ندارم و خواندن این کتاب هم با خستگی و بی حوصلگی مفرط ناشی از کرونا همراه شده بود آنچه تنها مرا مشتاق به خواندن کتاب تا پایان نگه داشت لطافت کلام جولین بارنز بود که به لطف ترجمه استادانه الهام نظری اگرچه به شیوایی و فصاحت کتاب اضافه کرده بود اما برای لذت بردن و همراه و همگام با جولین بارنز شدن ممکن است دست کم برای من چندان کافی نبوده باشد .

Be patient when you start this book. It takes a while to acclimatize oneself to the style. The beginning is confusing. Maybe listening is more confusing than reading. It is unclear how the book is put together. It starts with what feels almost like an index.

The prose is original, witty and thought provoking. I did not always agree with that which is proposed but the lines always kept me thinking. Ideas are piled up next to each other in an unusual manner. One might describe this as a collection of fragmentary tidbits, but they are artistically arranged and always interesting. There is humor implied; the humor is subtle.

As you read you ponder what is this really about. The story is told by a widowed doctor. He says he is searching for the Amazonian parrot that Flaubert had on his desk when he wrote Un coeur simple. There turn out to be not just one, nor two, but in fact several that could have been there on his desk! The question that follows is if it matters. In fact, in studying Flaubert’s life, the widowed doctor is trying to make sense of his own life, now, after the death of his wife. Literary criticism, the art of writing and conjugal relationships are a smattering of the topics covered above and beyond information about Flaubert.

Richard Morant reads the audiobook very well. I did turn down the speed to 90%. His French pronunciation was excellent, and this enhances one’s appreciation of the prose. A joy to listen to. Four stars for the narration.

This book keeps your head busy. It is so thought provoking that it distracts you from your own personal problems. The book fit me to a T at this moment. I recommend it. It is not ordinary; it is different. It is exceptionally well written.

طوطی فلوبر کتابی است درخشان که نه می‌شود گفت رمان است و نه می‌شود گفت نیست. نه می‌شود گفت نقد ادبی است و نه می‌شود گفت نیست. ظاهرا آن را در رده «رمان‌های پست‌مدرن»‌ طبقه‌بندی می‌کنند و خیلی‌ها آن را از بهترین نمونه‌های این نوع رمان می‌دانند. شخصیت اصلی کتاب یک منتقد معمولی انگلیسی است که درباره یک نکته پیش‌پاافتاده در زندگی گوستاو فلوبر تحقیق می‌کند و از این راه جنبه‌های مختلف زندگی فلوبر را روایت می‌کند. در عین حال هم زندگینامه فلوبر است و هم نیست.
این را هم بگویم که برای لذت بردن از کتاب نیازی نیست کتاب‌های فلوبر را خوانده باشید (من خودم فقط «تربیت احساسات» را خوانده‌ام)، گرچه طبعا هرچه بیشتر از او خوانده باشید کتاب برایتان جالب‌تر خواهد بود.
ققط حواستان باشد که طوطی فلوبر ربطی به کتاب‌های دیگر بارنز که به فارسی ترجمه شده (هیاهوی زمان و درک یک پایان) ندارد و فضایش به‌کل متفاوت است، گرچه نویسنده‌اش همان نابغه است و نبوغش در این کتاب حتی بیشتر از آن دو کتاب هویداست.
کتاب را الهام نظری ترجمه کرده که فکر کنم دومین کارش باشد. واقعا مترجم شجاعی است که در اوایل کار سراغ کتابی به این پیچیدگی رفته و کارش را هم خوب انجام داده. طبعا این کتاب هم نیاز به ویرایش مفصل داشت که مهدی نوری و علیرضا اسماعیل‌پور انجامش دادند و به گفته خودشان یکی از سخت‌ترین کتاب‌هایی بود که در این سال‌ها ویرایش کرده‌اند.
خلاصه کلام این‌که اگر فقط قصه‌گویی برایتان مهم نیست و از پیچیدگی‌های ادبیات لذت می‌برید، طوطی فلوبر را از دست ندهید، ولی اگر دنبال رمان خوشخوان هستید طوطی فلوبر انتخاب خوبی نیست.

Two Flaubert museums, each has a stuffed parrot. Which one did Flaubert have on his desk while writing A Simple Heart? Geoffrey Braithwaite, English doctor, whose deceased wife was unfaithful, and amateur Flaubert enthusiast, tries to find out. He’s the narrator of this novel that is also an eccentric biography of Flaubert and looks at the nature of art, life, criticism, and much more. It’s an enjoyable and interesting read, it almost made me want to read Madame Bovary again.

۱. ما با کلاژ روبروییم نه رمان، موزاییک نه سنگ یک‌پارچه
۲. حین خواندن مدام از ذهنم می‌گذشن چه‌قدر ترجمه و ویرایش کتاب دشوار می‌بوده
۳. کتاب و نوع کنکاش نویسنده و همین‌طور راوی داستان - اگر بشود گفت داستانی در میان بود - ان‌قدر گیرا بود که میانه‌ی خواندن کتاب را فرونهادم سر وقت فرهنگ‌آثار، درس‌گفتارهای ادبیات اروپای ناباکوف و ... تا بیشتر و بیشتر راجع به فلوبر بخوانم و بدانم
۴. موضوع محوری کتاب جست‌وجو پیرامون گوستاو فلوبر است به بهانه‌ی یک طوطی که ذکرش در کتاب ساده‌دل فلوبر آمده و بسا که استعاره‌ای اژ خود فلوبر است که تکرار می‌کند و داستان می‌سراید مثل طوطی.
۵. چیزی که برایم چشم‌گیر و درس‌آموز بود جدیت و پشتکار روش‌مند فرنگی جناعت است برای نزدیک شدن به موضوعی که پی‌گیر تحقیق راجع به آن‌اند. این میان خود فلوبر هم ساعت‌ها مطالعه کرده حتا با آن‌که از سفر بیزار بوده راهی سفرهای دور و دراز شده تا دست‌مایه‌ی مناسبی برای نوشته‌هایش پیدا کند که مثلن سالامبو را بنویسد. نویسنده یعنی جولین بارنز که در پوشش راوی داستان ظاهر شده به هر چیزی که فکرش را بکنید چنگ انداخته تا یک قدم به فلوبر نزدیک شود از حیواناتی که در یادداشت ها نوشته‌های فلوبر بوده تا وضعیت راه‌ها و قطارها در آن دوره و رزوشمار عمر فلوبر به روایت‌های مختلف

That I knew very little of Flaubert’s life was an advantage for me to get a full immersion into this literary extravaganza. One can tell that Barnes had fun writing this alternative biography of the famous French writer, using his stuffed parrot to concoct a colorful tapestry of interspersed anecdotes with metaliterary intention, ironic finesse and the savoir faire of a virtuous ventriloquist.

The fictitious narrator Doctor Geoffrey Braithwaite scrutinizes the correspondence between Flaubert and his net of acquaintances and a sample of pompous academic miscellania to (mis-)construct his own theories about the writer’s life, or rather, he presents the evidence and allows the reader to make his own assumptions in quite a burlesque style.
The result of this rigorous exploration is the vivid image of an eccentric, stubborn, contradictory, scatological, decadent but fiercely intelligent artist, hungry for the hedonistic pleasures of life but sceptic about its purpose. As a byproduct, the novel (is this a novel?) works like a very entertaining diatribe against literary criticism, biographies and… the railways!

Barnes plays tricks on the reader, crossing the hazy line between reality and fiction. In Geoffrey, the reader can get a glimpse of the British writer and sense his deep admiration for Flaubert. In the non-biography of the French author, one can’t help but wonder about the revelations discovered by the fictitious chronicler. Would Flaubert’s lover, the poet Louise Colet, bare her emotions and hurt pride with such honesty? Was Flaubert literal when he described his turbid sexual life, his pure love for his mother or his flamboyant ideas about politics, religion and… animals?

All in all, the book mystified and mesmerized me. The lingering taste in my mouth after turning the last page is surprisingly sweet. Because rising above the witticisms, the apparently detached and playful teasing; love for words, love for literature and deep reflections of philosophical nature on the role of the artist and the timelessness of his creative output is what prevails in this original work.
The glassy eyes of the stuffed parrot stare at the reader and imitating Flaubert’s chirping voice, he sings “¡Loulou c’est moi!”
Whatever the real identity of the parrot may be, Flaubert’s essence shines in myriad colors in this homage to the writer and to his gift for elevating the imaginary to a reality greater than him, greater than us.

There's something about Barnes's prose that just feels so flawless. Rarely do I trip on an ill-suited word or poorly formed sentence. Flaubert's Parrot was a pleasure to read for its use of language, for its playful tone, and for its exhaustively researched expedition through literary history. The central conceit regarding obsession (though the thread was expertly woven into the fabric of the novel) was not entirely successful: one is left impressed with the effort, but not particularly moved by it. Nonetheless, Flaubert's Parrot, for all its gimmickry and pretentiousness is really quite brilliant. It is serious, literary, postmodernist, and deeply biographical, while at the same time managing to be genuinely funny, offbeat and entertaining.

Guy gets talking to this doctor on a ferry trip; the doctor just can't understand why his wife killed herself.

Flaubert sometimes used to refer to himself as "Gourstave". Barnes translates this as "Flau-bear".

And more Flaubert-related musings, vaguely wrapped up as a postmodernist novel. If you're a Madame Bovary fan, you may like it.

This book has been perched on my to-read shelf for quite a few years, and recently, fresh from reading Madame Bovary and L'éducation sentimentale (as well as Bouvard Et Pécuchet), I thought the perfect moment had arrived to take Flaubert's Parrot down from the shelf and dust him off. On page sixteen however, Julien Barnes mentions Flaubert's Un coeur simple, saying, perhaps you know the story. I didn't, so I put Flaubert's Parrot back on the shelf and read the perfect little tale of Félicité and her parrot instead. Flaubert wrote two other novellas at the same time so I read those as well. Then I took Flaubert's Parrot down from his perch for the second time.

On page twenty-five, Barnes mentions the huge success Flaubert had with Salammbô so I threw a cloth over the Parrot and ordered a copy, but since it was close to Christmas, I didn't expect it to arrive quickly so I read a kindle version of Flaubert's Saint Antoine in the meantime (Salammbô wasn't available on kindle in French). The Parrot remained under wraps for the following three weeks while I feavered with Antoine in the desert, and eventually thirsted with Salammbô in besieged Carthage.

When I finally settled down with the Parrot, I was glad that I'd read all of Gustave Flaubert's fiction first as I understood the references better, though the frequent mention of Gustave F's letters had me pausing for a moment. But no, I couldn't possibly shelve the Parrot again so I ignored the call of the Letters (in any case, I'd like to be certain that Flaubert and his correspondents wanted them published (plus, there must be forty years worth of correspondence, and I'm the sort of obsessive who'd feel obliged to begin with Volume I and read them all (and I wouldn't want to risk anyone confusing me with Julien B in the Flaubert obsession stakes))).

Geoffrey Braithwaite, Geoffrey Braithwaite!

That squawk is to remind myself that there's a narrator in this book - otherwise I may keep referring to 'Julien B's obsession' instead of 'Geoffrey B's obsession'.
Never has a narrator been so not present for me as GB has been (and he doesn't like being called GB, by the way (I expect he doesn't want to be confused with Great Britain, given that he's so obsessed with everything French: Camembert, road signs, pharmacies, the behavior of children in restaurants...(and let's not forget that Geoffrey B is the creation of the man who wrote England, England (hmm...)))).

So, in this book, Geoffrey B (whom Julien B, in the cover note, implies is a real person who translated all the Flaubert excerpts himself, thereby hinting that he, Julien B, is the one who should be considered 'not present' in the narrative) recounts his obsession with the creator of the 'adulterous' Emma Bovary. For me however, JB is hintingly present all the time, and I kept thinking that GB's obsession with adulterous wives was really JB's obsession (there is more attention given to Emma Bovary in this book than to any of Gustave Flaubert's other characters (and more attention given to her 'adulterous' acts than to any other aspect of her story (plus, the words 'corruption' and 'vile' are used in association with Emma's 'adultery' which made me wonder why, when women take lovers, they are immediately branded as adulterers whereas when men take lovers, it is mostly described as infidelity or simply an affair?))).

Geoffrey B is a doctor however, so the few times he mentioned that, I remembered that he wasn't Julien B who has never been a doctor as far as I know (but that may be a misconception on my part - a mistaken assumption that this author isn't also a doctor (after all, the writer Arthur Conan Doyle, about whom JB has also written, was a doctor)).

But GB being a doctor led to another confusion because Charles Bovary was a doctor, and both his and GB's wives took lovers, and both wives committed suicide, so when I wasn't confusing GB with JB, I was confusing him with Charles B. And I even managed to confuse CB with JB sometimes - especially when the narrative showed a strong affinity for Charles' predicament.

But I realise that I may have misconceptions about JB's real intentions, and JB/GB anticipated me wanting to figure out his motives: You expect something from me too, don't you? It's like that nowadays. People assume they own a part of you, on no matter how small an acquaintance; while if you are reckless enough to write a book, this puts your bank account, your medical records, and the state of your marriage into the public domain. Flaubert disapproved. It seems Gustave F felt a writer's work should survive alone: The artist must manage to make posterity believe that he never existed. Indeed.
According to JB, near the end of his life, when he was very tired, and struggling to finish his final book, Gustave F imagined himself liquefying like an old Camembert, which I think is a great way of disappearing, and I don't think posterity has anywhere to store melted Camembert (JB's narrative is full of asides like that which I really enjoyed).

On the subject of misconceptions (a problem that preoccupied Gustave F so much he compiled a dictionary of common myths), Julien B allows Geoffrey B to correct some of the misconceptions that exist about GF himself (though JB/GB admits GF had flaws aplenty (I felt JB's willingness to admit his own flaws too which I found reassuring (no one could bear us if we didn't have some flaws).
One of the misconceptions about GF relates to an obituary that stated that he was a doctor as well as a writer! Another, that he was once observed to have been 'beastly' to a woman at a party in his home. About that allegation, GB speculates that GF was simply afraid that the woman might enter his study, implying that it is understandable that a writer would want to keep busybodies out of his study at all costs. Hmm.

So what are we doing in GF's study? Yes, JB and GB definitely invite us into Gustave F's study, and into every private corner of his life. And by correcting the many misconceptions about him, no matter how entertainingly, they plant ideas in our minds about poor liquified Flau(em)bert that we never had before. Hmm.
So much for GF's statement about posterity.

And so much for GB's manifesto about the things writers shouldn't write about:
There shall be no more novels which are really about other novels. No 'modern versions', reworking, sequels or prequels. No imaginative completions of works left unfinished on their author's death. Instead, every author is to be issued with a sampler in colored wools to hang over the fireplace. It reads: Knit Your Own Stuff.

But I know that JB is laughing in the privacy of his study at all the misconceptions about himself and his intentions he's managed to convey in this very entertaining book.