MADAME BOVARY, by Gustave Flaubert

The moment had to come: I had to read Madame Bovary, what sort of literature-lover would I be otherwise? Reading this book was a duty, an obligation, a must. The book is a classic, a masterpiece, a peak in the history of western literature, one of the outmost examples of literary realism, a successful enhancement of Balzac’s works. Its very name means literature, with a capital “L”, the canon incarnate. Reading it is a pleasure: no evil regime in this world would be so cruel so as to deprive its subjects from the joys of a close acquaintance with Flaubert’s opus magnum, the justification of any life devoted to explore even the subtlest emotion ever felt by a human being. And, funnily enough, it all comes down to a woman’s whims.

Mind you, I am not being ironic: Madame Bovary is a great book, notwithstanding which some found it a tiresome and even irritating reading (you know, it takes all sorts). It is obvious that when a book has been read by the millions and bears the halo of being an experience in itself from which you are meant to learn something about the human soul, it is inevitably bound to be made the object of numberless interpretations. Thus, any classic appears as a multidimensional and complex world, whatever the author’s intention, as once the novel is set free, it will lead a life of its own which will escape any attempt at mastering it. Obviously, Madame Bovary is no exception.

The book has been said to be a statement in favour of realism and a reaction against romanticism in literature, which would be incarnated in Emma and her readings, which lead to her incapability to relate to the real world and her tendency to dwell in a universe of romantic fantasies. But if this was the case, criticism may easily arise: ideals and principles are often far from being realistic, but they make up the fabric of the struggle for a better life. From a political stance the book might even be labelled as reactionary. Flaubert’s intention was, however, none of the sort: he just wanted to create a world that would stand on its own, dependant on nothing exterior, written in a natural way and devoid of useless digressions. But, is such aim “realistic”? Do individual universes exist cut off from other realities? Isn’t such goal actually killing life, depriving it of the very substance that fuels existence, by means of stopping the dialectics prompted by the interactions with external references?

But, then again, a life lived under an incessant tension, constantly oscillating between extreme views, going from passion to apathy, from ego-centred selfishness to altruistic religiousness; can’t such a life kill you? Or, maybe, it is your fault because you haven’t been able to find moderation, the balanced virtuosity to be found in the middle between the extremes. It is, isn’t it? Am I going crazy mate?

The book deals with these problems, or maybe it doesn’t but the readers believe it does. At any rate, there lies its grandeur. There are other notions possibly less appealing to the modern reader, such as the underlying criticism of the 19^th century petty-bourgeoisie, which, unless you are into history (as I am), or you really like politics (as I do) kind of seems to carry little weight on the reasons why a 21^st century reader might relate to the book. So, what does really stand out? Yes, exactly, the person whose travails and miseries embody the most profound philosophical reflections (whether those of Flaubert or those of the readers), Her, the lady: Emma Bovary.

Even though Flaubert famously said “I am Madame Bovary”, evidence leads to think that he did not really mean it. It has been pointed out that Flaubert depicts his heroine with a certain degree of scornfulness. If this is the case, then, the book’s correct interpretation would be not so much that an endless feeling of dissatisfaction is connatural to the human being (which is, by the way, an argument held by theology to introduce the idea that we all innately feel God’s absence), which is in turn lived as a drama, but, quite the opposite, to ridicule such feeling and to look down on it as whimsical and selfish. There is certainly enough in the book to support such idea: thus, Emma’s careless handling of her daughter and her very incapacity to appreciate Charles’ honest and sincere love for her. Her longing for romantic love is not admirable; it is, if any, quixotic in the worst way.

If this is the case, the book reads as quite pessimistic, at least nowadays, in the era of new-age beliefs that if you want something really hard you can get it (and, mind you, I have not said that this is not true in a way). But, this would be doing little justice to the book, simply because Emma does get what she wants: her tragedy is in fact not to be able to find happiness once she has reached the place where she thought she would find it. Are we thus to think that happiness is an illusion? Is Emma’s case pathological? Do we all carry a little Emma inside use whispering in our ears from time to time that we are not really happy and that at some point we gave up our dreams? Is suicide an act of cowardice or, on the other hand, the only consistent and truthful choice, the only way out of a humiliating surrender? And, even more, are those people who can’t live without posting on Facebook photographs of their great and adventurous holidays, while one can read the thirst for attention in their eyes, no more than little Emma Bovaries? Would have Facebook, had it existed in the 19^th century, prevented Emma from doing what she did in the end, poor thing?

There are two levels of interpretation: one, whether we can achieve what we desire and, two, whether achieving it does actually arouse in us feelings of fulfilment and realisation. And here is where religion comes in. But Flaubert does not explore this matter beyond Emma going through a phase of religious fervour that, rather than a possible solution to the problem, is shallowly drawn by Flaubert and regarded as an eccentricity more than anything else. I believe that a deeper look into the possibilities open up by this path would have enriched the otherwise book’s eternal value.

But Madame Bovary was surely not intended as a philosophical novel delving into the ultimate needs of the human soul, our longing for a transcendental existence. Maybe my friend Nacho is right when he says that French literature looks for the form and not for the contents and cares for the expression and not for whatever may be expressed. What certainly puzzles me about the book is not so much Flaubert’s treatment of Emma as that of Charles. I must admit that Charles Bovary is simply one of the most ungraspable characters I have ever come across. I don’t know what to make of him: is he aware of the secondary role he plays in his wife’s life? If he is, does he care? He goes on living, putting up with the evident fact that the creature he loves so much does not love him back (and, at times, even manifestly loathes him). He just doesn’t think about it, he doesn’t beat himself up, he doesn’t suffer until pain is simply impossible to ignore, once death and abandonment have come about.

Maybe Charles Bovary is the smartest character in the novel: he is happy so long as life allows it and does not look for trouble, the flipside being that sometimes trouble looks for you and if you live carelessly and don’t foresee it, it will find you. But maybe this is the ultimate teaching: sod it man, I’ll just let go, I won’t worry uselessly about anything, I’ll take whatever life happens to give me, as it comes: maybe Madame Bovary means, in some still to be deciphered language, Carpe Diem.