Finished. What an achievement. Writing it, not reading it.

I marvel that he has written a book with no character for which one could have a shred of sympathy and yet somehow we sit there caring what happens. I mean, really caring, reading through breakfast caring.

I kept thinking of The Great Gatsby when Nick says to Jay "They're a rotten crowd...You're worth the whole damn bunch put together." and isn't that what makes the book work, that there is somebody worthy of our caring. But here there isn't one character to redeem the story and yet, even so, even though they are rotten without exception, still Flaubert gets you to care. Amazing.

And then again, I marvel that the book is a complete shambles -

The rest is here.....

http://alittleteaalittlechat.wordpres...

This was one of Franz Kafka's favorite books. A young upper class adult learns about love in turbulent 1840's Paris. Like Warren Zevon sang after reading this "I need some sentimental hygiene."

Look, its Flaubert. I don't have any fault to find with this writing. But I've still got 100 pages to go and its been weeks and I have no intention of finishing this. I get these characters- way waaay too much. I want to claw my eyes out rather than spend any more time with them though.

So probably too good a job, M. Flaubert. But I'd prefer to spend time with Emma so many times over. Even at her most whiny.

Review to come.

Фредерик Моро прожил пустую жизнь. У него было много шансов и стать богатым, и быть счастливым в любви, но все не складывалось. Он с одной стороны, был достаточно одарен, но всем его занятиям мешала лень, непоследовательность, неспособность завершить начатое, пассивность. Даже учиться он сам не мог, потребовался репетитор. В описываемый период он встречался с тремя женщинами сразу, плюс морочил голову богатой невесте Луизе Рокк из Ножана. Но любил только одну - Мари Арну, любил платонически, не надеясь на взаимность, всегда финансово выручая ее мужа, склонного к мошенническим сделкам.
В дни революции, он оставался равнодушным к судьбам родины, хотя предпринимал слабые попытки "заняться политикой", оставаясь для рабочих аристократом. Это, в общем-то, понятно. Кто же пойдет за человеком, который не озабочен проблемами протестующих, а на волне народного гнева думает о личных карьерных планах? В целом, Фредерик не вызывает больших симпатий, несмотря на верность и Мари Арну, и своему другу Делорье. Его любовь была полигамна, раз госпожа Арну не пришла, то со злости он зовёт Розанетту. Женщины для него - размен��ая монета. Дружба с Делорье тоже омрачена предпочтением отдать деньги Арну с очевидным невозвратом, чем на помощь другу. Понятно, что у него на это есть полное право. Самым лучшим воспоминанием в своей жизни Моро и Делорье с грустью констатируют тот день, когда они, еще юные, наивные провинциалы, нарвали цветов и пошли с букетами в бордель, где их осмеяли.
Я начала рецензию с резюмирования о пустой жизни Фредерика. Но чем же обусловилась пустота? Ничтожностью целей - материальное благополучие, карьера, мимолетные сексуальные утехи, любовь, которая была самообманом - ему не хватило решимости бороться за нее. Эти ценности не выдерживают испытания временем и остается ощущение разрушенных надежд. А скажите, пожалуйста, сколько людей живут в погоне за подобными целями? Этот роман ставит вопрос - для чего жить? Жить, чтобы не прожить ее впустую.
В романе есть интересные второстепенные персонажи, например, мадемуазель Ватназ, которая олицетворяет предшественницу феминизма, во всяком случае, ее высказывания имеют отчетливый феминистский вектор.
В целом, Флобер нарисовал читателю картину французского общества накануне и в период буржуазной революции 1848 года, настроения, дух эпохи, общественной психологии и нравов.

Flaubert in this novel presents us with a woman who is the antithesis of Madame Bovary. Madame Arnoux remains the loyal, virtuous wife, despite her husband's numerous failings (he is both financially and sexually incontinent) and the sustained passionate attentions of the books's protagonist Frederic Moreau.
It is an interesting contemplation of the nature of love and lust and how the two are distinguished. How the desire to possess that which one is denied can become an obsession and one which can fade when fulfilment is possible.
Henry James described it as, "elaborately and massively dreary" and that there was no more charm in it than in a heap of gravel and while I don't agree I suspect what he was relating to is the fact that the characters all suffer from human and moral frailty. Despite the title there is no sentimentality from Flaubert towards his players, just the truth of their actions and intentions. There is no judgement for any actions the characters undertake, just a beautifully written tale of people facing their inner turmoil against a backdrop of political unrest.

Είμαι σίγουρη ότι πολλοί πριν από μένα έχουν κάνει πολύ καλύτερες κριτικές γι’ αυτό το λογοτεχνικό αριστούργημα Δε νομίζω πως έχει μείνει κάτι να πω για το εξαιρετικό ύφος και την τέχνη του Φλωμπέρ ο οποίας μας έχει δώσει αυτό το έργο σταθμό που παραμένει ακόμα σύγχρονο Το μόνο που θα ήθελα να προσθέσω είναι το γεγονός ότι πρώτη φορά τόσοι χαρακτήρες μαζεμένοι, μου είναι τοσο αδιάφοροι και τόσο εκνευριστικοί κι όμως παρόλαυτά δεν μπορούσα να σταματήσω να διαβάζω γιατί πραγματικά ήθελα να δω τι θα γίνει στο τέλος. Αυτό το λες και μέγιστο κατόρθωμα του συγγραφέα

به نام او

من سه اثر از فلوبر خواندم: مادام بوواری، سالامبو و تربیت احساسات
و در این بین تربیت احساسات را بیش از آن دو کتاب دوست دارم.
تربیت احساسات به نوعی نقطه مقابل مادام بوواریه در آن داستان، اما بوواری دختر شهرستانی تازه به شهر آماده پس از ازدواج دست به هنجارشکنی میزنه و عاقبت هم همین هنجارشکنیها باعث نابودی خود و زندگیش میشه ولی در اینجا فردریک پسر جوانی‌ست که در طول زمان در مواجهه با احساسات مختلف عاطفی قرار میگیره ولی برعکس اما نه تنها به مقصدش نمیرسه بلکه این ناکامیها سبب شکل گیری شخصیتش و به نوعی تربیت احساساتش می‌شود.
با همین تعریف کوتاه هم میشه فهمید که مادام بوواری یک رمان کلاسیکه ولی تربیت احساسات یک اثر آوانگارد و نویی هست که واقعا نگارشش در آن سالها کمی عجیب به نظر میرسه.
نکته بعدی که سبب شده من این اثر را از آن دو اثر خصوصا سالامبو بیشتر دوست بدارم نوع روایت داستانه، با اینکه فلوبر هفت سال برای نگارش تربیت وقت گذاشته و حتی بیش از اون دو تا کتاب وسواس به خرج داده ولی اینقدر روایت بی‌پیرایه است که اصلا از صناعت در نثر فلوبر خبری نیست به بیان دیگر برخلاف اون دو کتاب جای انگشتهای فلوبر بر روی خشتهای تربیت احساسات دیده نمی‌شود.
و آخرین برجستگی کتاب که میتونم بهش اشاره بکنم زمان‌مند بودن تربیت احساسات و آینگی آن نسبت به مسائل سیاسی اجتماعی فرانسه آن دوره است که به تعالی رمان کمک زیادی کرده.
در آخر اینکه فلوبر نویسنده محبوب من نیست ولی رمانهایش را دوست دارم و از این میان تربیت احساسات را بیشتر

Review de la seconde éducation sentimentale : Une mise en abîme de l'impossibilité du héros romantique à perdurer dans la tradition romanesque.

Spectateur de la société comme spectateur de sa vie, Frédéric Moreau incarne le héros romantique par excellence, retenu dans un autre temps, désormais révolu, incapable de s'acclimater aux remous de la société parisienne et de la vie politique contemporaine.
Sa quête d'idéaux le conduit à une inactivité passive, à n'être qu'une victime des circonstances. L'idéal qu'il poursuit toute sa vie, Mme Arnoux, incarnation de l'amour cristallisé, lui échappe sans cesse, et la similitude entre les traits de cette dernière et ceux de Mme de Rênal (dans Le Rouge et le Noir) n'est sans doute pas innocente.

Et puis, comme le remarque très justement Marie-Noire, dans Blanche ou l'Oubli :
"Pour en revenir à ce Flaubert, dans L'Éducation, ce que j'en ai retenu, moi, ce sont les enfants.
– Les enfants ?
– Bien, vous n'avez rien remarqué ? Il y a le garçon de Mme Arnoux qui a le croup le jour où Frédéric l'attend rue Tronchet. Il y a l'enfant de Frédéric et de Rosanette qui meurt couvert d'une espèce de muguet. Il y a l'enfant que Rosanette adopte et, vous, ça ne vous touche pas autrement, vous ne voyez qu'une chose, qu'elle a grossi..."

Sans doute la magie de ce roman réside-t-elle dans la pluralité de ses lectures et des sensibilités qu'il éveille, le détail de l'un devenant la clé de lecture de l'autre...

Cuando terminé el quinto capítulo de la tercera parte tuve que cerrar el libro, pararme de la mesa, y caminar por toda la casa blandiendo en alto el puño, maldiciendo a Flaubert por haber hecho lo que hizo, por la injusticia tan aberrante que no es suya sino del mundo. La situación, si alguien quiere imaginarla con mayor claridad, incluye un apartamento con cuatro gatos en el que yo vocifero en contra del autor francés mientras mis padres duermen en la alcoba principal.

Sólo esa escena (la última del capítulo cinco de la tercera parte) basta para hacer de este libro uno que se gana su puesto entre las mejores cosas que he leído. El resto de elementos vendrán a confirmar esa observación. La pericia narrativa es la de un maestro en el oficio, uno que supo que escribir es un proceso de larga artesanía en el que poco importan las geniales intuiciones si no se domina a la perfección la herramienta del lenguaje y la paciente observación del alma humana. La educación sentimental es una de esas composiciones que parecen pertenecer, en exclusiva, al siglo XIX: novelas que abarcan todo, que no se echan atrás al momento de poner en escena discusiones estéticas o políticas, y que mantienen, por encima de cualquier cosa, una amarga conciencia crítica que hace vitales los cuadros más cotidianos.

Aborrecí al personaje principal a lo largo de toda la novela. Esta confesión no dice nada, pero cuando debo admitir que en las dos páginas finales dejé de odiarle, que en veinte párrafos consiguió Gustave Flaubert que me reconciliara con Frédérik Moreau, bueno, entonces estoy confesando una de dos cosas: la primera mi absurda volubilidad; la segunda, una inmensa capacidad de síntesis en el autor que consigue poner en perspectiva toda una personalidad a la luz de una conclusión encantadora. La sencilla belleza del final de la novela no deja de recordarme el demoledor final de Don Quijote.

¿Para qué irme a más? Quien lea La educación sentimental encontrará una novela lenta para nuestras costumbres actuales, demorada en los detalles, amplia al momento de describir particularidades del vestido y del paisaje. Encontrará situaciones patéticas por su ausencia de tragedia, narradas con un dramatismo esencial a partir de las declaraciones de sus personajes; y situaciones febrilmente dramáticas, narradas con demoledora falta de adornos...

Es el primer libro que leo de Gustave Flaubert. He encontrado pasajes enteros de una candidez repleta de ternura que de golpe se interrumpen para dejar paso a metáforas que jamás se me habrían pasado por la imaginación. ¿Si ese no es el oficio del poeta, dónde hemos de encontrarlo? Insisto, es el primer libro que leo del clásico francés, y lo buscaré de ahora en adelante con entusiasmo.

Encontré en la lectura algo parecido a la esperanza, en nuestra contradictoria condición humana, en nuestra tierna soberbia, en nuestras mejores aventuras. De toda la obra, sé que el personaje de Dussardier me acompañará siempre.

خیال می‌کنم هنوز نمی‌توانم رمان نو را درک کنم. مثل «جادهٔ فلاندر» که با هزار امید و آرزو شروع به خواندنش کردم و بعد با شلم‌شوربایی بی‌سروته مواجه شدم، تربیت احساسات هم ناامیدم کرد. در این رمان با یک جوان بی‌اراده، خجالتی و احساساتی مواجهیم که از اول تا آخر کتاب بین زن‌های مختلف سرگردان است. هیچ کاری نمی‌کند، هیچ اتفاقی نمی‌افتد، و خواننده در نهایت به هیچ نتیجه‌ای نمی‌رسد. خود فلوبر گفته بود «می‌خواهم کتابی دربارهٔ هیچ بنویسم. کتابی که خودبه‌خود در هوا معلق بماند» و همین کار را کرد. کتاب از ابتدا تا انتها شرح جزئیاتی بی‌اهمیت بود از توهمات جوانی به نام فردریک که لابه‌لای آن ماجرای انقلاب ۱۸۴۸ فرانسه نیز گنجانده شده بود که بسیار خسته‌کننده بود.

مارسل پروست در شاهکارش «در جست‌وجوی زمان از دست رفته» می‌نویسد: ادیبی که با او از یک «کتاب خوب» تازه حرف می‌زنی پیشاپیش از بیحوصلگی خمیازه می‌کشد، چون میانگین گونه‌ای از همهٔ کتابهای خوبی را در نظر می‌آورد که خوانده است، حال آن‌که یک کتاب خوب چیزی خاص و پیش‌بینی نکردنی است، و نه از مجموع همهٔ شاهکارهای پیش از خود بلکه از چیزی ساخته شده است که برای یافتنش جذب کامل آن مجموع هیچ بس نیست، چون درست در بیرون از آن است. ادیبی که تا اندکی پیش دلزده بود، همین‌که با این اثر تازه آشنا شد به واقعیتی که اثر توصیف می‌کند علاقه‌مند می‌شود.

من هم با به یاد سپردن این نکته و بدون هیچ‌گونه پیش‌زمینهٔ ذهنی سراغ «تربیت احساسات» رفتم اما نتیجه دلچسب نبود. به داستان علاقه‌مند نشدم و این بی‌میلی تا انتها ادامه داشت.

I have read half. I am dumping this. I cannot bear another minute of it. A classic not worthy of its title nor its fame.

A book of historical fiction, it draws French society at the time of the 1848 French Revolution. Adulterous love affairs abound, yet they are drawn without a hint of passion! This is a book that does not even come close to fulfilling what the title implies.

The characters are flighty, self-important and totally uninteresting. They are cardboard figures drawn without depth.

The plot is no better. One mistress is exchanged for another. One friend is exchanged for another. A promise is given, but not kept. One employment is exchanged for another or preferably, if one can pull it off, one should not be employed at all. An inheritance is handy.

The writing is wordy, over descriptive, detailing only that n  notn interesting. The fabric of clothing, the wallpaper, floor coverings and mantelpiece ornaments. The mundane objects in a room. Politics of the time is made boring. The physical attributes of a person may be described but their personalities are shallow and without substance.

Without comparing the French text to the English, it is impossible to determine if the translation is at fault. I can state that the prose does not flow properly; in many instances words are not used as they should be. It is at times unclear whom a pronoun refers to and prepositions are incorrectly chosen.

First, I listened to this narrated by Michael Maloney. The French names for places and people were mumbled. It was impossible to follow. The words were sung rather than spoken, as poetry to be recited rather than prose read. I switched to the narrator Jonathan Fried; he is definitely better. The names became decipherable. Fried’s narration I have given three stars.

It is classics such as this that make people dislike classics.

I have given Gustave Flaubert 's Madame Bovary three stars. I will not be reading more by this author.

In the letter to his mistress, Louise Colet, Gustav Flaubert wrote:

“There are, literally speaking, two distinct people within me. The one is in love with bombast, lyricism, great eagle-like flights, sonorities of phrasing and the grandest of ideas; the other scratches and digs down into the truth as far as he can, loves acknowledging a humble fact just as much as a large one, wants to make you almost physically feel the things he shows you; this latter one loves to laugh, and delights in the animality of the human being.”

In this novel, both Flauberts work in a fabulous ensemble and achieve a very special result. I personally fell for attraction of Flaubert-2. There were many moments in this book he succeeded in making me “physically feel the things he showed”. He has infected me with the poetry of “a humble” moments as well as multitudes those moments tend to contained.

As a result, there will be a lot of quoting Flaubert in what follows as i just cannot restrain myself in my delight of his way with the words. For example, Paris:

“Pink clouds were floating like scarves above the rooftops; the awnings of the shops were being rolled up; water-carts were pouring a fine rain on the dust; and an unusual freshness was mingling with the smells from the cafés, where, through the open doors, between the silver and gilt decorations, bouquets of flowers could be seen reflected in the tall mirrors”.

This is timeless. It is a moment I could have enjoyed while in Paris almost two centuries later. Flaubert manages to make this image very vivid, very poignant and totally complete: it cannot be bettered by adding or taking a way a single word.

Another moment comes just after a insurrection was brutally put down on the streets:

“An old man in his shirtsleeves was weeping at an open window, his eyes raised towards the sky. The Seine was flowing peacefully by. The sky was blue; birds were singing in the trees of the Tuileries.”

This contrast of a crying old man versus blue sky and singing birds tells much more about the tragedy in one sentence compared to endless paragraphs of detailed descriptions someone else might have required. There is something of Chekhov in this phrase. Only Chekhov came later of course; so very likely this comparison should work other way.

But the main tool of Flaubert-2 is irony. The whole edifice of this novel is an exercise on the whole spectrum from the mildly comic to angry, sad or grotesque.

His reconstructions of various social gatherings are incredibly astute and very funny. They also have not dated at all in spite of internet age, post-truth, AI, etc. He describes parties, political meetings, banker’s dinners and a lot more. Other writers would create these scenes in a way that I would usually diligently skip. Not Flaubert. A costumed party given by a famous courtesan ends as follows:

“The Angel was still in the dining-room, tucking into a mixture of butter and sardines; and the Fishwife, sitting beside her, was smoking cigarettes and giving her advice about life. At last the cabs arrived and the guests left...But the Angel, a prey to the first symptoms of indigestion, could not get up. The Medieval Knight carried her to the cab. ‘Mind her wings!’ shouted the Stevedore through the window. On the landing Mademoiselle Vatnaz said to Rosanette: ‘Goodbye, my dear! It was a lovely party!’”

Some of those people were also present in this room, but in a different capacity, one might hope:

“There were a great many grey heads and wigs; here and there a bald pate glistened; and the faces, which were either flushed or very pale, revealed in their degeneration the traces of an immense weariness, for the men there were mostly in politics or business.”

The one of the funniest episode is a duel. Duel has been a trope of the European literature since the 17th century at least. It is always a tragedy, tragic mistake, an honourable act. Not in Flaubert hands. He subverts it revealing all the absurd of this tradition. In this novel, the duel is a comic farce with both participants look pathetic for different reasons, and no one gets hurt. Someone said that the distance between the great and the pathetic is really a single step. I was thinking about it a lot while reading this novel.

Occasionally his irony is getting angrier:

"She was one of those Parisian spinsters who, every evening, when they have given their lessons, or tried to sell their little drawings or place their pitiful manuscripts, go home with mud on their petticoats, cook their dinner, eat it all alone, and then, with their feet on a foot-warmer, by the light of a smoking lamp, dream of a love-affair, a family, a home, a fortune – all the things they haven’t got. Consequently, like many others, she had greeted the Revolution as the harbinger of revenge; she was devoting herself passionately to Socialist propaganda. According to Mademoiselle Vatnaz, the emancipation of the proletariat was possible only through the emancipation of women....And seeing that the Government did not recognize their rights, they would have to conquer force by force. Ten thousand citizenesses, armed with good muskets, could make the Hôtel de Ville tremble.”

One could say Flaubert is merciless. But i found this ability to laugh at serious issues a very valuable skill. Sometimes I feel it has been lost in some examples of our contemporary debates and also in literature. Can this loss be a side effect of achievement the wider democratisation of the western society in the last century or so? I doubt it follows. At least i hope not necessary. We still should be able to laugh.

In extreme, Flaubert skilfully utilises the bombshell of grotesque:

“In the entrance-hall, standing on a pile of clothes, a prostitute was posing as a statue of Liberty, motionless and terrifying, with her eyes wide open."

Who can create more powerful and meaningful symbolism than a prostitute as a statue of Liberty. This symbol still has not lost its actuality and probably never will.

“Sentimental education” the main character, Frederic, gets through his life cannot escape the ironic gaze either. A few decades after the novel, Joris-Karl Huysmans said that the novel genre was somewhat in a crisis in the 60s as it mainly addressed “why did Monsieur So-and-So commit (or fail to commit) adultery with Madame So-and-So;”. On the surface this is exactly this novel. We are evidencing the shenanigans of Frederic between several women that are becoming (shenanigans, not women; but they are also actually) progressively more cynical and difficult to manage. Flaubert shows how the society and simple fact of experiencing life manages to “mould” an idealistic youth into a disillusioned man. But the irony is that he just about manages to get hold of an ideal. And when he faces the last and only chance to test it with reality, he choses not to do it. And his motivation, it seems, is pretty egoistic.

However, it is not only Flaubert-2 does heavy lifting. Flaubert-1 has also works hard. The novel is meticulously researched. Apparently, it took Flaubert more than five years to write it. He checked and researched all details including into the novel including production processes, political events, even shoes and type of china used. However, the research is never “sticking out from the stitches” or become an “information dump” as it is often happens in the novels written in our age. The dialogues of his characters discussing contemporary ideas sound like conversation not like a lecture in politics. These people were the children of the French revolution. By itself they’ve lived through the unrest of 1848-51; the majority have participated in it in some form or another. All of this forms the part of “big canvas” by Flaubert-1. However, interestingly, many of these debates and even the language of their discourse would not be out of place in our time.

This is the conversation between Frederic and his friend. To keep it nuanced, i will need a lengthy quote:

‘Because, just like the manufacturers who want to exclude foreign goods, these gentlemen (workers and other lower classes) demand the expulsion of all workers from England, Germany, Belgium, and Savoy. As for their intelligence, what good did their famous guilds do them under the Restoration? In 1830 they joined the National Guard, without even having the sense to get control of it! And, as soon as ’ 48 was over, didn’t the trade unions appear again with their own special banners? They even wanted their own representatives in the Chamber, who would have spoken just for them! Just like the beetroot deputies who never worry about anything but beetroot! Oh, I’ve had enough of those fellows! First they grovelled in front of Robespierre’s scaffold, then it was the Emperor’s boots, and after that Louis-Philippe’s umbrella. Scum, that’s what they are, always ready to serve anybody who’ll stuff their mouths with bread! People are always condemning the venality of Talleyrand and Mirabeau; but the messenger downstairs would sell his country for fifty centimes if you promised him a tariff of three francs for every errand he ran! Oh, what a mess we’re in! We ought to have set fire to every corner of Europe!’

Frédéric replied: ‘The spark was missing. You were just a lot of little shopkeepers at heart, and the best of you were doctrinaires. As for the workers, they’ve got every reason to complain; for apart from a million taken from the Civil List, which you granted them with the vilest flattery, you’ve given them nothing but fine phrases. The wages book remains in the employer’s hands, and the employee, even before the law, is still inferior to his master, because nobody takes his word. Altogether, the Republic strikes me as out of date. Who knows? Perhaps progress can only be achieved through an aristocracy or a single man. The initiative always comes from above. The people are still immature, whatever you may say.’

The debate is still ongoing it seems. But hopefully they are both wrong, at least partly in their conclusions.

This is the novel to revitalise my tainted belief that realism can be exciting and delightful if it is done by a great artist. However, I want to finish with Flaubert’s dream. In the one of his letters, he wrote:

“What seems beautiful to me, what I would most like to write, is a book about nothing, a book that is connected to nothing outside itself, one that would be held together strictly by the strength of its style, just like the earth which, hanging suspended in space, depends on nothing external to support it; a book that would have almost no subject, or at least one where the subject would be nearly invisible, if it could be done. The finest works are those that contain the least matter; the closer that the expression comes to the thought, the closer language comes to coinciding and blending into it, the more beautiful. I believe that the future of Art lies in this direction. .. This is why there is no such thing as an elevated or a degraded subject, and why one could almost set it up as an axiom that from the point of view of pure Art, there is no subject, style being in itself an absolute way of seeing things.”

I am not sure Flaubert has written such a book himself. But he has created the space. And in the 20th centuries the others like abstract visual artists and the writers like Borges, Beckett and Kafka could fill it in.