The lists of most reputed novels in world history almost invariably include Madame Bovary. Gustave Flaubert’s masterpiece, which took five years to write, has been lauded for its literary realism-based critique of naïve romanticism.
Its publishing, in 1857, brought about a great scandal. The novel was banned on sexual grounds, for its crude depiction of how doctor Bovary’s wife, Emma, dealt with her romantic malady — her ennui.
One of the work’s biggest admirers, Nobel laureate Mario Vargas Llosa, wrote an essay praising Madame Bovary for being rigorously and clearly constructed, achieving its ends through action rather than reflection. And indeed, Emma’s deep inner dissatisfaction, her inability to address her dreams and idealised aspirations, the lack of means to achieve them, are portrayed by the narrator through life itself, not visits to a virtual divan. Its duality is also characteristic, with so many elements repeated in the novel –two villages, two weddings, two lovers, etc.–, making room for both reality and deformed illusions in its pages.
The read is most pleasurable, offering a unique combination of elaborate narrative structure and restraint-based stylistic excellence. Plus, to evaluate it fully, one must remember its groundbreaking originality at the time.
Flaubert followed a precept: an author in his book must be like God in the universe, present everywhere and visible nowhere. Today’s readers may resent the Frenchman’s superior-to-inferior handling of his leading female character. His treatment of Emma as a puppet so easily and thoroughly deciphered by him, the male author puppet master. I know I did. Other critics, however, have highlighted her rebelling against the traditional behaviour of women, finding an early feminist angle therein.
All in all, Madame Bovary is every bit as good as I hoped it would be. A highly recommended read to everyone with a taste for novels and their historical heights.
