So much wheat and barley. Maybe it's a metaphor for something really deep, but...*yaaaawn*. If I want to read about people who think the world of themselves, I'll read People Magazine. Less cumulative time wasted, less barley, and more pictures.
Classic book. Fine clean copy.
This is the classic Madame Bovary: A 1993 Barnes & Noble edition.
Madame Bovary is a nineteenth century French novel of love, adultery, death and debt. The tale is a story of archetypal characters: the adulterous woman, Emma; the orphan, Berthe; the country doctor, Charles; the chatty pharmacist, Homais; the sophisticated lover, Rudolpho. Emma Bovary is a bored country housewife who finds little sustenance in her life. Instead, she turns to an adulterous relationship with a sophisticated gentlemen and later with a Paris clerk. She faints after finding out that her lover will not run away with her, and takes to her bed. She ignores her husband and child while reading romance novels and taking up with a new lover in Paris. She spends her money on every luxury, and plunges into a cycle of debt that she cannot control. I found this to be a psychological tale of adultery and the life of the 18th century French middle class. A classic must-read with a message for today.
Flaubert's flawless tale of human bondage. The author's realistic & explicit descriptions of the fall of Emma Bovary into adultery, debt and eventual death at her own hand, shocked the establishment of the time and the author and his publisher were prosecuted for irreligion and immorality. Thier acquittal, after a sensational trial, ensured that the book enjoyed an immediate succes de scandale. However, it is the author's treatment of style and aesthetics, as well as a new realism, which established the book as a milestone in the development of the modern novel and a classic of world literature.
The only thing worse than reading Madame Bovary was reading Madame Bovary in French. She was an unsympathetic character who created her own misery and then sulked about it. Even such a character might not have been so bad if not for Flaubert's longwinded descriptions of small details that, while artful and all that wonderful nonsense, gave me no motivation to continue reading it. Had I not been required to read it, and write about it (in French - joy), I would not have finished it.