Translated by Roger Whitehouse
Steeped still in Bovary realism, the whimsicality of Three Tales was surprising. Although each of the tales is essentially a religious exploration, I stand by my use of the word of whimsical: Flaubert has a light-hearted and questioning touch.
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On this, the third time of reading, and the second of blogging, I find myself a little crestfallen, having finally recognised in Madame Bovary one of those chameleon books that reflects the perspective of the reader to a quite extraordinary extent. Thought it was the book, but no, that was just me.
I hope this versatility illustrates, in itself, the power of the novel, because this failure to separate mindset from text must invalidate much of my thinking.
Striving to find droplets of objectivity in an ocean of subjectivity (dreadful misquote!) the interesting use of “we” in, and only in, chapter 1 of Part I, snagged my attention. It may seem trivial but, in a writer such as Flaubert, it would be naive to entertain the notion of inconsequentiality. The most obvious factor here is that the classmates of whom the “we” is seemingly compromised perceive Charles in the same disdainful way that is to later characterise his relationship with Emma.
Since this multiple first person narrator (mysteriously privy to impossibly personal details about Charles) is more complex than simply a group of Charles’ school peers, I interpreted it (with my feminist hat on) as a “we” representing society, and the point is that the existence of Charles, ineffectual and incompetent as he is, is at least registered by society, whereas that of the intelligent, ambitious and female Emma is not.
Although the rest of the story is told through an omniscient third person narrator, it often feels as though Emma herself is relating the story, and this would give me cause to doubt the “cloddish” qualities of Charles, were it not for the initial alternative voice confirming this point of view. Given this comprehensive condemnation of Charles it has only this time occurred to me to perceive his good qualities; steadfast, loyal, well-intentioned. Flaubert’s challenge to his reader?
Not convinced that I had in any way divined the author’s intentions I trawled Google. Apparently the opening sequence foreshadows Emma’s treatment of Charles, but also illuminates Charles strengths… Oops. Missed that.
So, the next time I read Madame Bovary I am not going to be lured by the siren and mutable Emma. I think I will focus on the significance of the blind beggar…
I mistakenly read this book as my book group book for September. I should have read The Killing Jar. But having read the responses to Killing Jar I feel, perhaps a little smugly, that I may have got the best of the deal!
I was fascinated by Madame Bovary, but maybe more by my response to the book, than the book itself. I am beginning to think that the more classics I read the more egotistical I become. (Never used to have this problem with kiddies’ books…)
First reading this book some time ago, as a student, single and childless, I had little sympathy with either the book in general or Emma, our anti-heroine, in particular. In fact, I would have refused to think of Emma as anything other than Madame Bovary, to avoid implying any kind of familiarity with her!
I regret to say that the book engendered nothing but anger and contempt for an Emma I perceived as weak, and a total lack of engagement with any part of it.
Come September, under the false impression that I needed to read the, as I thought, dreary dirge again, I was amazed to find how much my point of view had changed.
Descriptions of life in the various strata of 19th century rural France carry enormous conviction, and the characters are the very embodiment of gritty realism, allowing an anticipation of their (often ill-judged) actions which serves to heighten the sense of impending doom building gradually throughout the book.
And Emma. Poor frustrated, misguided Emma, trapped in a claustrophobic existence. Who seeks fulfillment, grasping blindly for a state of which she has so little concept.
Reading this book pre-children, most of the frustration and naivety existed on my part. I could not understand why Emma was not satisfied by the arrival of her daughter. Nor could I begin to comprehend why she couldn’t just “get on with it.” And finally I was disgusted by what I saw as her ultimate betrayal of her own daughter.
Post-children, my position has completely reversed. Not in the sense of finding children unrewarding, or proposing to leave them motherless, but in the sense that Emma herself can be perceived as a child, in need of compassion not censure.
For me this is the primary, simple message of the story; that women treated as chattels are deprived of their ability to mature, their potential unattainable. And this in itself constitutes the tragedy of the book.
Since my morality is now apparently tempered by compassion, perhaps it’s time to dig out Anna Karenina again…
