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563 pages, Hardcover
First published December 15, 1856
Charles was surprised by the whiteness of her fingernails. They were glossy, delicate at the tips, more carefully cleaned than Dieppe ivories, and filed into almond shapes. Yet her hand was not beautiful, not pale enough, perhaps, and a little dry at the knuckles; it was also too long and without soft inflections in its contours. What was beautiful about her was her eyes: although they were brown, they seemed black because of the lashes, and her gaze fell upon you openly, with a bold candor.
Emma, however, would have liked to be married at midnight, by torchlight; but P猫re Rouault found the idea incomprehensible. So there was a wedding celebration to which forty-three people came, during which they remained at table for sixteen hours, which started up again the next day and carried over a little into the days that followed.
She loved the sea only for its storms, and greenery only when it grew up here and there among ruins. She needed to derive from things a sort of personal gain; and she rejected as useless everything that did not contribute to the immediate gratification of her heart, 鈥� being by temperament more sentimental than artistic, in search of emotions and not landscapes.
But she was filled with desires, with rage, with hatred. That dress with its straight folds concealed a heart in turmoil, and those reticent lips said听 nothing about its torment.
Before marriage she thought herself in love; but the happiness that should have followed this love not having come, she must, she thought, have been mistaken. And Emma tried to find out what one meant exactly in life by the words felicity, passion, rapture, that had seemed to her so beautiful in books.
鈥itting on the grass that she dug up with little prods of her sunshade, Emma repeated to herself, "Good heavens! Why did I marry?"
She asked herself if by some other chance combination it would have not been possible to meet another man; and she tried to imagine what would have been these unrealised events, this different life, this unknown husband. All, surely, could not be like this one. He might have been handsome, witty, distinguished, attractive, such as, no doubt, her old companions of the convent had married鈥� But she鈥攈er life was cold as a garret whose dormer window looks on the north, and ennui, the silent spider, was weaving its web in the darkness in every corner of her heart.
Then the lusts of the flesh, the longing for money, and the melancholy of passion all blended themselves into one suffering, and instead of turning her thoughts from it, she clave to it the more, urging herself to pain, and seeking everywhere occasion for it. She was irritated by an ill-served dish or by a half-open door; bewailed the velvets she had not, the happiness she had missed, her too exalted dreams, her narrow home.
"Do you know what your wife wants?" replied Madame Bovary senior. "She wants to be forced to occupy herself with some manual work. If she were obliged, like so many others, to earn a living, she wouldn't have these vapours, that come to her from a lot of ideas she stuffs into her head, and from idleness in which she lives."
"Yet she is always busy," said Charles.
"Ah! always busy at what? Reading novels, bad books, works against religion, and in which they mock at priests in speeches taken from Voltaire. But all that leads you far astray, my poor child. Anyone who has no religion always ends up turning badly."
So it was decided to stop Emma reading novels.
She hoped for a son; he would be strong and dark; she would call him George; and this idea of having a male child was like an expected revenge for all her impotence in the past. A man, at least, is free; he may travel over passions and over countries, overcome obstacles, taste of the most far-away pleasures. But a woman is always hampered.
Her journey to Vaubyessard had made a hole in her life, like one of those great crevices that a storm will sometimes make in one night in mountains. Still she was resigned. She devoutly put away her beautiful dress, down to the satin shoes whose soles were yellowed with the slippery wax of the dancing floor. Her heart was like these. In its friction against wealth something had come over it that could not be effaced.
After the ennui of this disappointment her heart once more remained empty, and then the same series of days recommenced. So now they would thus follow one another, always the same, immovable, and bringing nothing. Other lives, however flat, had at least the chance of some event. One adventure sometimes brought with it infinite consequences and the scene changed. But nothing happened to her; God had willed it so! The future was a dark corridor, with its door at the end shut fast.
"I have a lover! a lover!" delighting at the idea as if a second puberty had come to her. So at last she was to know those joys of love, that fever of happiness of which she had despaired! She was entering upon marvels where all would be passion, ecstasy, delirium. An azure infinity encompassed her, the heights of sentiment sparkled under her thought, and ordinary existence appeared only afar off, down below in the shade, through the interspaces of these heights.
It seemed to her that the ground of the oscillating square went up the walls and that the floor dipped on end like a tossing boat. She was right at the edge, almost hanging, surrounded by vast space. The blue of the heavens suffused her, the air was whirling in her hollow head; she had but to yield, to let herself be taken; and the humming of the lathe never ceased, like an angry voice calling her.
...it seemed to her that Providence pursued her implacably, ...she had never felt so much esteem for herself nor so much contempt for others... She would have liked to strike all men, to spit in their faces, to crush them, and she walked rapidly straight on, pale, quivering, maddened, searching the empty horizon with tear-dimmed eyes, and as it were rejoicing in the hate that was choking her.
鈥濸o葲i rezuma aceast roman ca povestea unui adulter provincial 葯i, totu葯i, s膬 dai dovad膬, prin chiar acest rezumat, c膬 n-ai priceput absolut nimic din Doamna Bovary鈥� (Robert McCrum).
鈥濴u膬 borcanul albastru, smulse capacul, v卯r卯 m卯na 卯n膬untru 葯i, sco葲卯nd-o plin膬 de praf alb, 卯ncepu s膬-l m膬n卯nce chiar din palm膬鈥�. Detaliul e teribil, cred c膬 arat膬, printre multe altele, c卯t de tare se ur膬葯te pe sine femeia.
鈥濽n gust iute pe care-l sim葲ea 卯n gur膬 o trezi... Lu膬 o 卯nghi葲itur膬 de ap膬 葯i se 卯ntoarse cu fa葲a la perete. Gustul acela 卯ngrozitor de cerneal膬 st膬ruia: Cet affreux go没t d'encre continuait鈥�. Prozatorul 卯nsu葯i spune c膬 a sim葲it aievea, c卯nd a scris aceste propozi葲ii, gustul otr膬vii.
鈥淟o que me parece hermoso, lo que quisiera hacer, es un libro sobre nada, un libro sin atadura externa, que se mantuviese por s铆 mismo por la fuerza interna de su estilo, como la tierra sin ser sostenida se mantiene en el aire, un libro que casi no tuviera tema o al menos en el que el tema fuera casi invisible, si puede ser.鈥�.
鈥淎gostando toda dicha a fuerza de quererla demasiado grande.鈥�.
鈥淎costumbrada a las cosas tranquilas, se inclinaba, por contraste a las accidentadas. Le gustaba s贸lo el mar por las tempestades, y el verde s贸lo salpicado entre ruinas. Necesitaba sacar de las cosas una especie de provecho personal; y rechazaba como cosa in煤til todo lo que no contribu铆a al consumo inmediato de su coraz贸n, pues de temperamento m谩s sentimental que artista, buscaba emociones y no paisajes.鈥�.
鈥淧iensa que tengo que entrar a cada cinco minutos en pellejos que me son antip谩ticos.鈥�
鈥淎 veces la vulgaridad de mi tema me da n谩useas, la necesidad todav铆a en perspectiva de escribir bien tantas cosas vulgares me aterra.鈥�
鈥淭engo que hacer grandes esfuerzos para imaginar mis personajes y despu茅s para hacerlos hablar, pues me repugnan profundamente.鈥�.
鈥淐uanto menos se siente una cosa m谩s apto se es para expresarla exactamente鈥�
鈥淣o hay nada peor que poner en arte sentimientos personales (..)Tu coraz贸n, alejado en el horizonte, lo iluminar谩 en el fondo en lugar de deslumbrarte en el primer plano.鈥�.
鈥淢e da vueltas la cabeza y me arde la garganta de haber buscado, bregado, cavado, contorneado, tartamudeado y gritado, de cien mil maneras diferentes, una frase que por fin acaba de terminarse. Es buena, respondo de ello, 隆pero no ha salido sin esfuerzo!鈥�.
鈥淟a palabra humana es como una caldera rota en la que tocamos melod铆as para que bailen los osos, cuando quisi茅ramos conmover las estrellas.鈥�.