In Egypt Flaubert hoped to find and experience the decadent. Napoleon had been and gone when the young Flaubert arrived, planning on adventures notably sexual in nature. His letters home to his mother did not reveal his motivations, but they are here in his travel journals from this trip. The conceit that holds the story together as he moves along the Nile is the search for a courtesan named Kuchuk Hanim, a dancer and, its is implied, a sexually available and highly accomplished prostitute. I had to smile as I read -- Kuchuk Hanim is not a name, as Flaubert thought, but Turkish for "little woman." This book is of course an Orientalist fantasy, a mental evocation of a world of sexual freedom (for men) in the form of willing and easy women, drugs, and the sensuality of the East. He never really finds what he is looking for because, of course, it does not exist, and to be honest, he could have found all the decadence and sex he wanted in nineteenth-century Parisian salons. But Flaubert never wrote a bad sentence, and he invites you here into his dream world which tells you much more about Flaubert the man and writer than about Egypt.

gritty realism of mid 19th century France--Egypt--

Excelente libro. Cómo le escribe a la madre este muchacho, le escribe, le escribe, pero tiene la triple B, bueno, barato y bonito.

Un pequeño recuento de las estadía de Flaubert en Egipto.
Con descripciones vívidas e interesantes acerca de las costumbres y los lugares.
Mas no aporta mucho sobre los qué y cómo de su obra, o siquiera cómo armaba los argumentos de sus novelas.
Lo que sí se ve aquí, es un cuidado de la palabra y un uso de lenguaje como solo el buen Gustave Flaubert sabía utilizar.

Gracias, Gustave Flaubert, por dejar este pequeño testimonio de tu paso por tierras tan antiguas.

1

A first person account of Egypt, written by a provincial Frenchman, whose descriptive settings and touristy escapades are well worth the read – if, that is, the reader’s puritanical instinct to gasp at his nighttime encounters is kept to a minimum.

I purchased this book after reading an essay by William Styron. Styron, himself, was no stranger to the sex scene, and his writing about Flaubert had me curious.

I’ve just finished it, and to the reviewers whose sensibilities are offended by the brothels, prostitutes and sexual acts of the author, please keep in mind the context. This was a long time ago, and the young man writing was clearly sowing his wild oats. Now, (spoiler) he did end up paying for it, taking mercury for the rather descriptive sores on his fifth appendage, what appeared to be syphilis.

Moving on to the majority of the content, there are thrilling narratives, romantic descriptions and engaging characters – his travel partner, Du Camp, of course, is included – which grab the mind’s eye and throws you back in time to an ancient, surreal Egypt. You will see the moon rising behind the pyramids. You will taste the dates and watermelon. You will feel the saddle of the camel and, even better, your heart will break for the acts of compassion and tragedy all along the way. The excellent writing stands on its own. Which compels me to now purchase and read Madame Bovary.

Before becoming famous Flaubert traveled the length of the Nile keeping a journal. This was perhaps the time where he developed the realistic style that characterized the "first novel". The voyage is interesting because this was a time when slavery was common, the iconic tourist attractions in Egypt were often still mostly buried in sand and Flaubert liberally availed himself of the diseased flesh pots of what was then called The Orient. He wrote frankly of all of the above when he wasn't musing on his future.

This work is literally what Edward Said mentioned in Orientalism about the meaning of Orientalism and the different facets of Orient as portrayed by Orientalist.

It could be either one of this or could be overlapped between each other:

i. A way of coming to to terms with the Orient that is based on the Orient's special place in European Western experience. (pg. 1)
ii. A style of thought based upon an ontological and epistemological distinction made between "the Orient" and (most of the time) "the Occident". (pg. 2)
iii. A Western style for dominating, restructuring, and having authority over the Orient. (pg. 3)

– Orientalism, Edward Said

Flaubert wrote his journals while travelling to Egypt around 9 months from October 1849 until July 1850 where he travels from Alexandria to Cairo until Luxor and Aswan. Here, he mentioned how “Europe” is the city of Alexandria (until the present day) and where he travels in Cairo including Kasr al-Ainy, Muhandisin, Giza and Bulak.

The way Flaubert dismissing a lot of pearls in Egypt, even denigrating some of it is really unforgivable.

“Women of Algiers” is one of my favorite paintings, but there is no denying that it depicts harem as nothing more than a bordello. Same with Flaubert: for him, Egypt is nothing more than a bordello. The dude never married, and he loved visiting prostitutes. Here are his words:

“I love prostitution, and for itself, too, quite apart from its carnal aspects. My heart begins to pound every time I see one of those women in low-cut dresses walking under the lamplight in the rain […]. The idea of prostitution is a meeting place of so many elements – lust, bitterness, complete absence of human contact [? color me confused], muscular frenzy, the clink of gold – that to peer into it deeply makes one reel. One learns so many things in a brothel, and feels such sadness, and dreams so longingly of love!…”

Fair enough. In Egypt, he screws people left and right, boys, girls, whoever is available. (Not sure about camels, but he mentions them so many times that I got suspicious.) He pays for it not only in gold, but in venereal diseases too, later on – which makes me wonder what happened to the people he slept with, before and after. It’s a quite frightful thought. You look at all those highly civilized folks from European countries – engineers, archaeologists, writers, photographers, reporters, intellectuals of all sorts, what have you – well-to-do white men, most of them – and see walking and talking biological hazard, whose levels of restraint, responsibility and compassion are nearing zero.

Such was the culture, such were the times, they were conditioned from the cradle to this sort of entitlement, yeah, I know, that’s right – they were. Still, in every era, every place, there were people of privilege, as well as common people, who thought differently and saw behind the importance of their own WANT. Sadly, Flaubert is not one of them.

“I buy the hair of two women, together with their hair-ornaments. The women being shorn weep, but their husbands, who do the shearing, make ten piastres per head. As we are about to leave, a man comes up and offers us another head of hair, which Max buys. This must have been distressing to the poor women, who seem to prize their hair greatly.”

You don’t say?…

He doesn’t give a crap about the ubiquitous slavery, either. Mentality of the times, white man’s burden, romanticism, or perhaps putting too big a strain on the conventional, not-too-brilliant intelligence?

“All these faces are calm, nothing irritated in their expression – brutes take these things [that’s slavery] as a matter of course.”

A very curious, quaint little book.

"....A week ago I saw a monkey in the street jump on a donkey and try to jack him off - the donkey brayed and kicked, the monkey's owner shouted, the monkey itself squealed - apart from two or three children who laughed and me who found it very funny, no one paid any attention." I've always enjoyed travelogues by great writers - Goethe and Steinbeck come to mind, and I have always enjoyed Flaubert's works... so I thought, this might be an interesting read. And then I get to this passage, and...like in many other places in the book, I laughed and laughed. He's dirty, he's randy, he's bored, he's curious, he's brilliant, he's Flaubert...in Egypt!

Una época fascinante en tierras llenas de aventuras e historia. Magnifica postal del momento en manos de un gran escritor.

3.5 stars Well, this certainly isn’t n  The Innocents Abroadn! I was expecting a travelogue on par with Graham Greene’s n  Journey Without Mapsn (which I am also reading now), since Greene provides the blurb on the back. Instead, it was like Sade visits Cairo – an outrageous catalogue of vice and debauchery, interspaced with hilarious letters to his mother, in which Flaubert makes it sound like he’s on a chaste summer high school trip! He likely didn't intend for these diary entries and letters to be published, which explains the rather frank observations. This one isn’t for the fainthearted, but it sure makes for a memorable read. (I have to admit that halfway through I couldn’t wait to read the outraged reviews on Goodreads.)