Racconti di vita parigina

by Guy de Maupassant

Le novelle sono quelle che meglio caratterizzano Maupassant, meglio ne rappresentano l'originalità. Il fatto che siano brevi, brevissime in certi casi, non impedisce che formino una collezione di capolavori. (Henry James)

Genres: Short Stories, Fiction, Classics, Read For School

476 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1881

About the author

Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant was a popular 19th-century French writer. He is one of the fathers of the modern short story. A protege of Flaubert, Maupassant's short stories are characterized by their economy of style and their efficient effortless dénouement. He also wrote six short novels. A number of his stories often denote the futility of war and the innocent civilians who get crushed in it - many are set during the Franco-Prussian War of the 1870s.

Reviews

[Silvia · Rating 4 out of 5]

Questa raccolta di Maupassant mi ha portato alla mente un'altra raccolta più recente, "Microfictions" di Jauffret per lo stesso tono caustico e a tratti sulfureo. Vizi, (molti) e virtù (rare) della piccola borghesia francese, un affresco variegato di racconti dalla mano felice, forse lo preferisco nella forma breve piuttosto che in "Bel Ami".

[S©aP · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ogni singola descrizione contenuta in questa raccolta è un affresco, un rapido movimento del racconto che serve a rapirti. L'abilità tecnica di Maupassant è strabiliante: incipit folgoranti; ritmo della frase e del periodo (onore anche a chi lo ha tradotto); vivacità d'immagini; resa narrativa di rumori suoni luci odori puzze, follie meschinerie imbarazzi aridità, gioie vergogne passioni ipocrisie; sintesi e inventiva, moltiplicano gli spunti di godimento del lettore. Arricchiscono la rappresentazione. Un campionario completo è qui ritratto. Per il piacere della lettura, del semplice intrattenimento e dei confronti.
Secondo me, questa è la migliore delle sei antologie di racconti dell'autore.

[Luciana · Rating 4 out of 5]

Gostei muito do fato de o título falar de contos de amor, enquanto em absolutamente todas histórias tem gente morrendo, sendo enganada, saindo de túmulo, sendo presa e indo para manicômio.

Mas, gostei sobretudo da linguagem e do tom cômico de Maupassant, com tramas que lembraram a mim tanto Alexandre Dumas quanto Lygia Fagundes Telles, não sendo possível, nem previsível saber o que haveríamos de encontrar ao final de cada conto. Com tom sombrio e ainda assim falando das diversas faces do amor, o escritor acaba por dar um excelente copilado de histórias curtas e macabras sobre o homem em sua multiface, de modo que foi uma ótima leitura, em especial em 'Sobre a água' e 'A morta'.

[Tom · Rating 4 out of 5]

AKA: A Parisian Affair; Une aventure parisienne

A still-young married woman with two children has the feeling on reading about the fashions and the animation of life in Paris that she is missing out on something essential, so she arranges to visit her elderly parents there, without husband or children. She tries very hard to get involved in the swing of sophisticated Parisian life, but without success until she does meet a famous writer in a café. With a good deal of insistence and feminine wiles she manages to spend the whole evening and even night with the famous artist, but ends up going back home suitably disillusioned about Paris and its artists and sufficiently reconciled to her life in general and her provincial life in particular.

[Classic reverie · Rating 5 out of 5]

"An Adventure in Paris" was not written by Guy de Maupassant but it is Richepin's short story about wishing and dreaming that ends up being a nightmare.

Story in short- A wife and mother dreams of a Parisian night of love making and adventure.

➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖
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Is there any stronger feeling than curiosity in a woman? Oh! Fancy seeing, knowing, touching what one has dreamt about! What would a woman not do for that? When once a woman’s eager curiosity is aroused, she will be guilty of any folly, commit any imprudence, venture upon anything, and recoil from nothing. I am speaking
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of women who are really women, who are endowed with that triple-bottomed disposition, which appears to be reasonable and cold on the surface, but whose three secret compartments are filled. The first, with female uneasiness, which is always in a state of flutter; the next, with sly tricks which are colored in imitation of good faith, with those sophistical and formidable tricks of apparently devout women; and the last, with all those charming, improper acts, with that delightful deceit, exquisite perfidy, and all those
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wayward qualities, which drive lovers who are stupidly credulous, to suicide; but which delight others. The woman whose adventure I am about to relate, was a little person from the provinces, who had been insipidly chaste till then. Her life, which was apparently so calm, was spent at home, with a busy husband and two children, whom she brought up like an irreproachable woman. But her heart beat with unsatisfied curiosity, and some unknown longing. She was continually thinking of Paris, and read the
❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌❌spoiler alert

A lady who is thinks of all Paris has to offer in love making finally decides to make her fantasy come true but when she arrives she doesn't find these men but finds a famous author and to find romance she buys him an expensive present. She asks only to be with him all day and at night, she gives herself to him but it is a disgusting disappointment that will stain her forever and she will never forget. She feels just as dirty as a muddy Parisian street.

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fashionable papers eagerly. The accounts of parties, of the dresses and various entertainments, excited her longing; but, above all, she was strangely agitated by those paragraphs which were full of double meaning, by those veils which were half raised by clever phrases, and which gave her a glimpse of culpable and ravishing delights, and from her country home, she saw Paris in an apotheosis of magnificent and corrupt luxury. And during the long nights, when she dreamt, lulled by the regular
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snores of her husband, who was sleeping on his back by her side, with a silk handkerchief tied round his head, she saw in her sleep those well-known men whose names appeared on the first page of the newspapers as great stars in the dark skies; and she pictured to herself their life of continual excitement, of constant debauches, of orgies such as they indulged in in ancient Rome, which were horridly voluptuous, with refinements of sensuality which were so complicated that she

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could not even picture them to herself. The boulevards seemed to her to be a kind of abyss of human passions, and there could be no doubt that the houses there concealed mysteries of prodigious love. But she felt that she was growing old, and this, without having known life, except in those regular, horridly monotonous, everyday occupations, which constitute the happiness of the home. She was still pretty, for she was well preserved in her tranquil existence, like some
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winter fruit in a closed cupboard; but she was agitated and devoured by her secret ardor. She used to ask herself whether she should die without having experienced any of those damning, intoxicating joys, without having plunged once, just once into that flood of Parisian voluptuousness. By dint of much perseverance, she paved the way for a journey to Paris, found a pretext, got some relations to invite her, and as her husband could not go with her, she went alone, and as soon as she arrived,
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she invented a reason for remaining for two days, or rather for two nights, if necessary, as she told him that she had met some friends who lived a little way out of town. And then she set out on a voyage of discovery. She went up and down the boulevards, without seeing anything except roving and numbered vice. She looked into the large cafés, and read the Agony Column of the Figaro, which every morning seemed to her like a tocsin, a summons to love. But nothing put her on the track of those orgies of actors and
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actresses; nothing revealed to her those temples of debauchery which she imagined opened at some magic word, like the cave in the Arabian Nights, or those catacombs in Rome, where the mysteries of a persecuted religion were secretly celebrated. Her relations, who were quite middle-class people, could not introduce her to any of those well-known men with whose names her head was full, and in despair she was thinking of returning, when chance came to her aid. One day, as she was going along the Rue de
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la Chaussee d’Antin, she stopped to look into a shop full of those colored Japanese knick-knacks, which strike the eye on account of their color. She was looking at the little ivory buffoons, the tall vases of flaming enamel, and the curious bronzes, when she heard the shop-keeper dilating, with many bows, on the value of an enormous, pot-bellied, comical figure, which was quite unique, he said, to a little, bald-headed, gray-bearded man. Every moment, the shop-keeper repeated his customer’s name,
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which was a celebrated one, in a voice like a trumpet. The other customers, young women and well-dressed gentlemen, gave a swift and furtive, but respectful glance at the celebrated writer, who was looking admiringly at the china figure. They were both equally ugly, as ugly as two brothers who had sprung from the same mother. “I will let you have it for a thousand francs, Monsieur Varin, and that is exactly what it cost me. I should ask anybody else fifteen hundred, but I think a great deal of
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literary and artistic customers, and have special prices for them. They all come to me, Monsieur Varin. Yesterday, Monsieur Busnach bought a large, antique goblet of me, and the other day I sold two candelabra like this (is it not handsome?) to Monsieur Alexander Dumas. If Monsieur Zola were to see that Japanese figure, he would buy it immediately, Monsieur Varin.” The author hesitated in perplexity, as he wanted to have the figure, but the price was above him, and he thought no more about her looking
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at him than if he had been alone in the desert. She came in trembling, with her eyes fixed shamelessly upon him, and she did not even ask herself whether he were good-looking, elegant or young. It was Jean Varin himself, Jean Varin. After a long struggle, and painful hesitation, he put the figure down onto the table. “No, it is too dear,” he said. The shop-keeper’s eloquence redoubled. “Oh! Monsieur Varin, too dear? It is worth two thousand francs, if it is worth a son.” But the man of letters replied sadly, still
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looking at the figure with the enameled eyes: “I do not say it is not; but it is too dear for me.” And thereupon, she, seized by a kind of mad audacity, came forward and said: “What shall you charge me for the figure?” The shop-keeper, in surprise, replied: “Fifteen hundred francs, Madame.” “I will take it.” The writer, who had not even noticed her till that moment, turned round suddenly; he looked at her from head to foot, with half-closed eyes, observantly, and then he took in the details, as a connoisseur. She
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was charming, suddenly animated by that flame which had hitherto been dormant in her. And then, a woman who gives fifteen hundred francs for a knick-knack is not to be met with every day. But she was overcome by a feeling of delightful delicacy, and turning to him, she said in a trembling voice: “Excuse me, Monsieur; no doubt I have been rather hasty, as perhaps you had not finally made up your mind.” He, however, only bowed, and said: “Indeed, I had, Madame.” And she, filled with emotion, continued: “Well, Monsieur, if either to-day, or at any other time, you change your mind, you can have this Japanese figure. I only bought it because you seemed to like it.” He was visibly flattered, and smiled. “I should much like to find out how you know who I am?” he said. Then she told him how she admired him, and became quite eloquent as she quoted his works, and while they were talking he rested his arms on a table, and fixed his bright eyes upon her, trying to
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make out who and what she really was. But the shop-keeper, who was pleased to have that living puff of his goods, called out, from the other end of the shop: “Just look at this, Monsieur Varin; is it not beautiful?” And then everyone looked round, and she almost trembled with pleasure at being seen talking so intimately with such a well-known man. At last, however, intoxicated, as it were, by her feelings, she grew bold, like a general does, who is going to give the order for an assault. “Monsieur,” she said, “will you do me a
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great, a very great pleasure? Allow me to offer you this funny Japanese figure, as a keepsake from a woman who admires you passionately, and whom you have seen for ten minutes.” Of course he refused, and she persisted, but still he resisted her offer, at which he was much amused, and at which he laughed heartily; but that only made her more obstinate, and she said: “Very well, then, I shall take it to your house immediately. Where do you live?”
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He refused to give her his address, but she got it from the shop-keeper, and when she had paid for her purchase, she ran out to take a cab. The writer went after her, as he did not wish to accept a present for which he could not possibly account. He reached her just as she was jumping into the vehicle, and getting in after her, he almost fell onto her, and then tumbled onto the bottom of the cab as it started. He picked himself up, however, and sat down by her side, feeling very much annoyed.
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It was no good for him to insist and to beg her; she showed herself intractable, and when they got to the door, she stated her conditions. “I will undertake not to leave this with you,” she said, “if you will promise to do all I want to-day.” And the whole affair seemed so funny to him that he agreed. “What do you generally do at this time?” she asked him; and after hesitating for a few moments, he replied: “I generally go for a walk.” “Very well, then, we will go to the Bois de Boulogne!” she said, in a resolute voice, and they started.
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He was obliged to tell her the names of all the well-known women, pure or impure, with every detail about them; their life, their habits, their private affairs, and their vices; and when it was getting dusk, she said to him: “What do you do every day at this time?” “I have some absinthe,” he replied, with a laugh. “Very well, then, Monsieur,” she went on, seriously, “let us go and have some absinthe.” They went into a large café on the boulevard which he frequented, and where he met some of his colleagues, whom he introduced to her. She was half mad with pleasure, and she kept saying to herself: “At last! At last!” But time went on, and she observed that she supposed it must be about his dinner time, and she suggested that they should go and dine. When they left Bignon’s, after dinner, she wanted to know what he did in the evening, and looking at her fixedly, he replied: “That depends; sometimes I go to the theater.” “Very well, then, Monsieur; let us go to the theater.”
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They went to the Vaudeville with an order, thanks to him, and, to her great pride, the whole house saw her sitting by his side, in the balcony stalls. When the play was over, he gallantly kissed her hand, and said: “It only remains for me to thank you for this delightful day....” But she interrupted him: “What do you do at this time, every night?” “Why ... why ... I go home.” She began to laugh, a little tremulous laugh. “Very well, Monsieur ... let us go to your rooms.”
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They did not say anything more. She shivered occasionally, from head to foot, feeling inclined to stay, and inclined to run away, but with a fixed determination, after all, to see it out to the end. She was so excited that she had to hold onto the baluster as she went upstairs, and he came up behind her, with a wax match in his hand. As soon as they were in the room, she undressed herself quickly, and retired without saying a word, and then she waited for him, cowering against the wall. But she was as simple as it was possible for a provincial lawyer’s wife to be, and he was more exacting than a pascha with three tails, and so they did not at all understand each other. At last, however, he went to sleep, and the night passed, and the silence was only disturbed by the tick- tack of the clock, and she, lying motionless, thought of her conjugal nights; and by the light of the Chinese lantern, she looked, nearly heart-broken, at the little fat man lying on his back, whose round stomach raised up the bed-clothes like a balloon filled with
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gas. He snored with the noise of a wheezy organ pipe, with prolonged snorts and comic chokings. His few hairs profited by his sleep, to stand up in a very strange way, as if they were tired of having been fastened for so long to that pate, whose bareness they were trying to cover, and a small stream of saliva was running out of one corner of his half-open mouth. At last the daylight appeared through the drawn blinds; so she got up and dressed herself without making any noise, and she had already half opened the door, when she made the lock creak, and he woke up and rubbed his eyes. He was some moments before he quite came to himself, and then, when he remembered all that had happened, he said: “What! Are you going already?” She remained standing, in some confusion, and then she said, in a hesitating voice: “Yes, of course; it is morning...” Then he sat up, and said: “Look here, I have something to ask you, in my turn.” And as she did not reply, he went on: “You have surprised me most confoundedly since yesterday. Be open, and tell me why you did it all, for upon my word I cannot understand it in the least.” She went close up to him, blushing like as if she had been a virgin, and said: “I wanted to know ... what ... what vice ... really was, ... and ... well ... well, it is not at all funny.” And she ran out of the room, and downstairs into the street. A number of sweepers were busy in the streets, brushing the pavements, the roadway, and sweeping everything on one side. With the
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same regular motion, the motion of mowers in a meadow, they pushed the mud in front of them in a semi-circle, and she met them in every street, like dancing puppets, walking automatically with their swaying motion. And it seemed to her as if something had been swept out of her; as if her over-excited dreams had been pushed into the gutter, or into the drain, and so she went home, out of breath, and very cold, and all that she could remember was the sensation of the motion of

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those brooms sweeping the streets of Paris in the early morning. As soon as she got into her room, she threw herself onto her bed and cried.

[Maria Fernanda Gonzalez]

Review publicada originalmente no blog Duas Libras.

Preciso confessar que escolhi mal o livro para esse desafio. Uma aventura parisiense e outros contos de amor é muito bom, tem uma leitura fluída, fácil, mas precisa ter fôlego para lê-lo em uma sentada só.

Para quem, como eu, não tinha tido nenhum contato anterior com a obra de Maupassant, esse livro é ótimo para começar! Esse livro é uma excelente introdução não só ao autor, mas também à literatura fantástica, de Flaubert e cia. São vários contos curtos, que retratam a sociedade francesa no final do séc. XIX, com muito bom humor e realismo. Apesar de ser tão antigo, não se trata de uma obra datada - a gente consegue fácil se colocar no lugar da mulher que não aguenta mais o marido (A Confidência), ou no pescador morto de medo ao encalhar no meio do rio em uma noite sombria (Sobre a água).

Alguns temas, como no caso no conto A acha (que eu não vou falar sobre o que é para não estragar a leitura hahaha), permanecem assustadoramente atuais - sérião mesmo, a mesma coisa aconteceu com um amigo meu na faculdade. Aliás, não se deixe enganar pelos momentos super românticos, como o do trecho abaixo. No que se trata de amor, o autor é um cínico, perspectiva com a qual, aliás, eu muito me identifico.

Por que amamos? É estranho enxergar só uma pessoa no mundo, ter um só pensamento na cabeça, um só desejo no coração, e na boca um só nome (...). Não vou contar nossa história. O amor só tem uma, sempre a mesma. Eu a conheci e a amei. É tudo.

Sim, é "literatura clássica". Mas pode ler sem medo. A prosa flui, e Guy de Maupassant não tem um vocabulário muito empolado, daqueles que a gente precisa ler com o dicionário do lado - o que pode ser mérito da tradução também né, não tenho certeza. Enfim, recomendo!

[Karin Kakazu · Rating 3 out of 5]

"Os cinco amigos acabavam de jantar, cinco homens da sociedade, maduros, ricos, três casados, dois solteiros. [...] Conversavam a respeito de tudo, de tudo o que interessa e distrai os parisienses; entre eles se dava - como na maioria dos salões, aliás - uma espécie de repetição falada da leitura dos jornais da manhã."

"Homem da sociedade no sentido mais amplo e indulgente sentido que essa palavra possa merecer, dotado de muito espírito sem grande profundidade, de sabedoria variada sem verdadeira erudição, de entendimento ágil sem acuidade considerável [...]"
_

"Vocês, habitantes das cidades, vocês não sabem o que é o rio. Mas ouçam um pescador pronunciar essa palavras. Para ele, é a coisa misteriosa, profunda, desconhecida, o território das miragens e dos fantasmas, onde vemos, de noite, coisas que não existem, ouvimos ruídos que não conhecemos, tememos sem saber por quê, como ao atravessar um cemitério: e na verdade é o mais sinistro dos cemitérios, aquele onde não existe túmulo.
[...]
Alguns fantasistas afirmam que o mar esconde em suas entranhas imensos territórios azulados, onde os afogados erram por entre peixes enormes, em meio a misteriosas florestas e grutas de cristal. O rio tem somente profundezas escuras onde se apodrece na vasa."

[Mariana Mekbekian · Rating 3 out of 5]

Engraçadinho, mas nada que seja deslumbrante.
Uma passagem de um dos contos me chamou a atenção:
"Falo de mulheres verdadeiramente mulheres, dotadas desse espírito de fundo triplo que à superfície parece racional e frio, mas cujos três compartimentos secretos são cheios: um de inquietude feminina sempre agitada; outro de uma astúcia travesties de boa-fé, dessa astúcia dos devotos, sofística e perigosa; e o último, enfim, de canalhice encantadora, de delicada falcatrua, de deliciosa perfídia, de todos esses perversos atributos que levam ao suicídio os amantes imbecilmente crédulos, mas que exultam os outros."

[Mariasole · Rating 5 out of 5]

L'allievo che supera il maestro Flaubert; chiamerei il suo stile un naturalismo a tinte forti perché la bravura di Maupassant è tanto grande quanto la sua capacità di dire tutto in poche righe, di caratterizzare personaggi tra i più vari che la Parigi di fine '800 abbia conosciuto. Ci sono tutti sotto la sua protezione/patibolo: i ricchi eccentrici, i poveri scannati che vogliono apparire ricchi, prostitute, play boys, i movimenti politici repubblicani, i monarchisti, i borghesi piccoli piccoli alla ribalta proprio in quegli anni. Tutti messi nel suo pentolone a cuocere pian piano, con grazia e umorismo. Leggerlo è come vedere un quadro. Maupassat pennella la società francese e ci offre un quadro vero e vivo delle dinamiche che, anni più tradi, avrebbero portato l'intera Europa in una decadenza e materialismo senza precedenti. Attento e affabile osservatore non risparmia nessuno nella sua critica, riporta pregi e difetti di una popolazione chiusa in un incessante voglia di fare soldi come unico riscatto per una vita mediocre, tradimenti di coniugi per le ragioni più frivole, le false adulazioni tra colleghi, tra i vicini oppure le manipolazioni per ottenere doni ed eredità, le tecniche semi legali messe in pratica per fare un buon matrimonio, la disperata povertà di persone che non ricevono nessun aiuto dallo stato. Il tutto con un'assoluta padronanza della lingua, come un incantatore

[Ygor Magalhães · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Não, você não entende nada disso. Para que o amor seja bom, seria preciso, me parece, que ele transtornasse o coração, que ele esfrangalhasse os nervos e devastasse a cabeça; seria preciso que ele fosse - como eu diria?
- perigoso, terrível mesmo, quase criminoso, quase um sacrilégio, que fosse uma espécie de traição. O que quero dizer é que o amor tem necessidade de romper barreiras sagradas, leis, laços fraternais; quando ele é tranquilo, fácil, sem perigo, dentro da lei, será mesmo que é amor?".

Que felicidade enorme ter conhecido Guy de Maupassant.

[Hans Moerland · Rating 1 out of 5]

"In bibliofiele kringen wordt dit werk algemeen toegeschreven aan Guy de Maupassant" (p. 133), maar ik heb er toch wel heel veel moeite mee om me voor te stellen dat het in alle opzichten zeer oppervlakkige, nietszeggende "Een Parijse cocotte" van de hand zou zijn van de man die later bijvoorbeeld "Boule de Suif" schreef.

[Ann · Rating 3 out of 5]

De vertaling was zo ongelooflijk slecht, dat het weer grappig werd. 'Hij streelde haar beenmerg.' zal een blijvertje worden, vrees ik.

Maar als je tussen de lijnen leest, dan merk je toch wel dat de Maupassant een goeie verhalenverteller was. Ik ga dus zeker meer lezen van hem, in het Frans dan wel. Wat dit Nederlands was nogal "exotisch".

[Nina Lima · Rating 5 out of 5]

Esse livro com certeza se tornou um dos meus favoritos, eu amei a escrita do autor, eu amei as histórias, eu realmente senti que estava sentada com os personagens ouvindo suas histórias, várias formas de amor sendo descritas, fico imaginando como seria esse livro se ele fosse escrito hoje em dia, eu realmente amei ele.

[Tati Frogel · Rating 3 out of 5]

Adorei mei primeiro contato com a escrita de Maupasant! Como todo livro de contos achei uns melhores que outros mas no geral gostei bastante, tem um humor sarcástico que gosto! E sempre uma “moral da história” ao final de cada conto que nos faz refletir

[maiasticot · Rating 3 out of 5]

pas mal c sympa

[Darcel Anastasia · Rating 4 out of 5]

“I always wanted to know what it was like to be…wicked…and actually…it turns out to be not all that much fun…”

[Kotka · Rating 5 out of 5]

opowiadanie Paryska przygoda tłum. Jadwiga Dmochowska

[David Roquet · Rating 5 out of 5]

Imagínate en medio de la rutina ser consumido por el deseo de lo prohibido, y cuando finalmente lo obtienes, te das cuenta que no era lo que esperabas

[Caio Andrade · Rating 2 out of 5]

Cinco contos bons entre quinze. Na maioria, Maupassant usa um rexurso que devia ser moda na época: duas ou mais pessoas estão conversando e alguém diz "vou contar o que me aconteceu". Então o resto do conto vira uma narração em primeira pessoa.

Um porre, sinceramente.

[Roland Hassel · Rating 2 out of 5]

Smålustiga historier om kärleksbekymmer, t.ex att en far förvånat inser att han ligger med sin prostituerade dotter. Inte bra, inte egentligen dåligt, men inte bra.

[Luan · Rating 5 out of 5]

Esse livro é maravilhoso! 'De Maupassant só lera um conto, "A noite", numa antologia de contos fantásticos e achei incrível Não me decepcionei.

A estrutura dos contos não varia muito, são pequenas histórias que começam com uma descrição das personagens e do ambiente em que a narrativa será contada. Depois uma das personagens conta a história. Um ou outro começa direto, mas a regra tende a ser esta. A partir daí é um melhor que o outro. São histórias de amor, de fato, mas tragicômicas em sua maioria, com finais surpreendentes, paixões enlouquecidas e com muito domínio da língua (tradução muito boa). Não gostei apenas de uma história, que já até esqueci qual era, tamanho era o divertimento.

Recomendo sem restrições.

[Tessa · Rating 3 out of 5]

Uma leitura rápida e até mesmo divertida. Os contos são super interessantes com histórias cômicas, trágicas e com finais surpreendentes. Dois ou três contos não me agradaram muito, mas eu relevei porque eu realmente gostei dos outros. Guy de Maupassant me agradou bastante com sua habilidade de escrever histórias curtas sem deixar de enriquecer a narrativa. Ele já começa os contos detalhando situações e personagens, então não fica algo "vago". Gostei bastante da leitura.

[Rogério Tomaz Jr. · Rating 4 out of 5]

Belo representante da vasta e deliciosa obra de Maupassant, que por sua vez é um dos melhores representantes da sua época e da França. Algumas - na verdade, muitas - passagens nos fazem desejar enormemente ter escrito tais palavras. Ótima leitura para o fim de semana.

[Марина Яловенко · Rating 5 out of 5]

Это так мило, легко и глубоко.. Удивляюсь, как мужчины могут срисовывать женские характеры, особенно любопытство и спонтанность. Мне, вероятно, это очень близко, потому что сама не могу расслабляться и отставлять «рацио» на второй план. Очаровательный и талантливый текст, глубокий смысл.

[Amira · Rating 3 out of 5]

3,5

[Jessica Summers · Rating 3 out of 5]

Dreams are not always meant to come true

[Caroline Gurgel · Rating 3 out of 5]

Esperava bem mais. Alguns contos são bons, outros medianos e dois deles são muito bons.

[nat🐇]

— read for a class —

nothing much to this story tbh .