Flaubert's "Madame Bovary"

If you told me that a book was about a woman having affairs, a sort of tragic romance, I wouldn't be interested in reading it. But I'd heard many times over the years about this French writer Flaubert who was very good.  I particularly remember Hemingway saying Flaubert was a key influence, so that stuck with me.

I'd had Madame Bovary on my bookshelf for a while, and after reading some Turgenev, and the letters between Turgenev and Flaubert, and all of the latter's hard work and 10 hour days of reading and researching, toiling in his writing, and constant financial struggles (even after the great success of Bovary) that got to the point of him trying to get a plum job at major Parisian library, well, then I was really interested to read Flaubert, and to read his best.

All I can say is that there is so much notable hard work and genius that went into that book that it is simply awe-inspiring. Page after page, all the way through, incredibly beautiful poetic yet lean sentences, musical words, nimble and nuanced descriptions of thoughts and things, and a complex, yet natural plot that spins through it -- which kept me interested.  There were even a few laughs, and enjoyable ironies.

To be able to delve into the inner thoughts of Emma Bovary took some real artistic effort.  It all comes off so naturally, and it is not overdone. Also, to be able to describe in detail all those ladylike, girly, frilly things that a proper woman of that era would know, that took some research and effort.  I would surmise that Flaubert,  who lived with his mother most of his life, was constantly asking her what you call this or that.

People don't realize when they read a book that anything in it that the author isn't intimately familiar with has to be researched -- like the types of leaves or trees or bushes in a setting, or the cloth and cut of a suit or dress -- all that has to be researched and verified and then presented in such a way in the book that it is natural, unassuming -- a given.

I noticed a lot of that type of detail in Oscar Wilde's Picture of Dorian Gray, when he described all the cherished, worldly items that Mr. Gray surrounded himself with (I haven't written about that book, but I'll get to it in more detail in another post).


One thing I did notice was a particular detailed description of a character's fingernails, and of a woman becoming flushed red to the roots of her hair, which are similar to what I remember in Turgenev's Fathers and Sons.  Flaubert and Turgenev were friends, so I looked up when they met and started exchanging letters, and when their respective books were published (although a book's publication date does not reflect its completion date -- it could be published years later), to see who had 'stolen' -- I mean borrowed -- from whom.

It looks like Flaubert's book was out five years before Turgenev's and several years before they met.  But there is one other possible explanation -- which is that since Turgenev translated Flaubert's books into Russian, he may have at some point inserted those phrases, or rather, translated them as that, and they became a part of the text. This is plausible, since, I also read that apparently some critics objected to Turgenev's translations of Flaubert back then, saying he had added his own edits and touches and interpretations to make the book even better, but they were not true to the work.  Which is all quite possible.

Nevertheless, the talent of Flaubert and the writing in that book kept me interested in a story that I would not have normally had an interest in, and the beauty of his writing had me smiling and underlining particular phrases or passages.  And also, it was more than just a story, it's a detailed, tidy plot and ending that carry a moral theme, ultimately.

What is funny is that the book was almost stopped from being published by an obscenity trial, but ultimately allowed to "scandalize" the nation.  There isn't the least bit of sex in it -- only implied.  Like when she gets in the carriage taxi with Leon, and they both professed their unrealized lust, and the carriage curtains are drawn and Leon keeps telling the driver to just keep going as they drive on and on about the city and even the country for hours and hours.  It's implied that they were getting it on, although not a speck of detail, or disrobing.

But the writing, the writing is exquisite.  They call it realism but it is more than that, since it is so tight, terse, succinct and yet powerfully lyrical and poetic.  The book is filled with great sentences that paint a scene, but here are some of the phrases and sentences that stand out:

Through the wooden slats, the sunlight fell upon the stone floor in long thin stripes which broke upon the corners of the furniture and went glancing up to the ceiling.


*******


As it was almost empty, she leaned back to drink, and, her head thrown back, her lips parted her throat elongated, she laughed at being unable to taste anything, while the tip of her tongue thrust out between her delicate teeth, licked tiny drops from the bottom of the glass.


*******

She bit her lips and a tide of blood flooded up under her skin which flushed deep pink from the roots of her hair to the edge of her collar.  

*******

Everything seemed to her to be swathed in a black miasma that drifted confusedly across the surfaces of objects, and sorrow rushed into her spirit with soft moaning sounds, like the winter wind in a deserted castle.


*******

Little by little, love was extinguished by absence, regret smothered by habit; and that fiery glow which had washed her pale skies with purple sank away into shadow and was gradually obliterated.


*******

He no longer offered, as he had once done, those words so tender that they made her cry, nor those violent caresses that drove her to frenzy; with the result that their great love in which she lived submerged seemed to dwindle away about her, like the waters of a river being absorbed by its bed, until she saw the slimy bottom.

*******


Her eyes, full of tears, glimmered like flames under water;


*******

SEE WHAT I MEAN?



The man struggled his whole life, but what a writer!

A Day for Ol' Buk

On Sunday I drove up the coast to San Marino, California, where the Huntington Library held an exhibition of Charles Bukowski's works and life. I thought about how nice it would have been to lay around in the sunshine on the beach and not fight traffic for 6-7 hours, but I reasoned I could do that most any day, and this was an important piece of the history of literature. And I wanted to see how it was presented.

The Huntington 'Library' is actually this expansive campus with long, perfectly-groomed rich green lawns, large trees, and classic statues. It's much more than a library in that it includes several buildings full of art, botanical gardens, and a collection of rare books and manuscripts. If I'd done a little more research, I'd have gone up for a day or two!

I approach these kinds of things with a sort of reverence and respect for the author. I was first going to take the train, then I was looking for someone to take the ride up there with me, but it didn't work out. That was OK, though, since it gave me time to think, and to think about writing. I wasn't the slightest bit bored or lonely; it was satisfying.

This was similar to visiting Hemingway's house on that bluff overlooking Havana, only that was a was a deeper look into Hem's life, home and elevated writing room. To peek at his stocked bar and books and mounted big game was like taking a step back in time. And then to climb the stairs to the study where he wrote, to see the same view that he saw when he was writing great books -- that was almost chilling.

When I pulled into the series of full parking lots, their size hidden by the wooded grounds, I almost expected to see a few spontaneous parties, maybe a tailgate party and kegs of beer, with various smokes wafting about; but no, weaving and circling through the lots I couldn't find a spot and only saw a few young couples heading toward the main building. I backed into a spot that wasn't really a space, and figured it'd be OK.

I was just a little late, and harried, and still I was looking for that bubbling, raucous crowd, but no, there were just families and ordinary citizens.

I bought my ticket at the window asked for directions and quickly overshot the building, but it gave me a view of the beautiful grounds. Doubling back and nearing the exhibit entrance, anticipation sizzled inside me.

The Bukoski exhibit grabbed you when you walked in: a huge poster with his picture and name, and there, encased in glass, was his beaten-up typewriter (or "typer" as he called it), his radio and a stained glass of wine. The the typer was lightly splattered with different paints, as Bukowski did a lot of sketches and some painting too.

I scanned the crowded room. No loud drunks, no smelly bohemian-types, just college students and bespectacled middle-aged couples. One college kid with a hat, maybe an aspiring writer.

Viewing the personal sketches, poem and novel drafts he'd hand-edited, first edition books, his racing forms, postcards, letters, and those from a few dedicated supporters and editors, along with some adoring fans, one got a real personal look into his life. I read every single description of every single item exhibited in the two rooms, which were pretty full of visitors, so full that you had to sometimes wait and shuffle and squeeze by to get to the next exhibited item. Every so often I'd glance around the room, and still, everyone looked perfectly normal. No crazies, no drunks. Just silent study and reverence. Strange.

I've read all his novels, and some of his poetry, but I learned a little more about Charles Bukowski and also about writing by seeing the exhibit. He'd written more short stories than I knew about, and he was busily sending them out to magazine editors. When he found he couldn't get into staid publications like the New Yorker or Atlantic, he hit the smaller ones, and built a following. He also published in mainstream porn magazines like Penthouse and Oui. The point is that he was working, pushing, trying the whole time. Scraping and scratching his way into history, like it or not.

Bukowski never wrote a New York Times bestseller, but he left his mark. He was mostly ignored by academia, but now he has to be dealt with. Sure, he's the hard drinking, brawling, dirty old man, but he did that better than anyone else. In fact, I recently saw him at the top of a prominent 'dirty writers in history' list, ahead of the likes of James Joyce and Philip Roth.

They had some sort of tour and reception and they were going to read some of his work but I can hardly stand it when those pathetic literary gadflies get up and start trying to imitate. I was there to see Buk.

After an hour I went to the bookstore and they had the largest display of Bukowski books, postcards, and memorabilia I've seen. I bought a few things, including a mousepad with a picture of his typer and some postcards that read, "what matters most is how you walk through the fire."

I also bought a small journal book with one of his drawings on the cover.

Heading back I got slightly lost at first, then got on the freeway and soon I was ensnared in 10 mile per hour L.A. traffic. It didn't much matter though, since I was pretty satisfied with those 90 minutes I spent to peer into the life of a modern writer whose popularity is growing, now almost 20 years after his death. That's the sign of a true artist.

When I got back home in Mexico, I sat in my recliner, sipped a dry martini, and wrote six poems in my new Buk journal. And I hardly ever write poetry!


 

Some Bits from Turgenev and Flaubert.

In their letters, there were some enjoyable tidbits, although many of the little jabs were "of their time" and dealt with the politicians, socialites, critics, and writers of the day, some of whom never rose to the prominence the two literary friends eventually did.


Quotes from Turgenev to Flaubert:

"We are a pair of moles burrowing away in the same direction."

"The living, human truth that you pursue indefatigably can only be captured on good days."

"Find another title. 'Sentimental Education' is wrong."

"I have not thanked you for the photograph..... Why don't you have good ones taken?"

"Yes, people have certainly been unfair to you, but this is the time to brace yourself and hurl a masterpiece at the reading public."

"Oh we have hard times to live through, those of us who are born spectators."

"You have remained a man through all this, because you have been able to work: now things will be easier."

"I'm becoming more and more snowed under by life's events."

"Fate is so abominably brutal to strike at the one man in the world who is least capable of making a living from his work."

"Old age is a dreadful thing -- begging Cicero's pardon."

"After the age of 40 there is only one word to sum up the basis of life: Renunciation."

"Illness, a cold, slow disgust, painful stirrings of useless memories are, my dear fellow, all that await us once we're past the age of fifty."

"The newspapers find me worn out and throw my own earlier works back in my face (like you with 'Madame Bovary.')"

"Anyway fate has decreed that everything will go wrong in this business."

"I shall send you shortly a novel in 3 vols by Count Leo Tolstoy, whom I consider to be the foremost contemporary writer. You know who in my opinion could challenge him in that position."



Quotes from Flaubert to Turgenev:

"My interminable novel is making me sick and weighing me down..."

"There is nothing more ridiculous than making out that one is misunderstood."

"My noble motherland is becoming more and more idiotic. The general stupidity is having and effect on individuals. Gradually each one slides with all the rest."

"Who is there in our wretched country who still 'cares about literature'? Perhaps one single man? Me!"

"Voltaire said life is a sick joke. I'm finding it too sick and not at all funny; I try to keep the upper hand as much as possible: I read for about nine or ten hours a day."

"Never have affairs of the mind counted for less."

"Oh! Action! As soon as I have anything to do with it, I'm in trouble. And then there is the maxim of Epictetus that one shouldn't forget: 'If you seek to please you will be undone.'"

"I could do with sleeping for a year. I'm harassed out of existence. That's the truth."

"What a book! What an abyss (a wasps' nest or a latrine) I have stuffed myself into! There's no going back now."

"Thank you for making me read Tolstoy's novel. It's first rate. What a painter and what a psychologist!"

"My poor play has had no luck. But then why did I listen to the advice of Other People? Why did I give in!"

"I am pursued by ill fortune."
Flaubert and Turgenev: A Friendship in Letters : The Complete Correspondence

Writers Two: Turgenev and Flaubert

I've been reading a book with the letters between Turgenev and Flaubert. They were instant friends and colleagues, peers driving at the purity of literature from their respective countries, Russia and France. They often met up in Paris. Amidst political turmoil, war, great distance, writing struggles and the everyday problems of life (Turgenev had recurring bouts with gout, which sometimes crippled him for weeks at a time) - they managed to keep their very cordial friendship intact.

It's rather amusing and intriguing to read about their foibles and tribulations, the tedium of their lives, the depression, the despair, the strife -- while they wrote great works.

All men, it seems, at least at times, live lives of quiet desperation -- even the Great Ones!