4.5
Ameeei, um dos melhores do ano até agora.

Thackeray's opus is a wonder. Long, yes, but so very good in so many ways.

He's part Oscar Wilde, part Jonathan Swift, with a dash of Dickens, but all his own voice.

Since the story is so long and sprawling, I only jotted down a few notes on my impressions.

* He breaks the 4th wall, some times with savage glee, yanking it down making you look at yourself and the characters in a new light. Other times he does it with delicacy, sliding back the wall and making you feel like it's just him and you in the same room, both of you enjoying the wit and banter of this story, you his equal and friend.

* It's long. He wrote it in installments, and got paid by the pound. Okay, maybe not by the pound, but it was in his best interest to keep the story going. And so it goes on for a long time. However, I was never bored, never wanting to skip this chapter and get it over.

* Becky Sharp? Wicked, resourceful, likable and detestable. All too human, which is why I liked her, and deplored her. Brilliant dance of vagueness and ambiguity about how rotten she was, fantastic ending of her partial rise and questions of her motives. She is an archetype, some times playing the saint, other times playing Clytemnestra.

* The title. It's from "Pilgrim's Progress" by John Bunyan. Vanity Fair sits out side the town Vanity on the path to heaven. Thackeray uses this motif to expose humanity's frailties and foibles.

* All of humanities weaknesses gently mocked, virtues decried as so much humbug and hypocrisy, upper class skewered under his pen and he kept going all the way down to the lower class now and then.

* Sometimes it feels like a morality play. Just a touch.

There is so much more to say, but I would never be able to do this book justice.

I strongly recommend this book. Yes, it's long, but you might just find a wonderful adventure among humanity in Vanity Fair.

Senryu Review:

Sprawling satire with
vicious wit and moral kicks
to the heart and head.

.اِمی با اندوه گفت: کاش به من محبت پیدا می‌کردند. همیشه با من سرد بودند
جورج پاسخ داد: طفلکِ من، به تو هم اگر دویست هزار لیره داشتی، محبت پیدا می‌کردند. اینها را این‌جور بار آورده‌اند. جامعهٔ ما، جامعهٔ پول و پَله است. ما در میان صرافان و کَله‌گُنده‌هایِ بازارِ شهر زندگی می‌کنیم که لعنت بر همه‌شان باد و هرکس که با آدم حرف می‌زند صدای جرینگ‌جرینگِ لیره‌های جیبش
را درمی‌آورد

اولا
جائی خواندم، رمانِ "بازار خودفروشی"، این داستانِ بی قهرمان را، یکی از بیست رمانِ بزرگِ قرن 19اُم دانسته اَند، اکنون که مطالعه اَش را به پایان بُرده ام، بعید می دانم که ادعائی بی راه و گزافه باشد
نویسنده، "ویلیام تکری"، با نگاهی نقادانه به زندگیِ مُزورانه و بَزَک-دوزَکیِ بریتانیائیهایِ هم عصرش، که شخصیت هائی از طبقاتِ مختلفِ اجتماعی اَند، داستانِ زندگی دو زن را مبنایِ روایتَش قرار می دهد. یکی فَلک زَده اما آب زیرکاه والبته در اندیشه یِ در صَدر بودن و قَدر دیدن و آن دیگری، ساده دلی مهربان و مُرَفه که در مدرسه ای شبانه روزی با هم آشنا -اگر نگوئیم یک روح در دو بدن- شده اند. ابزارِ اصلیِ تکری در ساختنِ این یاوه بازار، تغییر و تبدیلِ روزگارِ این دو زن است که ضمنِ آمدن و رفتنِ گاه و بی گاهِ شخصیت هایِ دیگر، جذابیتی دوچندان می یابد. این دو "آملیا" و "ربکا" هستند

دوم
الف: سبکِ ترجمه یِ "منوچهر بدیعی" در این کتاب، از لحاظِ بهره بردن از نسخه نسبتاََ به روز و قابلِ فهمی از فارسیِ قَجری، با ترجمه دریابندری از "بازمانده روز" مشابه است
ب: ترجمه دوست داشتنیِ بدیعی پُر بود از عباراتِ زیبا و ناشنیده یِ فارسی که گرچه خواندنش دلنشین بود اما یاد سپردنش، البته سخت
ج: بدیعی در مقدمه ای ارزشمند، ضمن اشاره به عبارت "یاوه بازار"، با استدلالاتی مقبول و با عنایت به بیتِ زیر از حافظ، عنوان برازنده یِ "بازارخودفروشی" را به سایر مواردِ متصور ترجیح می دهد

در کویِ ما شکسته دلی خَرند و بَس /// بازارِ خودفروشی از آن سویِ دیگر است

سوم
تاریک روشنِ بازارِ "خودفروشی"، برایِ خواننده اَش، نَه یک چاله و چاه، که مَغاکی است هَم تاریک و خَلسه آور، هَم روشن و دوس داشتنی!. متنِ سخت خوانِ رمان، گاهی خواننده را -هر قدر هم که بلحاظِ عادت مطالعه، منظم و سخت جان باشد-، به زمین گذاشتنِ کتاب و دوری جستن از "تکری" می خواند، آنهَم نَه یک ساعت و یک روز بلکه گاهاََ چند روز. بعنوانِ نمونه، برای خودِ من، برآوردِ هفت تا 10 روزه برایِ اتمامِ رمان، عملاََ به یک ماهِ تمام رسید. شایان ذکرست که جاذبه و دافعه یِ توصیفاتِ خُردکننده یِ تکری از جلوه فروشی هایِ تفاخرگونه و نمایشی، چنان مایه و پایه درستی دارد که در عیب جوئی، هیچَش نَتوان گفت اِلا سکوت
رخصت دهید مثالی بیاورم. کیست که به "اورست"، این دست نَیافتنی ترین خاکِ عالم برایِ آدمیان صعود کند و در خاطره گوئی اَش، توصیفاتِ دل انگیز از شعفِ نیل به قله را وانَهد و از اِفلاس و جان کَندن هایِ کوهپایه ها نوحه سرایی آغازَد؟!. تکری اما، در بازارِ خودفروشی اَش، راهی دیگر در پیش می گیرد. اگر که از کوهپایه هایِ سخت گذرِ توصیفاتِ تکان دهنده و مواجهه با سوال هایِ گاه و بی گاهِ تکری از وجدانِ خواننده بِسلامت بگذرید و نگاهی به پشتِ دُکانِ کاسبانِ پرشمارِ بی روی و چشمِ بازارِ خودفروشی بیندازید، آنگاه همچو خریداری دقیق، از لابلایِ 846 صفحه -که هر صفحه اَش یک دُکان از بازار خودفروشی است- به قُله خواهید رسید
!و چه سخت است این، هَم اگرکه حاصل شود، چه شیرین


چهارم
در این رمان که به روشی بیشتر شبیهِ "دانایِ کُل" روایت شده، نویسنده، گهگاه سوالاتی با مَطلعِ n  "کیست که نداند / نتواند..."n، می
پرسد که هدفش را می توان خواندنِ مخاطب به عرصه یِ مَحکِ ریاکاریِ خویشتنِ خویش در معرکه یِ بازار خودفروشی دانست و بَس
در پایانِ ریویو، چند نمونه از این دست را -از متن کتاب-، پیشکشِ نگاهتان می کنم


مگر در زندگیِ هَمگان فصلهایِ کوتاهی وجود ندارد که ظاهراََ چیزی به نظر نمی رسند اما در بقیه زندگیِ آنان اثر می گذارد؟
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پس ای بانوانِ جوان!، محتاط و به بِهوش باشید که چگونه دل می بندید. چنان به خانه شوهر روید که در فرانسه می روند. در آنجا حقوق دانان ساقدوش و ینگه عروس و داماد هستند. عهدی مَبندید که به وقتِ ضرورت نَتوانید بر آن چیره شوید. در بازار خودفروشی راهِ حُرمت دیدن و فضیلت یافتن همین است

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فقط زنها می توانند این گونه زخم بزنند. نوکِ تیرهایِ کوچکِ آنان به زهری آلوده است که هزاران بار بیش تر از شمشیرِ مردان کارگر می افتد
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نمی دانم آیا اینکه مردمان، شجاعت را تا بدین اندازه می ستایند ، بِدان سبب است که در نهان بُزدل هستند؟
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فلان عضوِ شورایِ ولایتی که از ضیافتِ بوقلمون می آید، دیگر از کالسکه اش پایین نمی پَرد تا رانِ گوسفندی بِدُزدد، اما همین آدم را گرسنگی بدهید، می بینید که از کِش رفتنِ یک قرصِ نان هم ابایی ندارد
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هر مردم‌آزاری، صرفاً به حکم عقل و منطق، ناگزیر است که خباثتِ مردِ از اسب اُفتاده را ثابت کند – وگرنَه بَدطینتی خود را ثابت کرده است

لینکِ مقاله فرج سرکوهی درباره رمان بازار خودفروشی در کافه بوک
https://kafebook.ir/%D8%A8%D8%A7%D8%B...

لینکِ مقاله یِ رادیو فردا درباره رمان بازار خودفروشی
https://www.radiofarda.com/a/f3_weekl...

"Ah! Vanitas vanitatem! Which of us is happy in this world? Which of us has his desire? Or having it, is satisfied?"

And so ends VANITY FAIR. Thackeray's purpose seems to be to expose the universal condition of vanity and, to achieve it, he takes his two female characters, Amelia Sedley and Becky Sharp, and uses them to explore and expose the workings of vanity. Amelia will be used for the private sphere (home and affections) and Becky, for the public sphere (social climbing and social status).

In my opinion, the problem of this novel is its narrator. Thackeray once defined the novel as a "sort of confidential talk between writer and reader." Well, I feel that there is simply too much of this kind of talk. The narrator is annoyingly intrusive and not only that, his voice is somewhat puzzling. Sometimes he plays the fool, at other times he plays the preacher. He can be a man of the world and also cloyingly sentimental. And he is very repetitive. He underlines a point already made absolutely clear, or he illustrates his point in several ways and, if he thinks this is not quite enough, he will point its moral. His extended musings produce breaks in the continuity of the novel and for this reason, I found that the novel dragged for ever. Undoubtedly, Thackeray can be a bore.

However, some interesting things happen as well. The remarkable thing about VANITY FAIR'S moral universe is that good does not triumph over evil. This doesn't happen often in the English nineteenth century novel. Sexual forces (rather than money) are the real determinants of the action and this points to the idea that deferential attitudes towards women, the sentimental idealisation of women, the protective masculine displays towards women are merely hypocrisies. This was true in Victorian England and surely it still holds some truth in Western culture today.

So if you are a patient reader, able to bear the garrulous narrating voice, you will find an unusual satirical novel which describes a panorama of life in Victorian England with irony and wit.

Make sure that you read William Thackeray’s novel Vanity Fair in public, not in the hope that someone may spot you reading a classic, but so that you may see the characters of this wonderfully perceptive (and prophetic) novel wandering about in the flesh. Vanity Fair is populated not by characters but by real people and thus, will never date.

Thackeray is masterful, he allows his characters the freedom to do as they please; they are autonomous and must make decisions on their own, as must we all. Some choose poorly, and yet succeed. Some choose well and yet are rewarded by misfortune. Some grab and grumble, some laugh and give, some believe they are masters of their own destinies while some are cut down in their prime.

In Vanity Fair Thackeray has captured humanity in the raw - just after getting out of bed and before our first cup of coffee. You will delight in discovering people you know in its pages. You may smile when they reveal themselves as cads, you may cry when those who deserve better are treated cruelly and you may laugh when the frauds get their comeuppance.

But be warned, read Vanity Fair and enjoy the show, but know that somewhere within is pages lurks a soul much like your own, and when you least expect it, maybe when you’re laughing hardest at the foibles of another, you will recognise yourself and be silenced.

For whether you know it or not, we all live in the pages of Vanity Fair.

The author makes his presence known towards the end of the book. It was both eerie and uncanny. He kept breaking the fourth wall, then he conjured that apparition of his in one of the last chapters.

Vanity Fair contains no real heroes. That was a fact that Thackeray himself stated, and who am I to dispute that. This book of his is quite droll in its stitching together. There is a threat of a continuum, then everything is put back into question.

Classics are a strange beast. With them, I feel attachment like it's the result of Stockholm Syndrome. My delight at finishing these Mesozoic beasts is unique to the genre. Long may it continue.

DNF na 150 stron przed końcem.
Wrzuciła mnie w zastój czytelniczy. Raczej nigdy do niej nie wrócę.
2,5/5

چند سالی بود که دلم میخواست بخونمش وبالاخره تونستم تقریبا یک ماهی و با ربکا ،آملیا،جو،ویلیام و بقیه زندگی کردم
صفحات اول کتاب که شروع کردم داستان من برد به دنیای نوجوانی و یادآوری داستان بابا لنگ دراز و از همونجا جذبش شدم جالبه برام که کتاب و تا انتها خوندم اما شخصیت محبوبی که بخوام بخاطر اون صفحات ورق بزنم پیدا نکردم ،من از خود تکری خوشم اومد.
از ساده نوشتنش تو تمام اون لحظاتی که من خواننده و صدا میزد ،اونجای که باید داستان ادامه میداد بهم میگفت لازم به گفتن من نیست شما خودت همه رو میدونی.توصیفاتی که اکثر نویسنده ها براشون مهمه و اینجور مخاطب جذب میکنن واس تکری بی اهمیت بود
اولین کتابی بود که ازش خوندم اما واقعا سبک و نوع نگارشش ودوست داشتم .پیشنهاد میکنم کتاب و حتما بخونین

Il romanzone dell’estate 2023, che non ha potuto accompagnarmi in spiaggia o in vacanza perché la mole non lo ha permesso, ma che ha segnato le giornate estive calde ed oziose, sul divano con l’aria condizionata accesa, o in balcone la sera lunga sul divanetto. Una piacevolissima compagnia.
Mi sono sempre piaciuti i romanzoni ottocenteschi, con una pletora di personaggi, ognuno con proprie caratteristiche peculiari, non totalmente positivi né totalmente negativi, mi vengono in mente Casa desolata di Dickens o La pietra di luna di Wilkie Collins, per restare in Inghilterra. In più in Tackeray ho trovato una ironia così manifesta, divertente, apparentemente in superficie, che invece colpisce ed affonda un mondo ed un’epoca, la società del periodo vittoriano.
Le protagoniste principali sono due donne, che conosciamo all’inizio come giovani studentesse uscite dalla scuola per signorine che preparava le fanciulle al matrimonio, e con noi giungeranno alla maturità, Rebecca Sharp ed Amelia Sedley: due donne lontane tra loro anni luce per carattere, la prima spregiudicata, astuta, intelligente, arrampicatrice sociale, egoista, la seconda dolce, morbida, remissiva e insipida. Intorno a loro una rutilante fiera di personaggi, una variegata vetrina nella quale si muovono ipocriti e vanagloriosi, arrampicatori sociali e puttanieri, nobili depravati o decaduti e borghesi uomini d’affari le cui fortune finanziarie si muovono come le onde di un mare in burrasca, uomini d’armi e volitive signore, sciocchi funzionari dello Stato, con i loro seguiti di maggiordomi e camerieri. Nessuno si salva dallo sguardo cinico dello scrittore.

Il finale lascia sorpresi per la modernità, perché il romanzo non termina col solito prevedibile finale dei “buoni” che vincono e “i cattivi” che hanno la meritata punizione, ma lascia una porta aperta a un futuro in cui, come nella vita, i buoni e i cattivi non sono così radicalmente “condannati”ai loro ruoli.

Vanity Fair may be brilliant, but it is extremely bloated and uneven. For each page that features interesting characters and compelling dialogue, one must trudge through a greater measure of dull, relentless and misplaced description, aside and detail. Thackeray just goes on and on, spilling onto the page everything he can possibly think of, without any consideration for what is interesting and what is not. The story seems not to be driving anywhere in particular, but it drives on regardless, and the driver enjoys nothing more than tediously pointing out each minute element of the scenery passed along the way.

This is a novel built on comic wit and satire, which, I've come to realise, aren't really my thing, especially when coupled with Nineteenth Century concerns and sensibilities and packaged in bland realism. Give me a metaphor now and then, or something! Of the mostly unappealing and forgettable cast of characters, Becky was the one I felt least indifferent too, and she represents almost all of what I enjoyed about this novel. I found myself frequently tuning out when she wasn't around, barely expending the effort to keep track of which Crawley was which, or who was married to whom, or in which park did each now happen to take their walks of an afternoon (as compared to last week), and who enjoys a little claret with their meals now and then, and is tonight's veal to their liking? - all for very little payoff.

I think to enjoy this novel you have to have some sort of affinity for its excesses, to be captivated by its time and place, its wit and voice and style, in order to follow, eagerly and attentively down each unremarkable cul-de-sac. For my part, I followed, but reluctantly, and with very little enthusiasm. If Vanity Fair were about 300 pages shorter I might have enjoyed it, but as it stands I'm just pleased to have gotten through it.

Ok, ok...I'm reading this as a break between books for classes in Grad School. Is that the dorkiest thing you could ever imagine? Yes. It is. It just is.

But the first two pages, the author's introduction....greatest two pages of introductory prose I've ever seen. Better than Kafka, better than Nabokov, better than whatever. Fucking brilliant- vivid, funny, rambunctious, wise, sarcastic, immortally satirical. I was hooked each time I picked up the book and read through it. Sometimes there's that first blush kind of thing going on, when a book seems amazing in the first few minutes of poking around in it in a bookstore and then it loses its shine when you take it home and read it.

Not so w. Vanity Fair...

I'm maybe a hundred pages in and I'm savoring it. It's deliciously wise and cyncial and knowing and filled with its own combustion engine, perpetual storytelling (ie serialization, 'let's throw in a subplot so we can go out to eat for the next week') is a lost art. this is prose I already know I'm going to re-read after I'm finished.

One thing, an objection anticipated-

Story being overtold? Concision? Legitimate grounds...in context. How much story does one really need? What is a story without the very thing which comprises it? The protein in the beef, the fiber in the bread....LANGUAGE.

For me as a reader, it's all about language- the way things are said, not (as much) what's said. How many buildungsroman 'idealistic young man from the sticks hits the big city and gets more than he bargained for" stories does one need to read (The Red And the Black, On The Road, Huck Finn, Great Gatsby, Portrait, whatever....all these can arguably be included in the genre but they're not the same novel at all, because they're not written by the same author) and that individual stamp can indeed be read in any amount of ways but it best manifests itself in language.