Madame Bovary

by Gustave Flaubert

There are so many reasons to love Flaubert! Just flipping through Madame Bovary at random, here are a few of them:

"'And I can't admit of an old boy of a God who takes walks in his garden with a cane in his hand, who lodges his friends in the belly of whales, dies uttering a cry, and rises again at the end of three days; things absurd in themselves, and completely opposed, moreover, to all physical laws, which proves to us, by the way, that priests have always wallowed in turpid ignorance, in which they would fain engulf the people with them.'"

"To replace Natasie (who left Tostes shedding torrents of tears) Emma took into her service a young girl of fourteen, an orphan with a sweet face. She forbade her wearing cotton caps, taught her to address her in the third person, to bring a glass of water on a plate, to knock before coming into a room, to iron, starch, and to dress her, - wanted to make a lady's maid of her. The new servant obeyed without a murmur, so as not to be sent away; and as madame usually left the key in the side-board, Felicite every evening took a small supply of sugar that she ate alone in her bed after she had said her prayers."

"...sorrow was engulfed within her soul with soft shrieks such as the winter wind makes in ruined castles."

"'Porcine race; prizes - equal, to Messrs. Leherisse and Cullembourg, sixty francs!'
"Rodolphe was pressing her hand, and he felt it all warm and quivering like a captive dove that wants to fly away; but, whether she was trying to take it away or whether she was answering his pressure, she made a movement with her fingers. He exclaimed -
"'Oh, I thank you! You do not repulse me! You are good! You understand that I am yours! Let me look at you; let me contemplate you!'
"A gust of wind that blew in at the window ruffled the cloth on the table, and in the square below all the great caps of the peasant women were uplifted by it like the wings of white butterflies fluttering.
"'Use of oil-cakes,' continued the president. He was hurrying on. 'Flemish manure - flax-growing - drainage - long leases - domestic service.'"

Why is everything so much better when it's taken out of context? It's true, though, isn't it? Think of the person you love. Think of them as you see them every day, and then isolate your last specific memory of them, and the one before that, in detail. Make a list of specific details - do they eat cereal? If so, how? Dry or soggy? What kind of socks do they prefer? When they mutter in their sleep, do you understand them? How do they react to motorcycles? Take them out of context. You suddenly love them more, don't you? I'll bet you do. And I'll tell you why: it's not because they're not like that all the time - maybe they are, maybe not, it's immaterial - it's because out of context you can focus your attention. When you read Madame Bovary as a novel, putting everything in context, yes you still love Flaubert, but you are overwhelmed by the overall, by the tragedy, by the textiles, by the vision of French provincial life, by the don't-go-down-to-the-basement - aww-you-went-down-to-the-basement inevitability of it all, and you are compelled to absorb it all and keep on reading, so you are incapable of loving it specifically, in all its crystalline detail (the little maid! eating her little lumps of sugar in bed late at night!), as it deserves to be loved. Only when you are sitting at the kitchen table at two in the morning, all alone, guzzling tomato soup and reading the first and last sentences of pages flipped open at random, do you realize how heartbreakingly Flaubert deserves your attention, your affection, your undying devotion, how the study of Flaubert could absorb your whole life and still you wouldn't regret a thing, which is why it's good to sit up until two in the morning all alone guzzling tomato soup sometimes.