What can I really say about a book published more than 100 years ago that has been considered a masterpiece ever since?

Well, it's really good.

The novel traces the life from student to early old age of one Francois Moreau, a man who at a young age falls in love with Madame Arnoux, another man's wife . . . He is not really able to express his love for her until it is much too late. In the interim, he has an affair with a kept woman, Rosante, a very young woman from the country, and the wife of his sometimes benefactor, Madame Descaumbes.

The novel also follows his friendships with a number of men he meets in law school, from various classes and different political positions.

They live and participate in a decidedly corrupt society, in which they strive to make connection with men likely to advance their careers. It is assumed that government officials take bribes. And men who have enough money keep mistresses. Besides ordinary prostitutes, there are at least 3 grades of kept women, each with its own status in the hierarchy.

The action of the novel takes place in the years leading up to thee French revolutions of 1848 and ends shortly after the coup that brought to power Napoleon III as boss of the Second Empire in 1852.


It seems that Moreau is capable of feeling intense romantic love -- he feels it for Mme. Arnoux -- but he lacks the energy or desire to act on it. He has only a slight interest in politics except as a topic of conversation, and in the midst of a revolution, he feels affinity for the bourgeoisie (his own class), but does not take action. It's been suggested that he represents a generation disillusioned with Romanticism, which in some forms demanded action (Byron and Bakunin were motivated by Romantic views of politics). It seems it's inertia, perhaps some laziness, and sometimes material self-interest that keeps him from acting.


"Sentimental education," I am told, refers to the process of learning to relate to women, to enjoy relations (emotional, sexual etc etc) with them, and to love. Moreau's sentimental education is stunted and partially sordid. The title should be read ironically.


Flaubert is known as a great stylist; unfortunately, we will need to learn French to appreciate that.

I would recommend the novel to anyone who likes Flaubert, French novels, or good novels in general.

The Oxford Classics edition offers a very valuable apparatus, including a glossary of historical figures, a historical sketch on the political background of the novel, and notes to the text.

I would also recommend this novel to anyone preparing to read Pierre Bourdieu's The Rules of Art: Genesis and Structure of the Literary Field, which uses the novel in its introductory section, or Karl Marx' The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Napoleon, his analysis of the events of 1848-1852, because you will learn what happened in those years in preparation for Brother Karlo's analysis.

Pretty much the best thing ever. Not really Maybe. Yeah, it's 500 pages long and about a guy who wastes his life and is incredibly selfish and everyone else he knows is even worse ). And yeah, not much happens, especially in the first 200 pages or so.

YET the book manages to be fucking intoxicating. The writing is precise, trenchant, etc, as expected, and perhaps because of this it is insanely simple to just get immersed in this world of 1840s Paris. (I know this is selling it on a pretty base level, but if you're nostalgic at all for the Paris of narrow alleys by candlelight, when Montmarte was mines and farmland, I can't imagine a better read.) And there's the politics of the thing, which somehow seem relevant to me as a 21-year-old in America in 2011. One might draw parallels between the characters of the book who want to radicalize shit like their parents did before in the Revolution and the children of baby boomers, but the youthful striving for change only to be met with later disenchantment is archetypical, though here portrayed so closely that it never feels "archetypical" or "thematic," just like the shit that actually happened.

The Intro to my Penguin mentions that this was Kafka's favorite, and I've been wrapping my head around why he, of all people, loved the thing and what he might have aped from it (besides perhaps when Frederic is referred to as "K."). One idea: the immersiveness, again, the sense that there are things about this world we don't know, that are mysterious and beautiful, managing to make the mysterious and beautiful out of material that is, in essence, banal and hopeless.

And I was being a little harsh on Frederic before; he's not a complete shit (just mostly a shit). In dealing with the Frederic/Arnoux relationship, I think Flaubert actually painted the characters with just a touch of sympathy. Like 10% sympathy for 90% satire and suspicion. Which is about what most humans deserve.

*this book deserves anywhere between 4.2 and 4.7 stars


“Funny, how the things you have the hardest time parting with are the things you need the least.” (Bob Dylan)


With every work I read or reread by Flaubert, I am all the more convinced that he was the master craftsman, that he was master of attention to the tiny stuff, the small details that are layered brick by brick (word by word), the master of attention to even the mortar between the bricks, and master of raising the whole damn superstructure. The buildings he makes out of words hold the world, and I want to call him King of the Paragraph, because his seem so measured, so precise, so carefully wrought. I’ve heard complaints that his detailing of minutiae can become tedious, but to me that is evidence of the eye fully open, the mind ticking at a heightened rate, the physicality of the world irresistibly impressing itself on his realism. His emotional sketches are just as profound and rich as his inventories of space; his sketches of those characters void of human emotion are equally as profound. Flaubert is almost that Joycean image of the author pairing his nails, detached, his handiwork submerged in refinement. Almost. Because above all Flaubert is a satirist. So his presence is felt, as a ripple on the surface of the water is evidence of a rampart crumbling on the ocean floor. I stole that from Frank O’Hara. But kind of like the experience of reading Nabokov, Flaubert the artist is what is on full display here, and in Sentimental Education, as I said when I was writing about Bouvard and Pecuchet, he is perched behind his curtain like Oz or comfortably atop Mount Olympus like the prankster gods of old. He animates his characters to illustrate human folly above all else- who are we to sympathize with in Madame Bovary? who do we not find ridiculous in B & P? who deserves our alliance in Sentimental Education? - but the almost indefinable thing about Flaubert is that amid his mockery he comes off as touching. Because you get the impression that this cranky god really loves his little pets, and wishes them the best- although he knows with all his prescience what the grim best is for us hopeless little mortals playing our dangerous games.

It’s a pretty grim book. Those two eternal opiates- sex and power- are pretty much the sole motivation behind everyone in Frédéric and Deslauriers’ circle. Allegiances and philosophies are as mutable as clothing or the shifting light in Paris- everything is exhausted in the pursuit of one of those two endless ends. Flaubert claimed his intent was to write “the moral history of the men of my generation” and if so it’s a bleak assessment. The great upheavals that define 19th century France take place as the background of this narrative (the Revolution of 1848 acting as a center point) but Frédéric is too busy trying to get a piece of ass to really notice. The offstage massacres and thunder of guns in far off arrondisements are purposefully distanced- the “moral history” Flaubert is trying to paint is apparently mass solipsism. The revolutionaries become oppressors when it suits them, the super-rich elite are suddenly populists and social advocates when the unrest in the streets threatens the order of things, the artists sell out, brave men are proven cowards, and all seem to worship some vague form of authority, whether it be social, political, or psychological. Frédéric’s obsessive, life-long pursuit of the phantom-like image of Madame Arnoux can be extrapolated into a rather ripe comment on all of those masses surging about in the streets of mid-19th century Paris- they too were chasing ghosts- the ghosts of the Revolution, Royalism, Socialism, Democracy- all those specters that never seem content to lie in their graves; all those straw men people are constantly trying to revive in the name of some sort of never-achieved utopia. See the Dylan quote above.

But the potential bad taste in the mouth that this kind of judgement on humanity could leave, the awfulness, duplicity, shallowness, stupidity, manipulation, and gold-digging of the people in Sentimental Education, is offset by Flaubert’s lovely, lovely prose, his impressionistic drawing of scenes, his adoration of Paris as an entity of indifferent light and beauty; his Paris, the place where history unfolds under the stoicism of stone arcades, where passions are conceived and destroyed, where markets are set up in the mornings and dismantled in the evenings and alluring smells emanate from restaurants, where gossip flows through the gutters like sewage, and alleys are sunk in aqueous light and the sky is always pale or a vaulted blue or gray and about to rain and the amber evening is refracted through clouds, making all of our selfish human endeavors all the more charming, all the more timeless and endearing; and the Seine is reflecting the gaslights in wavering strands as a tortured lover pines on the Pont Neuf at midnight, and hooves percuss and echo from the cobblestones, and Montmarte is filthy and eternal, and the cafes are greasy and alive with chatter and opaque with purple smoke and the men are in their cravats and top-hats and the women are rouged and bosomy and flush and comely. Flaubert cannot help but adore Paris, despite himself. That mythical stage, that constant setting for so much of the great art that the Western world has produced. Sentimental Education succeeds in coming off like an epic of place, of space and lifetimes, a panoptic portrait of interesting times told in often banal scenes and acts; and the technique, skill, or what have you, of the sardonic, darkly hilarious master Flaubert elevates the book beyond some severe excoriation of the human condition- it makes it a vital work of art, resonant now and probably for all time.

La historia de “La educación sentimental” se desarrolla de 1840 a 1867 durante este turbulento período del siglo XIX con el abandono en 1848 de la monarquía de julio para la segunda república y luego en 1852 el advenimiento del imperio de Napoleón III. Cuando a bordo de Ville de Montereau, el 15 de septiembre de 1840, el joven Frédéric Moreau, recién graduado de bachiller sueña con su vida futura en la capital y con los éxitos que le esperan. Mientras el Ville de Montereau se deslizaba por el Sena, una ráfaga femenina se le interpuso, apareciéndole la hermosa mujer de Arnoux, Marie Arnoux, quien en gran medida tiene cierta conexión autobiográfica con Élisa Schlésinger, a quien el escritor dedicó un amor apasionado .

Si bien el joven Frédéric Moreau que solo aspira al amor, la riqueza y la gloria, en una época de profundos trastornos cuyo apogeo es la revolución de 1848, resultará incapaz de comprometerse por una causa, es incapaz de llegar hasta el final, para nada arriesgado en el plano del enamoramiento, falto de audacia. A través del viaje de este héroe, Flaubert presupone una preocupación constante por la perfección formal, por una reflexión sutil sobre la política y la naturaleza humana.

Una excelente novela que enlaza un viaje entre un romántico y el final del romanticismo, que al momento de ser publicada esta novela no tuvo buena aceptación, mas allá de las consideraciones de la crítica que la consideran la obra maestra del escritor por su calidad y sus descripciones. Donde los sueños e ilusiones de un joven de provincia, al igual que un Lucien de Rubempré de la novela “Las ilusiones perdidas” de Honore de Balzac, buscan la gloria en la gran ciudad, o un Julien Sorel, personaje de “Rojo y negro” del escritor Stendhal o un Eugène de Rastignac, personaje de Papa Goriot de Honore Balzac que penetra en la alta sociedad para abrirse paso. Un texto plagado de experiencias urbanas que irán carcomiendo la inocencia de este enamorado, que en momento se hace incapaz de centrarse en su éxito. Si es de mencionar que el final deja mucho que decir. Mientras “Madame Bovary” nos describe la historia de una mujer animada por el romanticismo, a quien la realidad ahoga. Sueña con la vida pero, sin embargo, termina suicidándose; en cambio, “La educación sentimental”, por el contrario, cuenta la historia de un joven soñador, que vive en un mundo lleno de ilusiones.

فلوبر در یک نامه در 1852 به لوییز کوله می نویسد:

"دوست دارم کتابي بنويسم درباره هيچ، کتابي که بر هيچ چيز بيروني که خارج از خود باشد دلالت نکند، کتابي که بتواند به نيروي دروني سبکش، روي پاي خودش بايستد، درست بدان گونه که کره زمين بي هيچ تکيه گاهي خود را در فضا نگاه دارد... کتابی بی‌هیچ وابستگی به دنیای بیرون، کتابی که به یمن نیروی درونی سبکش، قائم به ذات باشد، همچنان که زمین خود را در خلاء فضا نگه می‌دارد و از هر پایه‌ای بی‌نیاز است، کتابی که کم‌وبیش هیچ موضوعی ندارد، یا دست‌کم موضوع آن نادیدنی است، البته اگر چنین چیزی ممکن باشد...هم از اين رو است که مي گوييم نه موضوع خوب وجود دارد و نه موضوع بد.» «ديگري» يا همان «تکيه گاه» مساله اخلاق است. «اخلاقي» زندگي کردن يعني زندگي مطابق معياري که «ديگري» تعيين مي کند. اين «ديگري» مي تواند ايده ها، اسطوره ها، باورها، جامعه يا حتي منافع معين يک طبقه و... باشد. علاوه بر آن در اخلاق «خوب» يا «بد» يا به عبارت دقيق تر خير و شر وجود دارد و نه برحسب آنچه فرد را خوش آيد يا خوش نيايد. ولي من مي خواهم کتابي بنويسم درباره هيچ که بدون هيچ گونه تکيه گاهي خود را در فضا نگاه دارد، يعني به خود و باورهاي خود و نيروي دروني اش(و نه ديگري) متکي باشد. بنابراين من پيشاپيش قصد نوشتن کتابي را کرده ام که مطابق تعريف گفته شده نمي تواند اخلاقي باشد زيرا به «خود» متکي است و هم از اين رو است که خود نيز بر اين مساله صحه مي گذارم که نه موضوع خوبي وجود دارد و نه موضوع بدي. کل ادبياتي که حاوي درس اخلاقي است، ذاتاً و اساساً کاذب است، از همان لحظه يي که اثبات مي کني، دروغ مي گويي. اول و آخر را خدا مي داند، انسان از وسط خبر دارد هنر مثل خدا بايد در بيکران معلق باشد، در خود کامل باشد، مستقل از خالقش باشد."
هر چند هنگام نوشتن این نامه،فلوبر سرگرم نگارش مادام بوواری بوده ، اما به نظر می‌رسد که در نهایت در "تربیت احساسات" است که تا اندازه به این خواسته‌ خود می رسد و یک رمان مینویسد که می توان گفت موضوع ندارد، یا البته درست تر است که بگویم یک رمان نوشته که موضوع آن نادیدنیست. در مادام بوواری آنچنان که یوسا در عیش مدام می نویسد موضوع کتاب بسیار روشناست. اما فلوبر در تربیت احساسات موفق می‌شود تا در نهایت یک موضوع را بهانه‌ چیزی بکند که در واقع می‌خواهد درباره‌ آن حرف بزند. در مادام بوواری، "اما بوواری" کاراکتر اصلی داستان است و تمام اتفاقها و حادثه ها و حتا تفسیرها ، ارتباط با او می‌شود و به او باز می گردد، اما در تربیت احساسات اینچنین نیست، چرا که "فردریک مورو" هراندازه هم که کاراکتر اصلی داستان باشد، به هیچ وجه آن جایگاه را ندارد که "اما " در مادام بوواری دارد. درواقع "فردریک مورو" بیشتر یک بهانه‌ است برای مشاهده‌ اتفاقها و جریانهایی که در حاشیه‌ زندگی فردریک در جریان هست در حالی که در مادام بوواری هر آنچه که اتفاق می‌افتد پیرامون کاراکتر اصلی هست و به او باز می‌گردد. بنابراین می توان گفت در تربیت احساسات هست که فلوبر موفق می‌شود برای اولین دفعه موضوع اصلی خود را به شیوه جدید روایت کند، آن را در میان کاراکتر فردریک مورو پنهان کند و در نهایت آنچنان که خود می گوید،یک رمان بنویسد که "قائم به ذات" باشد.
"تربیت احساساتی" یا آنچنان که "مهدی سحابی" آنرا "تربیت احساسات" به فارسی برگردان کرده ، داستان "تربیت سانتی‌مانتال" یا "تربیت احساساتی" نسل و جامعه‌ از فرانسه را نشان می‌دهد که خواسته‌ها و اهداف راستین خود را فراموش کرده و درگیر احساسات خود شده و چشمان خود را بر واقعیت کشور خود بسته است.
تربیت احساسات داستان زندگی "فردریک مورو" یک جوان احساساتی ‌هست که به طور اتفاق با خانواده‌ آقای "ژاک آرنو" آشنا می‌شود و دلباخته خانم آرنو می شود. "فردریک" که در ابتدای رمان یک جوان بامصمم، با اراده و با آرزوهای بزرگ تصویر شده است، کم‌کم از خواسته‌های خود دست می‌کشد و درگیر ماجراها و احساست که با خانم آرنو دارد، تمام آن‌ها را فراموش می‌کند. در نهایت،‌ فردریک که پیش از این به تحصیلات دانشگاهی‌ خود در رشته�� حقوق و همچنین نویسندگی علاقه‌ی زیادی داشته است و حتا همیشه می‌خواسته وزیر بشود، به هیچ‌کدام از آرزوها و خواسته‌های گذشته‌ خود نمی‌رسد و زندگی‌ او تمام در راه احساسات می رود. در همان حال، یعنی در همان‌ سال‌هایی که فردریک درگیر احساسات با ا خانم آرنو است، فرانسه تحولات و تغییرات سیاسی و اجتماعی مهمی را پشت سر می‌گذارد اما فردریک که به‌ دلیل درگیری احساسی‌ خود از تمام این جریانها به‌دور است، تنها مشاهده کننده آن‌ها هست و هیچ دخالت در سونوشت سیاسی و اجتماعی کشور خود ندارد. فرانسه در سال‌هایی که بخش بیشتری از تربیت احساسات در آن سال‌ها روایت می‌شود، در گیر جنبش‌ها و شورش‌های انقلابی هست. انقلاب ۱۸۴۸ فرانسه در همین موقع اتفاق می شود و در این میان شورش‌های زیاد در پاریس در جریان است و در نهایت پادشاهی لویی فیلیپ پایان می‌شود و "جمهوری دوم" فرانسه برقرار می‌شود.

"امیل زولا" در باره این رمان گفته است :" تمامی آثار قبل و بعد از این رمان دربرابر واقعیت گرایی آن ، بیش از یک اپرای تراژیک نیست !"

A novel more difficult than Madame Bovary, but more complex and in many ways more rewarding as well. This is not your typical Bildungsroman, but a coming of age story that questions if you ever truly come of age.

Vaguely titled L'Éducation sentimentale in French, the story takes us to Paris in the 19th century (right around the time of the French Revolution), where we meet Frédéric Moreau, a young man ready to become a man. Doing so is not an easy challenge, however, because there is Madame Arnoux to be infatuated with, some money to inherit and alas, life turns out to be hard.

This is a cynic and clever tale of an entire generation. I personally found it very helpful to read Madame Bovary first (though I didn't love it), as it helped to understand the way Flaubert writes – there's smart humour and razor-sharp irony, but delivered in such nonchalant and fluent ways, that you have to be really conscious to take it all in as the plot twists and turns its way into the French Revolution.

Frédéric is a brilliant anti-hero. While he appears to be just like any other protagonist, following him and his peers on their aimless journeys makes you realise how useless they all really are – how their goals diminish, their opinions waver and their loves flicker. Helplessly materialistic, they are all capricious in pretty much all their endeavours and because they are so caught up in their own schemes, you as a reader begin to find amusement in their drama.

What makes this special is Flaubert's lovely writing. His talent didn't come as a surprise, but I was once more impressed by how he handles language. There are ravish and lively descriptions of Paris in particular, but also idyllic and down-right beautiful images of the French countryside he conjures up. And yes, there might be other authors able to use words to their advantage, but not many do so without the faintest hint of kitsch or sentimentality. Flaubert doesn't even ramble, but even when going off on descriptive sprees, those wanderings feel relevant and enriching (something I really can't say about Proust).

I read this alongside my fantastic reading buddy Leonard, who I want to thank for another fun journey!

Όταν είσαι 18 χρόνων και διαβάζεις αυτό το βιβλίο , σε σημαδεύει για όλη σου τη ζωή .

This is a book about failure, plain and simple. And maybe this is what our lives end up being when it is all said and done, but I can't help but find my taste in fiction not that of realism genre. So why was this book just "okay" for me, well it has to do with the characters, all of which serve little to no purpose whatsoever, and none of them possess much in the aspect of redeeming value. This is probably what Flaubert and realism where all about, but the funny thing about this is how detached and unmoved I felt from Fredric as he gallivanted around acting like a pathetic child after a woman that from the start never shows any interest in him. From a realistic point of view, I found all of the characters deplorable and dull. I actually found this book to be slightly existential in the theme of the destitution we all face when we realize that our anticipations are always more pure than what actually occurs but I imagine this is just my imagination kicking into high gear. Anyways, for the cynic, this book is fantastic and don't get me wrong, Flaubert has a talent for the written word (no qualms with his prose) but the story is driven more by process than by plot and this, in the end, made the books simply okay.

Quando si nomina Flaubert, il primo pensiero va a “Madame Bovary”. E lo capisco: nonostante sia un romanzo divisivo a causa di una trama poco accattivante e di una protagonista decisamente irritabile, è un libro che, a livello stilistico, ha segnato una tappa fondamentale della letteratura dell’800.
Ma Flaubert, ha realizzato, secondo me, un’opera ancora più bella e, per certi versi, ancora più rivoluzionaria: “L’educazione sentimentale”.
 
Questo romanzo è, in apparenza, molto simile ad altri classici francesi: descrive un protagonista, Frédéric Moreau, che dalla provincia giunge a Parigi per gli studi e subisce l’influenza della capitale - un po’ come “Papà Goriot” e “Illusioni perdute” di Balzac o “Il rosso e il nero” di Stendhal.
Ma dietro l’apparenza si nasconde un’opera originalissima ed estremamente moderna.
 
Per prima cosa, Frédéric non è il classico personaggio che vuole avere successo: è privo di ambizione e persino privo di veri interessi o ideali. È un personaggio passivo, incapace di prendere iniziative o di portarle a termine - un personaggio che, per certi versi, anticipa la figura dell’inetto. A guidare le sue scelte sono esclusivamente i sentimenti, in particolare l’amore per una donna, la signora Arnoux, che rappresenta un amore ideale, irraggiungibile. Per tutto il romanzo, Frédéric non fa che sognare un futuro con l’amata e, non riuscendo a realizzarlo, trova delle alternative: donne come Rosanette, che sostituisce l’amore ideale, o donne come Louise e la signora Dambreuse, che gli permettono di accedere a strati sociali più alti.
Quello che Frédéric compie nella capitale francese è un percorso di formazione, ma molto atipico: è un percorso di educazione sentimentale, che gli fa conoscere tutti gli aspetti dell’amore.
 
Un altro aspetto estremamente originale del romanzo è l’assenza di trama: la storia si sviluppa come una successione di eventi scollegati tra loro, con discontinuità temporali - pagine e pagine per descrivere una serata e poche righe per raccontare interi anni - e nessun colpo di scena. “L’educazione sentimentale” è, in pratica, l’opposto del romanzo d’appendice: è un’opera priva di romanzesco, che tende ad annoiare anzichè coinvolgere.
Il motivo di questa scelta è semplice: l’autore vuole raccontare, come in “Madame Bovary”, una storia banale con uno stile di altissimo livello. Per Flaubert quello che conta in un romanzo non sono i fatti, ma il modo in cui sono raccontati.
 
Veniamo, infine, al terzo aspetto di originalità dell’opera: la struttura. Come ho scritto precedentemente, il romanzo appare come una successione di eventi casuali. In realtà, è tutto collegato: gli eventi sono connessi tra loro da determinati temi - come quello della solitudine, che viene ripreso più volte e declinato in modi diversi -, i personaggi formano un’intricata rete di affinità e opposti e la storia personale di Frédéric si intreccia continuamente a quella della Storia, in una sequenza infinita di corrispondenze.
Il fallimento sentimentale di Frédéric è parallelo a quello degli accadimenti storici dell’epoca - con il colpo di stato di Napoleone III - e simboleggia, quindi, il fallimento di un’intera generazione - fallimento confermato nel finale, con il confronto tra Frédéric e l’amico Deslauriers.
 
Ci sarebbe molto altro da dire, ma mi limito a questo: che abbiate amato o meno “Madame Bovary”, date una possibilità a questo romanzo perchè Flaubert è, senza ombra di dubbio, uno dei migliori autori dell’800.

گیجم از فردریک، موضعم در خصوص شخصیت فردریک ملغمه ای است بیشتر با همدلی و کمتر با سرزنش
از صمیم قلبم تمام بالاپایینا و تصمیماتشو میتونم بفهمم
به نظرم فلوبر هنرمندانه زندگی یه آدم احساساتی رو نشون داده
فردریک مثل برگی میمونه که احساسات مثل باد به هر طرف میبرنش
در نظر من بیشتر آدمیست اسیر و نه غیراخلاقی


بخشی از متن ک همیشه دغدغه م بود و فلوبر استادانه بیان کرد، صفحه ۳۸۶
... چرا که با نزدیکانه ترین رازگویی ها همیشه محدودیت هایی است که از شرم بیجا، ظرافت، یا ترحم است. نزد دیگری یا خودت به ورطه هایی، منجلاب هایی برمیخوری که از پیش رفتن بازت می‌دارند، گو این که این را هم می‌دانی که اگر پیش بروی آن یکی درکت نمی‌کند، بیان دقیق آنچه بخواهی دشوار است و از همین روست که بندرت می‌توان با کسی به کمال یکی شد.

موقع شروع کتاب، فقط به این نیت شروع کردم که رمان بسیار مهمیه و باید بخونمش، نه که لذت هم ببرم. تجربه‌ای قبلاً از فلوبر داشتم -می‌دونم نظر نامحبوب محسوب می‌شه اما حتی مادام بوواری- این بود که به‌خاطر اهمیتش باید بخونم و قرار نیست لذتی در کار باشه. یکی از دلایلش این بود که توصیفات بیش‌ازحد جزئی برام کسل‌کننده‌ست. اما ۱/۳ پایانی کتاب بهم نشون داد که فلوبر هم می‌تونه حرمت داشته باشه و هم لذت. :)) و بهم نشون داد که واقعاً بسته به موصوف متفاوته. مثلاً موقع توصیف بسیار جزئی حوادث انقلاب به وجد می‌اومدم و اتفاقاً جزییات بیشتری هم می‌خواستم. واقعاً اینجاها ضربان قلبم می‌رفت بالا از شور و هیجان. اما موقع توصیفات بیش‌ازحد کاسه‌بشقاب و دشت‌ودمن حوصله‌م سر می‌رفت و کسالت‌بار می‌شد. اما اون ۲/۳ اول که بسیار هم باید صبر و حوصله به خرج داد براش واقعاً در خدمت بخش پایانی بود، اصلاً اگر اون زمینه‌چینی صبورانه و دقیق نبود، اون ۱۵۰ صفحه آخر انقدر گیرا نمی‌شد. و پایان تک‌تک شخصیت‌ها انقدر تکان‌دهنده نمی‌بود. به‌جرئت می‌گم یکی از بهترین پایان‌بندی‌هایی بود که تابه‌حال در رمان‌های قرن نوزدهم خونده‌م.

+ خاک بر سرت، فردریک.
+ دوساردیه‌ی بیچاره‌م.

چندجا از قسمت‌های مورد علاقه‌م رو هم اینجا می‌نویسم.
«وقتی انقلاب شد خیال کردم که دیگر خوشبخت می‌شویم، یادتان هست چقدر زیبا بود؟ چه نفس راحتی می‌کشیدیم! امّا دوباره همه‌چیز از همیشه بدتر شده.
و با چشمان به زمین دوخته:
- الآن دارند جمهوری‌مان را می‌کشند. همان‌طور که آن یکی، جمهوری رم را کشتند! بیچاره ونیز، بیچاره لهستان، بیچاره مجارستان! چه جنایت‌هایی! اول درخت‌های آزادی را بریدند، بعد حق رأی را محدود کردند، باشگاه‌ها را بسنند، سانسور را برقرار کردند و آموزش را به کشیش‌ها سپردند، تا بعد نوبت به انکیزیسیون هم برسد. چرا که نه؟ مگر محافظه‌کارهایی نیستند که به ما وعده قزاق‌ها را می‌دهند؟ روزنامه‌های را که با مجازات اعدام مخالف باشند محکوم می‌کنند، پاریس در از سرنیزه است، در شانزده استان کشور حکومت نظامی است.»

Flaubert si documentava in modo pazzesco. leggeva quantità di libri per scrivere i suoi romanzi, arrivando a sfiorare l'idiozia; come Swift, aveva infatti il timore di essere idiota, e forse lo era un po'. quando scrisse la "tentazione di sant'Antonio" e lo lesse ai suoi amici, gli dissero che avrebbe dovuto concentrarsi su una storia meno magniloquente, una storia più modesta. e allora pensò a madame Bovary; una cosa che a me sembra un'assurdità, ma questo era Flaubert. per salambò fece non so quante ricerche, però mi dicono che ci sono parecchie imprecisioni. per bouvard e pecuchet arrivò addirittura a identificare la casa "reale" dei due sempliciotti.
tutto il contrario di Henry James, che quando ascoltava una storia da cui poteva trarre il tema per un suo racconto, dopo averne colto le linee essenziali, faceva tacere i narratori perché non voleva ulteriori dettagli. il tutto doveva essere elaborato dalla sua immaginazione. vero è che Henry James aveva il dono di captare idee, e l'impressione generale è che il suo mondo sia molto più ricco e denso di sfumature di quello di Flaubert, ma h.james ha il difetto di rendere poco vividi i suoi racconti; pochi i dettagli plastici, i personaggi sono spesso inconsistenti; c'è una certa tendenza melodrammatica. Da questo punto di vista James è qualche spanna sotto sia Kipling che Conrad, signori indiscussi del racconto lungo o romanzo breve, che dir si voglia. Non c'è uno scrittore italiano che gli assomiglia; perché Buzzati ad esempio scriveva storie non molto complesse, più allegoriche, e aveva un'incapacità quasi assoluta nel creare caratteri. Buzzati annaspa insieme a noi nella sua realtà, non arriva al castello né sa il modo per arrivarci.

"l'educazione sentimentale" mi è sempre sembrato orrendo, e non credo di averlo mai letto per intero.