After thirty or so pages of Madame Bovary, by Gustave Flaubert, I was unimpressed by the story. I must admit that the narrative was solid and punctual, but the descriptions were taking over the facts: Monsieur Bovary and his young life as a country doctor. Where in France was this famed lady? Then, finally and unexpectedly, almost creeping at the end of a chapter, I was amazed and hooked by the sheer sincerity and ripping emotion of Madame Bovary:
“But she could hardly persuade herself that the quietness of her present life was the happiness of her dreams.”
In that final sentence I understood Emma Bovary in essence. Who wouldn’t want more in life? Albeit her means, she tried to be honest to herself and pursued her idea of happiness. Are we to judge this?
Perhaps, and more interesting for me, is the fact that the novel opens and closes with references to Charles Bovary, in the manner of a school mate re-telling his story. A man talking about another man’s wife. Though this narrator expresses Emma feelings, I was compelled to feel sorry for her and dislike her at the same time. What if she had told her story herself?
Nota: Disculpas si el cambio de idioma los apabulla. Es de costumbre mía escribir en inglés por cuestión de estudios y comodidad. Esperen posts Espanglish de vez en cuando.
