Translated into
English by Merloyd Lawrence
There’s a simple modern term that aptly describes Emma
Bovary, the title character of this novel: drama queen. Whether it’s her
fanatically religious sentiment in the convent or passionate (if disappointed) expectations
in her marriage to Charles, Emma doesn’t hold back.
I read Madame Bovary
many (many) years ago for a World Novels class in college. One of my classmates
declared it “the most boringest book” he’d ever read. Even back then I didn’t
see it that way. Sure, there’s not much action and adventure in this novel, but
I was caught up in the language, the very luxurious style in which this simple
story was told. Those wonderful words were what I was looking forward to in
this re-read, and I was not disappointed.
Emma’s rich and dramatic inner life is up to Flaubert’s
skill with language, but her husband, Charles, strongly contrasts with his
relative dullness. Of course he worships his young, beautiful wife and provides
well for her, “But wasn’t it the role of a man to know everything, to excel in
a variety of skills, to initiate a woman into the heights of passion, the
refinements of life, into all the mysteries? Not this one. He taught her
nothing, knew nothing, desired nothing.”
And the languid Charles is not the only ironic juxtaposition
in this story. Emma’s fantasy expectations and boldly dramatic actions are
constantly contrasting with the simply dull or even harsh realities of the
actual world. When she attends the equivalent of a county fair with her soon-to-be
new lover, she devotes herself to her sweet desires, caught up in her madness
for passion while the rest of the town loudly carries on with their more
down-to-earth business. “Manure!” shouts the master of ceremonies as he doles
out awards for practical accomplishments, while Emma coyly flirts with a man more
exciting than her unsatisfactory husband. It’s hard to not find her a bit
silly.
The young Madame Bovary is doomed to debilitating
disappointment and most of the novel is an account of her dramatic throes of
personal passion and her search for even more passion. I couldn’t help
imagining her throwing herself around, hot and bothered, barely controlling
herself in her need for a more satisfactory reality. I won’t spoil the story by
telling you whether she finds any relief in for her aching desires. I will say
that I mostly enjoy the ironies, the flow of Flaubert’s beautiful language
(although I read it in English…if only I could read French!!), and roll my eyes
and shake my head at Emma Bovary’s misguided fantasies. As I read, I feel like
Flaubert is rolling his eyes and shaking his head, too.
A Year of Books I’ve Read Before