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Memorie di un folle
Memorie di un folle è il racconto della sua vita di adolescente. Gustave Flaubert descrive la sua esperienza personale, lasciandosi trasportare nel suo passato calmo e piatto, di un giovanissimo ragazzo strano, dedito alla posia e ispirato a quel mondo di idee e di pensieri che essa faceva affiorare nella sua mente ancora ingenua, ancora folle, ancora illusa di speranze e di attesa. Ma la vita reale si era dimostrata diversa, arida come la terra che non offriva illusioni, che lo ricacciava nella solitudine delle proprie congetture, lontano dal mondo di gioco e di felicità dei suoi compagni di collegio.
77 pages, Paperback
First published May 1, 1838
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About the author
Gustave Flaubert
2,230 books3,874 followersGustave Flaubert was a French novelist. He has been considered the leading exponent of literary realism in his country and abroad. According to the literary theorist Kornelije Kvas, "in Flaubert, realism strives for formal perfection, so the presentation of reality tends to be neutral, emphasizing the values and importance of style as an objective method of presenting reality". He is known especially for his debut novel Madame Bovary (1857), his Correspondence, and his scrupulous devotion to his style and aesthetics. The celebrated short story writer Guy de Maupassant was a protégé of Flaubert.
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July 30, 2025
Comment apprécier une œuvre inachevée ? Est-il possible de juger objectivement les écrits de jeunesse de nos icônes littéraires ?
Rien que pour avoir écrit L’éducation sentimentale, Gustave Flaubert est pour moi l’un des plus grands romanciers du dix-neuvième siècle français et, par conséquent, de tous les temps et de toutes les nations. Je savais déjà que ce roman quasi-parfait, publié en 1861, avait longtemps mûri dans l’esprit de son auteur et qu’il existait une version antérieure, écrit quinze ans plus tôt mais non publiée de son vivant. Cependant, jusqu’à récemment, je n’ignorais que Les Mémoires d’un fou s’inspirait aussi de la toute première rencontre de Flaubert avec Mme Schélsinger, la grande muse de l’auteur tout au long de sa vie et qui deviendra plus tard le modèle de Mme Arnoux, personnage-phare de L’Éducation. Dès que j’ai appris cela, ma curiosité a été piquée.
Flaubert a écrit Les Mémoires d’un fou entre 1837 et 1838, alors qu’il avait… dix-sept ans. Manifestement, il n’était pas entièrement convaincu de la qualité de ce court récit semi-autobiographique puisqu’il ne se décide pas à le faire publier (alors qu’il avait déjà publié une première nouvelle, Bibliomanie, un an auparavant). Au lieu de cela, il confie le manuscrit à un ami intime, qui le garde pour lui. Finalement, Les Mémoires d’un fou ne seront publiées pour la première fois qu’en 1901, longtemps après la mort de leur auteur. Sans doute le texte n’aurait jamais suscité l’intérêt qu’il a eu auprès des générations futures si Flaubert n’avait pas continué à travailler son art jusqu’à ce qu’il soit capable de produire les œuvres maîtresses que nous connaissons tous. Néanmoins, Les Mémoires d’un fou reste un récit fascinant, surtout, mais peut-être pas exclusivement, pour les amateurs du grand Flaubert.
Le récit est relativement court. Dans la belle édition chez Allia, il ne comporte qu’une bonne centaine de pages. Comme il est d’usage dans le genre des Mémoires (mais pas du tout dans les romans flaubertiens ultérieurs), le récit est raconté à la première personne par un narrateur intradiégétique.
Sa composition est plutôt étrange. Après une dédicace assez mystérieuse à Alfred Poittevin et une adresse au lecteur un peu loufoque, suivent une bonne vingtaine de chapitres. Les six premiers respectent plus ou moins l’ordre chronologique de la vie du narrateur. Ils relatent son enfance et sa vie au collège, soulignant la nature poétique du narrateur, la bêtise des copains de classe et la morosité de son environnement. Ce bref récit d’enfance est suivi par quelques courts chapitres contemplatifs dans lesquels l’auteur s’en prend aux maux de la civilisation « qui dessèche et étiole tout ce qui s’élève au soleil de la poésie et du cœur. »
Suivent encore quelques réminiscences enfantines non localisées dans le temps et quelques lamentations lyriques au présent quand, soudain, le récit s’interrompt d’une manière abrupte sur le passage énigmatique suivant à la fin du chapitre neuvième :
«Qu’il y a longtemps de tout cela. La maîtresse [du château qu’il visitait en tant que jeune homme] est morte. Ses carlins aussi, sa tabatière est dans la poche du notaire, - le château sert de fabrique, et le pauvre soulier a été jeté à la rivière.
------
Après trois semains d’arrêt.
------
… Je suis si lassé que j’ai un profond dégoût à continuer, ayant relu ce qui précède.
Les œuvres d’un homme ennuyeux peuvent-elles amuser le public ?
Je vais cependant m’efforcer de divertir davantage l’un et l’autre.
Ici commencent vraiment les Mémoires… »
Quand le narrateur reprend son récit au chapitre dixième, il entre tout de suite dans le vif du sujet. Le deuxième tiers des Mémoires est entièrement consacré à sa rencontre avec Maria, femme mariée et mère d’un enfant dont il fait la connaissance un peu par hasard lors des vacances à la mer. La rencontre est banale, mais l’impact est décrit comme un véritable coup de foudre dont le narrateur ne s’est toujours pas rétabli au moment où il entame son récit quelques années plus tard. (Et oui, les lecteurs ayant lu L’Éducation sentimentale reconnaîtront certainement certains éléments clef de la description).
Dans les chapitres qui suivent cette partie centrale, la narration commence encore une fois à divaguer. S’y intercalent des réflexions (à la fois sombres et drôles) sur l’art et la littérature, un fragment assez complexe sur un amour enfantin qui précède la rencontre avec Maria et une page délibérément courte sur le dépucelage du narrateur avec une prostituée. Ensuite, le narrateur raconte son retour à l’endroit où il avait pour la première fois rencontré Maria et il termine ses Mémoires par une évocation de sa propre mort inspirée par le son de glas.
Le lecteur l’aura compris : ce récit sinueux et complexe est à mille lieux des romans réalistes qui feront la célébrité de Flaubert plus tard. Quoique ne comportant pas d’éléments oniriques, la narration saccadée et non-linéaire des Mémoires d’un fou, l’alternance entre épisodes narrés et réflexions plus générales, l’abondance de digressions et l’imbrication de récits secondaires dans le récit principal m’ont rappelé plutôt Les filles du feu de Gérard de Nerval que Mme Bovary ou Un cœur simple.
Quant au style de l’ouvrage, il est difficile à caractériser, tant il oscille entre des registres radicalement différents. Les Mémoires d’un fou est tantôt lyrique à l’extrême, tantôt ironique voire burlesque. Souvent, les transitions entre ces registres sont on ne peut plus abruptes. Voici un exemple du lyrisme romantique:
« Ici sont mes souvenirs les plus tendres et les plus pénibles à la fois, et je les aborde avec une émotion toute religieuse. Ils sont vivants à ma mémoire et presque chauds encore pour mon âme, tant cette passion l’a fait saigner. C’est une large cicatrice au cœur qui durera toujours, mais, au moment de retracer cette page de ma vie, mon cœur bat comme si j’allais remuer des ruines chéries.
Elles sont déjà vieilles, ces ruines ; en marchant dans la vie, l’horizon s’est écarté par derrière, et que de choses depuis lors ! car les jours semblent longs, un à un, depuis le matin jusqu’au soir. Mais le passé paraît rapide, tant l’oubli rétrécit le cadre qui l’a contenu.
Pour moi tout semble vivre encore. J’entends et je vois le frémissement des feuilles, je vois jusqu’au moindre pli de sa robe ; j’entends le timbre de sa voix, comme si un ange chantait près de moi, voix douce et pure, qui vous enivre et qui vous fait mourir d’amour, voix qui a un corps, tant elle est belle et qui séduit, comme s’il y avait un charme à tes mots…
Et voici comment cette exaltation est tournée en dérision à peine quelques pages plus loin :
« Deux êtres jetés sur la terre par un hasard, quelque chose, et qui se rencontrent, s’aiment, parce que l’un est femme et l’autre homme. Les voilà haletants l’un pour l’autre, se promenant ensemble la nuit et se mouillant à la rosée, regardant le clair de lune et le trouvant diaphane, admirant les étoiles et disant sur tous les tons : Je t’aime, tu m’aimes, il m’aime, nous nous aimons, et répétant cela avec des soupirs, des baisers ; – et puis ils rentrent poussés tous les deux par une ardeur sans pareille, car ces deux âmes ont leurs organes violemment échauffés, et les voilà bientôt grotesquement accouplés avec des rugissements et des soupirs, soucieux l’un et l’autre pour reproduire un imbécile de plus sur la terre, un malheureux qui les imitera.
Ce que j’admire le plus dans les grands romans flaubertiens c’est la façon très subtile dont le narrateur ironise sur la vision du monde romantique et lyrisme naïf de ses propres personnages. La narration à la troisième personne et le recours fréquent au style indirect libre lui permettent de prendre ses distances vis-à-vis de ses personnages sans jamais se désolidariser entièrement d’eux. Le narrateur flaubertien est un être profondément ambivalent. Cynique, il en sait plus que ses propres personnages sur la vie, sur la bassesse de l’être humain et sur la vanité des grands idéaux romantiques. Or, même s’il se moque souvent d’eux, il n’arrive pas à se débarrasser totalement de leur vision du monde exaltée. Quoi qu’il fasse, Flaubert restera toujours Mme Bovary ; il a beau présenter Frédéric Moreau comme un benêt imbu de lui-même, au plus profond de son âme il sait qu’il partage les mêmes rêves exaltés.
Ce qui m’a frappé, avant tout, en lisant Les Mémoires d’un fou c’est qu’on y retrouve déjà la même profonde ambivalence. La mise en forme est tout autre, cependant, et nettement moins réussie. En optant pour une narration à la première personne, le narrateur n’a d’autre choix que de faire varier les registres afin d’exprimer la dualité de son âme. Il en résulte un récit instable et désordonné, proprement comme un délire. Ce n’est que beaucoup plus tard que Flaubert réussira à fusionner les deux perspectives d’une manière parfaitement maîtrisée : le narrateur des Mémoires est tantôt un romantique exalté, tantôt un cynique. Celui de L’éducation sentimentale l’est tout à la fois et exactement au même degré.
Et c'est pour cela qu'il m'est si cher.
Rien que pour avoir écrit L’éducation sentimentale, Gustave Flaubert est pour moi l’un des plus grands romanciers du dix-neuvième siècle français et, par conséquent, de tous les temps et de toutes les nations. Je savais déjà que ce roman quasi-parfait, publié en 1861, avait longtemps mûri dans l’esprit de son auteur et qu’il existait une version antérieure, écrit quinze ans plus tôt mais non publiée de son vivant. Cependant, jusqu’à récemment, je n’ignorais que Les Mémoires d’un fou s’inspirait aussi de la toute première rencontre de Flaubert avec Mme Schélsinger, la grande muse de l’auteur tout au long de sa vie et qui deviendra plus tard le modèle de Mme Arnoux, personnage-phare de L’Éducation. Dès que j’ai appris cela, ma curiosité a été piquée.
Flaubert a écrit Les Mémoires d’un fou entre 1837 et 1838, alors qu’il avait… dix-sept ans. Manifestement, il n’était pas entièrement convaincu de la qualité de ce court récit semi-autobiographique puisqu’il ne se décide pas à le faire publier (alors qu’il avait déjà publié une première nouvelle, Bibliomanie, un an auparavant). Au lieu de cela, il confie le manuscrit à un ami intime, qui le garde pour lui. Finalement, Les Mémoires d’un fou ne seront publiées pour la première fois qu’en 1901, longtemps après la mort de leur auteur. Sans doute le texte n’aurait jamais suscité l’intérêt qu’il a eu auprès des générations futures si Flaubert n’avait pas continué à travailler son art jusqu’à ce qu’il soit capable de produire les œuvres maîtresses que nous connaissons tous. Néanmoins, Les Mémoires d’un fou reste un récit fascinant, surtout, mais peut-être pas exclusivement, pour les amateurs du grand Flaubert.
Le récit est relativement court. Dans la belle édition chez Allia, il ne comporte qu’une bonne centaine de pages. Comme il est d’usage dans le genre des Mémoires (mais pas du tout dans les romans flaubertiens ultérieurs), le récit est raconté à la première personne par un narrateur intradiégétique.
Sa composition est plutôt étrange. Après une dédicace assez mystérieuse à Alfred Poittevin et une adresse au lecteur un peu loufoque, suivent une bonne vingtaine de chapitres. Les six premiers respectent plus ou moins l’ordre chronologique de la vie du narrateur. Ils relatent son enfance et sa vie au collège, soulignant la nature poétique du narrateur, la bêtise des copains de classe et la morosité de son environnement. Ce bref récit d’enfance est suivi par quelques courts chapitres contemplatifs dans lesquels l’auteur s’en prend aux maux de la civilisation « qui dessèche et étiole tout ce qui s’élève au soleil de la poésie et du cœur. »
Suivent encore quelques réminiscences enfantines non localisées dans le temps et quelques lamentations lyriques au présent quand, soudain, le récit s’interrompt d’une manière abrupte sur le passage énigmatique suivant à la fin du chapitre neuvième :
«Qu’il y a longtemps de tout cela. La maîtresse [du château qu’il visitait en tant que jeune homme] est morte. Ses carlins aussi, sa tabatière est dans la poche du notaire, - le château sert de fabrique, et le pauvre soulier a été jeté à la rivière.
------
Après trois semains d’arrêt.
------
… Je suis si lassé que j’ai un profond dégoût à continuer, ayant relu ce qui précède.
Les œuvres d’un homme ennuyeux peuvent-elles amuser le public ?
Je vais cependant m’efforcer de divertir davantage l’un et l’autre.
Ici commencent vraiment les Mémoires… »
Quand le narrateur reprend son récit au chapitre dixième, il entre tout de suite dans le vif du sujet. Le deuxième tiers des Mémoires est entièrement consacré à sa rencontre avec Maria, femme mariée et mère d’un enfant dont il fait la connaissance un peu par hasard lors des vacances à la mer. La rencontre est banale, mais l’impact est décrit comme un véritable coup de foudre dont le narrateur ne s’est toujours pas rétabli au moment où il entame son récit quelques années plus tard. (Et oui, les lecteurs ayant lu L’Éducation sentimentale reconnaîtront certainement certains éléments clef de la description).
Dans les chapitres qui suivent cette partie centrale, la narration commence encore une fois à divaguer. S’y intercalent des réflexions (à la fois sombres et drôles) sur l’art et la littérature, un fragment assez complexe sur un amour enfantin qui précède la rencontre avec Maria et une page délibérément courte sur le dépucelage du narrateur avec une prostituée. Ensuite, le narrateur raconte son retour à l’endroit où il avait pour la première fois rencontré Maria et il termine ses Mémoires par une évocation de sa propre mort inspirée par le son de glas.
Le lecteur l’aura compris : ce récit sinueux et complexe est à mille lieux des romans réalistes qui feront la célébrité de Flaubert plus tard. Quoique ne comportant pas d’éléments oniriques, la narration saccadée et non-linéaire des Mémoires d’un fou, l’alternance entre épisodes narrés et réflexions plus générales, l’abondance de digressions et l’imbrication de récits secondaires dans le récit principal m’ont rappelé plutôt Les filles du feu de Gérard de Nerval que Mme Bovary ou Un cœur simple.
Quant au style de l’ouvrage, il est difficile à caractériser, tant il oscille entre des registres radicalement différents. Les Mémoires d’un fou est tantôt lyrique à l’extrême, tantôt ironique voire burlesque. Souvent, les transitions entre ces registres sont on ne peut plus abruptes. Voici un exemple du lyrisme romantique:
« Ici sont mes souvenirs les plus tendres et les plus pénibles à la fois, et je les aborde avec une émotion toute religieuse. Ils sont vivants à ma mémoire et presque chauds encore pour mon âme, tant cette passion l’a fait saigner. C’est une large cicatrice au cœur qui durera toujours, mais, au moment de retracer cette page de ma vie, mon cœur bat comme si j’allais remuer des ruines chéries.
Elles sont déjà vieilles, ces ruines ; en marchant dans la vie, l’horizon s’est écarté par derrière, et que de choses depuis lors ! car les jours semblent longs, un à un, depuis le matin jusqu’au soir. Mais le passé paraît rapide, tant l’oubli rétrécit le cadre qui l’a contenu.
Pour moi tout semble vivre encore. J’entends et je vois le frémissement des feuilles, je vois jusqu’au moindre pli de sa robe ; j’entends le timbre de sa voix, comme si un ange chantait près de moi, voix douce et pure, qui vous enivre et qui vous fait mourir d’amour, voix qui a un corps, tant elle est belle et qui séduit, comme s’il y avait un charme à tes mots…
Et voici comment cette exaltation est tournée en dérision à peine quelques pages plus loin :
« Deux êtres jetés sur la terre par un hasard, quelque chose, et qui se rencontrent, s’aiment, parce que l’un est femme et l’autre homme. Les voilà haletants l’un pour l’autre, se promenant ensemble la nuit et se mouillant à la rosée, regardant le clair de lune et le trouvant diaphane, admirant les étoiles et disant sur tous les tons : Je t’aime, tu m’aimes, il m’aime, nous nous aimons, et répétant cela avec des soupirs, des baisers ; – et puis ils rentrent poussés tous les deux par une ardeur sans pareille, car ces deux âmes ont leurs organes violemment échauffés, et les voilà bientôt grotesquement accouplés avec des rugissements et des soupirs, soucieux l’un et l’autre pour reproduire un imbécile de plus sur la terre, un malheureux qui les imitera.
Ce que j’admire le plus dans les grands romans flaubertiens c’est la façon très subtile dont le narrateur ironise sur la vision du monde romantique et lyrisme naïf de ses propres personnages. La narration à la troisième personne et le recours fréquent au style indirect libre lui permettent de prendre ses distances vis-à-vis de ses personnages sans jamais se désolidariser entièrement d’eux. Le narrateur flaubertien est un être profondément ambivalent. Cynique, il en sait plus que ses propres personnages sur la vie, sur la bassesse de l’être humain et sur la vanité des grands idéaux romantiques. Or, même s’il se moque souvent d’eux, il n’arrive pas à se débarrasser totalement de leur vision du monde exaltée. Quoi qu’il fasse, Flaubert restera toujours Mme Bovary ; il a beau présenter Frédéric Moreau comme un benêt imbu de lui-même, au plus profond de son âme il sait qu’il partage les mêmes rêves exaltés.
Ce qui m’a frappé, avant tout, en lisant Les Mémoires d’un fou c’est qu’on y retrouve déjà la même profonde ambivalence. La mise en forme est tout autre, cependant, et nettement moins réussie. En optant pour une narration à la première personne, le narrateur n’a d’autre choix que de faire varier les registres afin d’exprimer la dualité de son âme. Il en résulte un récit instable et désordonné, proprement comme un délire. Ce n’est que beaucoup plus tard que Flaubert réussira à fusionner les deux perspectives d’une manière parfaitement maîtrisée : le narrateur des Mémoires est tantôt un romantique exalté, tantôt un cynique. Celui de L’éducation sentimentale l’est tout à la fois et exactement au même degré.
Et c'est pour cela qu'il m'est si cher.
Read
February 14, 2018Gustave Flaubert kitabını okurken kendimden bir sürü şeyi satır aralarında bulacağımı belki de düşünmemiştim fakat ne güzel bir kitap yazmış ilk gençlik yıllarının edebiyat eseri bu büyük olgun birikimine yürekten saygı duyuyorum ve edebiyatın birleştirici gücünün zaman aralığı ile kopamayacağını her defasında daha iyi anlıyorum ister 19. Yy ister ondan çok daha eski tarihleri kapsasın edebiyat her zaman insanla var olduğu için insan da her zaman aynı insan olduğu için- sadece kullandığımız araçlar farklı- en büyük ortak birikimlerimizden biri edebiyat ve edebiyat iyiki var yaşasın edebiyat ! ( PDF kitaplar okuduğum vakitlerde resimleri alıntılamak zorunda kalıyorum bunu da belirtmeden geçmeyeyim)...
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"Sen büyüksün, insan! Şüphesiz bedenin sayesinde değil, ama
seni, sana göre, doğanın kralı yapan bu zihin sayesinde; büyüksün,hakimsin ve güçlüsün.
Her gün, gerçekten de, dünyayı alt üst ediyorsun, kanallar kazıyorsun, saraylar inşa ediyorsun, ırmakları taşların arasına hap-
sediyorsun, otu topluyorsun, eziyorsun ve yiyiyorsun; gemilerinin
omurgasıyla Okyanus'u karıştınyar ve bütün bunların güzel olduğunu sanıyorsun; yediğin vahşi hayvandan daha iyi olduğunu sanıyorsun, rüzgarların sürüklediği yapraktan daha özgür, kulelerin üstünde süzülen kartaldan daha büyük, ekmeğini ve elmaslarını çıkardığın topraktan ve üstünde yol aldığın Okyanus'tan daha güçlü. Ama heyhat! Yerinden aynattığın toprak geri geliyor, kendi
kendinden yeniden doğuyor, kanalların yıkılıyor, nehirler tarlalarını ve şehirlerini işgal ediyor, saraylarının taşları yerlerinden çıkıyor ve kendiliğinden düşüyor, taçlarının ve tahtlarının üstünde
karıncalar koşturuyor, bütün filoların gelse, Okyanus'un sathında bir yağmur damlasından veya bir kuşun kanat çırpışından daha fazla iz bırakınayı başaramaz. Ve sen de çağların okyanusunun üstünde, geminin dalgaların üstünde bıraktığından daha fazla iz bırakmadan geçip gidiyorsun. Kendini büyük sanıyorsun çünkü dur
durak bilmeden çalışıyorsun ama bu çalışma, zayıflığının bir gös-
tergesi. Demek ki bütün bu gereksiz şeyleri alınterin pahasına öğrenmeye mahkumdun; doğmadan önce köleydin..."
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✳️✳️
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"Sen büyüksün, insan! Şüphesiz bedenin sayesinde değil, ama
seni, sana göre, doğanın kralı yapan bu zihin sayesinde; büyüksün,hakimsin ve güçlüsün.
Her gün, gerçekten de, dünyayı alt üst ediyorsun, kanallar kazıyorsun, saraylar inşa ediyorsun, ırmakları taşların arasına hap-
sediyorsun, otu topluyorsun, eziyorsun ve yiyiyorsun; gemilerinin
omurgasıyla Okyanus'u karıştınyar ve bütün bunların güzel olduğunu sanıyorsun; yediğin vahşi hayvandan daha iyi olduğunu sanıyorsun, rüzgarların sürüklediği yapraktan daha özgür, kulelerin üstünde süzülen kartaldan daha büyük, ekmeğini ve elmaslarını çıkardığın topraktan ve üstünde yol aldığın Okyanus'tan daha güçlü. Ama heyhat! Yerinden aynattığın toprak geri geliyor, kendi
kendinden yeniden doğuyor, kanalların yıkılıyor, nehirler tarlalarını ve şehirlerini işgal ediyor, saraylarının taşları yerlerinden çıkıyor ve kendiliğinden düşüyor, taçlarının ve tahtlarının üstünde
karıncalar koşturuyor, bütün filoların gelse, Okyanus'un sathında bir yağmur damlasından veya bir kuşun kanat çırpışından daha fazla iz bırakınayı başaramaz. Ve sen de çağların okyanusunun üstünde, geminin dalgaların üstünde bıraktığından daha fazla iz bırakmadan geçip gidiyorsun. Kendini büyük sanıyorsun çünkü dur
durak bilmeden çalışıyorsun ama bu çalışma, zayıflığının bir gös-
tergesi. Demek ki bütün bu gereksiz şeyleri alınterin pahasına öğrenmeye mahkumdun; doğmadan önce köleydin..."
December 13, 2023
Oh, Flaubert, se solo fosse esistita la psicoterapia quando eri bambino tu.
Questo diario, in parte autobiografico, è l'incipit dal quale nasce la filosofia letteraria dell'autore, che andrà poi a trovarsi in Madame Bovary ed Educazione Sentimentale - il suo struggimento per una donna sposata quando aveva appena sedici anni lo porta ad analizzare gli "amori" di un uomo nel corso della sua vita, come anche le delusioni, la solitudine e la natura umana in generale.
Non ho riflessioni intelligenti da fare, la sua scrittura è sublime anche se spesso non condivido i suoi pensieri - una cosa che mi ha fatto sorridere però è come è la prima volta che leggo in un classico di un protagonista che trova i peli sopra la bocca di una donna attraenti; dopo una lista di descrizione del suo bellissimo volto e corpo:
"Aggiungete a tutto questo una leggera peluria che scuriva il labbro superiore che conferiva al suo volto un'espressione maschile ed energica da far impallidire le bellezze bionde."
Ho ascoltato un audiolibro trovato su Youtube e la voce della narratrice era perfetta! Chiara e bravissima a mostrare le emozioni del diario.
Questo diario, in parte autobiografico, è l'incipit dal quale nasce la filosofia letteraria dell'autore, che andrà poi a trovarsi in Madame Bovary ed Educazione Sentimentale - il suo struggimento per una donna sposata quando aveva appena sedici anni lo porta ad analizzare gli "amori" di un uomo nel corso della sua vita, come anche le delusioni, la solitudine e la natura umana in generale.
Non ho riflessioni intelligenti da fare, la sua scrittura è sublime anche se spesso non condivido i suoi pensieri - una cosa che mi ha fatto sorridere però è come è la prima volta che leggo in un classico di un protagonista che trova i peli sopra la bocca di una donna attraenti; dopo una lista di descrizione del suo bellissimo volto e corpo:
"Aggiungete a tutto questo una leggera peluria che scuriva il labbro superiore che conferiva al suo volto un'espressione maschile ed energica da far impallidire le bellezze bionde."
Ho ascoltato un audiolibro trovato su Youtube e la voce della narratrice era perfetta! Chiara e bravissima a mostrare le emozioni del diario.
August 9, 2014
As a story that reaches its peak of expression with Madame Bovary and Sentimental Education, it's a great one about one man's idealization of women. Emma Bovary and Madame Arnoux are not what any of us would describe as idealized feminine figures, but to write them into literature its creator never relinquished erotic attractions women first presented to him. A man who loved women too much to marry one Flaubert fits a romantic type. He forms fantasies in youth and adolescence that he fears losing for losing a very significant part of who he is.
In this tale written in Gustave's mid-teens we see the pattern is already set. There is the maternal figure, married and unavailable, that though she is committed to another sends him affections that he can only translate through an imaginative world (Maria). Then there is the one who was never really interested in him to begin with, and then goes brain-dead once she marries (Caroline). Except for those boring men who completely understand women from a young age, or make every effort trying, Flaubert was a kind of man who makes much more sense to me, for only willing to go so far. Instead of reminding himself at every turn "women need to be respected" as some would have us do, Flaubert compromised by using romantic language rather than human rights as a bridge to the opposite sex. Not a bad strategy, as there are many even today who respond much better to emotional language and gestures than legal demands.
Although not so 20th century as Joyce who admitted some of his first erotic experiences were watching girls pee, we get a glimpse into what totally turned on young Gustave,
Maria was breast-feeding the little girl herself - and one day I saw her opening her dress and presenting her breast to the child.
It was a plump round breast with brown skin and veins of deep blue visible beneath that ardent skin. Never had I seen a naked woman at that time. Oh! the singular ecstasy into which the sight of that breast plunged me - how I feasted my eyes on it, how I would have liked simply to touch that breast! It seemed to me that if I had placed my lips on it, my teeth would have bitten it in rage - and my heart melted with delight at the thought of the pleasures that kiss would give me.
Oh! I gazed at it repeatedly, for such a long time, that throbbing breast... as she rocked her suckling child gently on her knees, humming an Italian tune!
And yet what truly weird boy is this making references to a woman's charms in ways no healthy boy ever would,
I thought that a woman was an angel... Oh! how right Molière was to compare her to a bowl of soup!
Which Molière did in L'Ecole des femmes (1662), Act 2, Scene 3. The boy never really had a chance to experience puberty on its own, hideous terms - literature was there from the beginning.
Germaine Greer warns us in her forward that we shouldn't be mining this youthful adventure for psychoanalytic details. And yet she cannot resist herself, sort of like we men cannot our sexual fantasies: "A woman enjoyed is a goddess destroyed," she says, as if spreading the news.
Many men go through the same process Flaubert did when coming to terms with women's sexual power - or at least the more interesting ones do - and Greer is more helpful when raising the question of what kept a man like Flaubert at it when every other one makes his compromise with consumer culture, becoming bitter, miserable, prone to self-destruction in the process, failing at art, or with women altogether. Or holding onto some deep-seated grudge that ranted against conformity or bourgeois society when young, only to fail at their marriages or careers, never having really been serious about becoming an activist. Greer says it's "Flaubert's obsessive devotion to his craft" which was his saving grace. I'm not really buying that. I believe his obsessive need for craft was a tangible result of the reading he did. I am much more intrigued by the man who was filling his imagination with Plutarch than the one who was sweating over the placement of a comma or a semi-colon, or going the extra mile for the research. At this point in his youth he was already filled with visions of the orient and classical civilization. To get to those other worlds he needed the transport of poetry, which this novel, it goes without saying, doesn't achieve. But in his imaginings of the relations between the sexes, he found discarded objects by men and women as they bathed along the rivers of France, and those became key elements that gave his later novels their distinctive color,
That day a charming red pelisse with black stripes had been left on the shore. The tide was rising - the shore was festooned with foam - already a stronger wave had wet the silk fringes of this coat. I picked it up to move it away, its material was soft and light. It was a woman's coat.
The red pelisse then becomes a scarf for rosy-cheeked Emma to wear,
The scarf tied around her head kept flapping in the breeze as she crossed the pasture; she was afraid of bulls, and began to run, arriving out of breath, rosy-cheeked, her whole being exuding a fragrance of sap, greenery, and fresh air.
This teen fantasy was written in 1838, but, very interestingly, it wasn't published until La Revue Blanche put it out in four parts from 1900 to 1901. Flaubert didn't want these youthful embarrassments out, but if you admire the masterpieces it's a pleasure to see the boy transformed into a man, and without all that much change, to see what psychological state the master hoped to redeem.
In this tale written in Gustave's mid-teens we see the pattern is already set. There is the maternal figure, married and unavailable, that though she is committed to another sends him affections that he can only translate through an imaginative world (Maria). Then there is the one who was never really interested in him to begin with, and then goes brain-dead once she marries (Caroline). Except for those boring men who completely understand women from a young age, or make every effort trying, Flaubert was a kind of man who makes much more sense to me, for only willing to go so far. Instead of reminding himself at every turn "women need to be respected" as some would have us do, Flaubert compromised by using romantic language rather than human rights as a bridge to the opposite sex. Not a bad strategy, as there are many even today who respond much better to emotional language and gestures than legal demands.
Although not so 20th century as Joyce who admitted some of his first erotic experiences were watching girls pee, we get a glimpse into what totally turned on young Gustave,
Maria was breast-feeding the little girl herself - and one day I saw her opening her dress and presenting her breast to the child.
It was a plump round breast with brown skin and veins of deep blue visible beneath that ardent skin. Never had I seen a naked woman at that time. Oh! the singular ecstasy into which the sight of that breast plunged me - how I feasted my eyes on it, how I would have liked simply to touch that breast! It seemed to me that if I had placed my lips on it, my teeth would have bitten it in rage - and my heart melted with delight at the thought of the pleasures that kiss would give me.
Oh! I gazed at it repeatedly, for such a long time, that throbbing breast... as she rocked her suckling child gently on her knees, humming an Italian tune!
And yet what truly weird boy is this making references to a woman's charms in ways no healthy boy ever would,
I thought that a woman was an angel... Oh! how right Molière was to compare her to a bowl of soup!
Which Molière did in L'Ecole des femmes (1662), Act 2, Scene 3. The boy never really had a chance to experience puberty on its own, hideous terms - literature was there from the beginning.
Germaine Greer warns us in her forward that we shouldn't be mining this youthful adventure for psychoanalytic details. And yet she cannot resist herself, sort of like we men cannot our sexual fantasies: "A woman enjoyed is a goddess destroyed," she says, as if spreading the news.
Many men go through the same process Flaubert did when coming to terms with women's sexual power - or at least the more interesting ones do - and Greer is more helpful when raising the question of what kept a man like Flaubert at it when every other one makes his compromise with consumer culture, becoming bitter, miserable, prone to self-destruction in the process, failing at art, or with women altogether. Or holding onto some deep-seated grudge that ranted against conformity or bourgeois society when young, only to fail at their marriages or careers, never having really been serious about becoming an activist. Greer says it's "Flaubert's obsessive devotion to his craft" which was his saving grace. I'm not really buying that. I believe his obsessive need for craft was a tangible result of the reading he did. I am much more intrigued by the man who was filling his imagination with Plutarch than the one who was sweating over the placement of a comma or a semi-colon, or going the extra mile for the research. At this point in his youth he was already filled with visions of the orient and classical civilization. To get to those other worlds he needed the transport of poetry, which this novel, it goes without saying, doesn't achieve. But in his imaginings of the relations between the sexes, he found discarded objects by men and women as they bathed along the rivers of France, and those became key elements that gave his later novels their distinctive color,
That day a charming red pelisse with black stripes had been left on the shore. The tide was rising - the shore was festooned with foam - already a stronger wave had wet the silk fringes of this coat. I picked it up to move it away, its material was soft and light. It was a woman's coat.
The red pelisse then becomes a scarf for rosy-cheeked Emma to wear,
The scarf tied around her head kept flapping in the breeze as she crossed the pasture; she was afraid of bulls, and began to run, arriving out of breath, rosy-cheeked, her whole being exuding a fragrance of sap, greenery, and fresh air.
This teen fantasy was written in 1838, but, very interestingly, it wasn't published until La Revue Blanche put it out in four parts from 1900 to 1901. Flaubert didn't want these youthful embarrassments out, but if you admire the masterpieces it's a pleasure to see the boy transformed into a man, and without all that much change, to see what psychological state the master hoped to redeem.
February 28, 2020
Flaubert was born a Catholic. I was born a Catholic.
I am Flaubert.
(Pretty sure I got that right.)
_____
This dry-run to Bovary is exquisite. Do read this version; the scholarship by Liverpool University is exceptional. Side-by-side bilingual pages are just too sexy, and you’ll never find a Gust more flamed with youth.
I am Flaubert.
(Pretty sure I got that right.)
_____
This dry-run to Bovary is exquisite. Do read this version; the scholarship by Liverpool University is exceptional. Side-by-side bilingual pages are just too sexy, and you’ll never find a Gust more flamed with youth.
August 5, 2017
Young Flaubert, how very dramatic.
"We have tried everything, and we have renounced everything without hope. A strange greed has taken hold of our soul and our humanity, a great sense of anxiety gnaws at us, there is emptiness in our multitude and we feel the chill of the grave about us."
----
"There are days when I feel immense weariness, when sombre tedium envelops me like a shroud wherever I go; its folds irk and annoy me, life weighs down on me like remorse. So young and yet so weary of everything, when there are elderly people who are still so full of enthusiasm! I have fallen so low, into such disenchantment! What can be done? Should I watch the moon at night, casting its rays which tremble like leaves on my wooden panels, or watch the sun during the day as it gilds the neighbouring rooftops? Is that what living is? No, it is death, without the rest that the tomb affords us."
----
"Oh! the infinite! the infinite, that immense gulf, that vortex that rises from the abyss and reaches up to the highest regions of the unknown. It is an old idea in which we all turn around in a state of vertigo, an abyss that we each have within our hearts, an immeasurable, bottomless chasm! It is pointless for us to wonder in our anguish, for days and nights on end: ‘What do these words mean: God, Eternity, the Infinite?’ – for we turn around within them, carried away by the winds of death, like a leaf tossed in a tempest. It then seems as though the infinite takes pleasure in maintaining us in this immensity of doubt."
----
"I have often thought of the dead in their coffins and of the long centuries that they spend beneath the earth, with all its noise and sounds and cries. They are so calm inside their rotten boards, whose dreary silence is occasionally interrupted by a hair that falls or by a worm slithering across a piece of flesh. What sleep they have there, as they lie in silence beneath the soil and the flowering field!
And yet, in winter they must feel the cold beneath the snow.
Oh, if they then awoke, if they came back to life and saw that the tears that had been shed over their shroud had dried, and if they saw that the sobs had died away and the grimaces ended, they would be horrified at the life they had left with such sorrow, and they would swiftly return to the calm truth of nothingness."
----
"But you will remain deep in my heart, for the heart is a pasture in which every passion overturns, stirs and ploughs its furrow over the ruins of all the others."
"We have tried everything, and we have renounced everything without hope. A strange greed has taken hold of our soul and our humanity, a great sense of anxiety gnaws at us, there is emptiness in our multitude and we feel the chill of the grave about us."
----
"There are days when I feel immense weariness, when sombre tedium envelops me like a shroud wherever I go; its folds irk and annoy me, life weighs down on me like remorse. So young and yet so weary of everything, when there are elderly people who are still so full of enthusiasm! I have fallen so low, into such disenchantment! What can be done? Should I watch the moon at night, casting its rays which tremble like leaves on my wooden panels, or watch the sun during the day as it gilds the neighbouring rooftops? Is that what living is? No, it is death, without the rest that the tomb affords us."
----
"Oh! the infinite! the infinite, that immense gulf, that vortex that rises from the abyss and reaches up to the highest regions of the unknown. It is an old idea in which we all turn around in a state of vertigo, an abyss that we each have within our hearts, an immeasurable, bottomless chasm! It is pointless for us to wonder in our anguish, for days and nights on end: ‘What do these words mean: God, Eternity, the Infinite?’ – for we turn around within them, carried away by the winds of death, like a leaf tossed in a tempest. It then seems as though the infinite takes pleasure in maintaining us in this immensity of doubt."
----
"I have often thought of the dead in their coffins and of the long centuries that they spend beneath the earth, with all its noise and sounds and cries. They are so calm inside their rotten boards, whose dreary silence is occasionally interrupted by a hair that falls or by a worm slithering across a piece of flesh. What sleep they have there, as they lie in silence beneath the soil and the flowering field!
And yet, in winter they must feel the cold beneath the snow.
Oh, if they then awoke, if they came back to life and saw that the tears that had been shed over their shroud had dried, and if they saw that the sobs had died away and the grimaces ended, they would be horrified at the life they had left with such sorrow, and they would swiftly return to the calm truth of nothingness."
----
"But you will remain deep in my heart, for the heart is a pasture in which every passion overturns, stirs and ploughs its furrow over the ruins of all the others."
April 1, 2019
Flaubert'in 17 yaşında yazdığı göz önüne alındığında okurunu gerçekten hayrete düşüren düşünceler var.çoğunlukla otobiyografik özellikler taşıyor.kitap genel olarak, burjuva toplumuna olan eleştirilerinden oluşuyor.
March 9, 2022
Flauberts erster, wenn auch unvollendeter biografischer Roman, zeigt, wie wenig Handlung es für ein großartiges Werk braucht. Die Ausgabe ist abgerundet durch lebensgeschichtliche Infos und Briefe Flauberts. Ein Genuss!
November 12, 2025
Önsözde kitapla ilgili şuna benzer bir ifade vardı -kitabın özeti: Gustave hayal dünyasında yaşıyor, Gustave tatminsiz, Gustave düşlüyor, Gustave aşık oluyor, Gustave olmaya çalışıyor.
Gustave Flaubert bu kitabı 17 yaşında yazmış, gençlik eseri. Tam da yaşının kendine özgü duygularını taşıyor; beni kimse sevmiyor, hiç kimse beni anlamıyor. Bir de tutkulu ilk aşkını anlatıyor ve yetmiş sayfalık kitap bitiyor.
Herkese keyifli okumalar.
Aç gözlerini, zayıf ve kibir dolu insan, toz zerreciğinin üstüne güçlükle tırmanan zavallı karınca; kendi kendine özgür ve büyük olduğunu söylüyorsun, kendi kendine saygı duyuyorsun, hayatı süresince o kadar aşağılık olan sen, ve kuşkusuz alay etmek için, gelip geçen çürük bedenini selamlıyorsun. Ve sonra sanıyorsun ki, büyüklük adını verdiğin bir miktar gurur ve Toplumunun özü olan bu alçak çıkar arasında çalkalanan bu kadar güzel bir hayat, ölümsüzlükle taçlanacak. Sana ölümsüzlük mű; sen ki bir maymundan daha azgınsın, ve bir kaplandan daha kötüsün, ve bir yılandan daha sürüngensin? Haydi canım! Maymun için bir cennet yaratın bana, kaplan ve yılan için, hovardalık, gaddarlık, alçaklık için, bencillik için bir cennet, bu toz zerresi için bir ebediyet, bu hiçlik için ölümsüzlük. Özgür olmakla, iyilik ve kötülük adını verdiğin şeyleri yapabilmekle övünürsün, kuşkusuz daha hızlı mahkum edilmek için, zira sen iyi ne yapmayı bilirsin? Hareketlerinden biri bile var mı ki kibir tarafından yönlendirilmesin veya çıkar tarafından hesaplanmış olmasın?
Sen, özgür! Doğar doğmaz, ebeveyninin sakatlıklarına maruz kalırsın; gün ışığını görür görmez, bütün kötülüklerinin, hatta aptallığının tohumunu alırsın, dünyayı, kendini, seni çevreleyen her şeyi yargılamana yol açacak her şeyin, her şeyi karşılaştırmana yarayacak bu unsurun, içinde barındırdığın bu ölçü biriminin tohumunu... Küçük, dar bir kafayla doğdun, İyilik veya kötülükle ilgili, hazır veya senin için hazırlanacak fikirlerle.... Sana, babanın sevilmesi ve yaşlandığında bakılması gerektiği söylenecek: İkisini de yapacaksın, ve hatta sana bunların öğretilmesine bile gerek yoktu, değil mi? Bu, doğuştan gelen bir erdemdir, yemek yeme ihtiyacı gibi; oysa ki, senin doğduğun dağın gerisindeki bir yerde, kardeşine, yaşlanan babasını öldürmesi gerektiği öğretilecek, o da öldürecek, zira, bunun doğal olduğunu düşünecek, ve hatta bunun ona öğretilmesine bile gerek yoktu. Seni yetiştirirken, kızkardeşini veya anneni tensel bir aşkla sevmekten uzak durmanı söylecekler, oysa ki bütün insanlar gibi sen de bir ensestten üredin, zira ilk erkek ve ilk kadın ve onların çocukları, kız ve erkek kardeşlerdi; üstelik, aynı güneşin battığı başka yerlerde, başka halklar ensesti bir erdem ve kardeş katlini bir ödev gibi görür. Tutumunu belirlemek için seni yönlendirecek ilkelerden bağımsız mısın bakalım? Eğitimini sen mi yönetiyorsun? Mutlu veya üzgün, veremli veya gürbüz, şefkatli veya hain, ahlaklı veya kötücül bir kişilikle doğmayı isteyen sen miydin?syf65
Büyüksün ve ölüyorsun, köpek ve karınca gibi, onlardan daha fazla pişmanlıkla; ve sonra çürüyorsun; ve sana soruyorum, solucanlar seni yedikten, vücudun mezarın rutubetinde eridikten, ve artık tozun bile kalmadıktan sonra, sen neredesin, insan? Hatta ruhun nerede? Eylemlerini harekete geçiren, kalbini nefrete, kıskançlığa, bütün tutkulara teslim eden o ruh, seni satan ve sana bunca alçaklığı yaptıran o ruh nerede şimdi? O ruhu karşılamaya yetecek kadar aziz bir yer var mı? Kendine saygı duyuyor ve kendini bir Tanrı gibi onurlandırıyorsun, insanın saygınlığı fikrini icat ettin, seni görünce doğada hiçbir şeyin sahip olamayacağı o fikri; onurlandırılmak istiyorsun ve kendi kendini onurlandırıyorsun, hatta, hayatı boyunca bu kadar adi olan bu bedenin, yok olduğunda onurlandırılmasını istiyorsun. Çürüyerek bozulan insani leşinin önünde şapka çıkarılmasını istiyorsun, her ne kadar şu an, yaşarken senin olduğundan daha saf olsa da. Bu mu büyüklüğün? - Toz zerresinin büyüklüğü! Hiçin ihtişamı!syf69
Gustave Flaubert bu kitabı 17 yaşında yazmış, gençlik eseri. Tam da yaşının kendine özgü duygularını taşıyor; beni kimse sevmiyor, hiç kimse beni anlamıyor. Bir de tutkulu ilk aşkını anlatıyor ve yetmiş sayfalık kitap bitiyor.
Herkese keyifli okumalar.
Aç gözlerini, zayıf ve kibir dolu insan, toz zerreciğinin üstüne güçlükle tırmanan zavallı karınca; kendi kendine özgür ve büyük olduğunu söylüyorsun, kendi kendine saygı duyuyorsun, hayatı süresince o kadar aşağılık olan sen, ve kuşkusuz alay etmek için, gelip geçen çürük bedenini selamlıyorsun. Ve sonra sanıyorsun ki, büyüklük adını verdiğin bir miktar gurur ve Toplumunun özü olan bu alçak çıkar arasında çalkalanan bu kadar güzel bir hayat, ölümsüzlükle taçlanacak. Sana ölümsüzlük mű; sen ki bir maymundan daha azgınsın, ve bir kaplandan daha kötüsün, ve bir yılandan daha sürüngensin? Haydi canım! Maymun için bir cennet yaratın bana, kaplan ve yılan için, hovardalık, gaddarlık, alçaklık için, bencillik için bir cennet, bu toz zerresi için bir ebediyet, bu hiçlik için ölümsüzlük. Özgür olmakla, iyilik ve kötülük adını verdiğin şeyleri yapabilmekle övünürsün, kuşkusuz daha hızlı mahkum edilmek için, zira sen iyi ne yapmayı bilirsin? Hareketlerinden biri bile var mı ki kibir tarafından yönlendirilmesin veya çıkar tarafından hesaplanmış olmasın?
Sen, özgür! Doğar doğmaz, ebeveyninin sakatlıklarına maruz kalırsın; gün ışığını görür görmez, bütün kötülüklerinin, hatta aptallığının tohumunu alırsın, dünyayı, kendini, seni çevreleyen her şeyi yargılamana yol açacak her şeyin, her şeyi karşılaştırmana yarayacak bu unsurun, içinde barındırdığın bu ölçü biriminin tohumunu... Küçük, dar bir kafayla doğdun, İyilik veya kötülükle ilgili, hazır veya senin için hazırlanacak fikirlerle.... Sana, babanın sevilmesi ve yaşlandığında bakılması gerektiği söylenecek: İkisini de yapacaksın, ve hatta sana bunların öğretilmesine bile gerek yoktu, değil mi? Bu, doğuştan gelen bir erdemdir, yemek yeme ihtiyacı gibi; oysa ki, senin doğduğun dağın gerisindeki bir yerde, kardeşine, yaşlanan babasını öldürmesi gerektiği öğretilecek, o da öldürecek, zira, bunun doğal olduğunu düşünecek, ve hatta bunun ona öğretilmesine bile gerek yoktu. Seni yetiştirirken, kızkardeşini veya anneni tensel bir aşkla sevmekten uzak durmanı söylecekler, oysa ki bütün insanlar gibi sen de bir ensestten üredin, zira ilk erkek ve ilk kadın ve onların çocukları, kız ve erkek kardeşlerdi; üstelik, aynı güneşin battığı başka yerlerde, başka halklar ensesti bir erdem ve kardeş katlini bir ödev gibi görür. Tutumunu belirlemek için seni yönlendirecek ilkelerden bağımsız mısın bakalım? Eğitimini sen mi yönetiyorsun? Mutlu veya üzgün, veremli veya gürbüz, şefkatli veya hain, ahlaklı veya kötücül bir kişilikle doğmayı isteyen sen miydin?syf65
Büyüksün ve ölüyorsun, köpek ve karınca gibi, onlardan daha fazla pişmanlıkla; ve sonra çürüyorsun; ve sana soruyorum, solucanlar seni yedikten, vücudun mezarın rutubetinde eridikten, ve artık tozun bile kalmadıktan sonra, sen neredesin, insan? Hatta ruhun nerede? Eylemlerini harekete geçiren, kalbini nefrete, kıskançlığa, bütün tutkulara teslim eden o ruh, seni satan ve sana bunca alçaklığı yaptıran o ruh nerede şimdi? O ruhu karşılamaya yetecek kadar aziz bir yer var mı? Kendine saygı duyuyor ve kendini bir Tanrı gibi onurlandırıyorsun, insanın saygınlığı fikrini icat ettin, seni görünce doğada hiçbir şeyin sahip olamayacağı o fikri; onurlandırılmak istiyorsun ve kendi kendini onurlandırıyorsun, hatta, hayatı boyunca bu kadar adi olan bu bedenin, yok olduğunda onurlandırılmasını istiyorsun. Çürüyerek bozulan insani leşinin önünde şapka çıkarılmasını istiyorsun, her ne kadar şu an, yaşarken senin olduğundan daha saf olsa da. Bu mu büyüklüğün? - Toz zerresinin büyüklüğü! Hiçin ihtişamı!syf69
June 30, 2022
Fabuloso ensayo de Flaubert!!!! 👏👏👏👏
December 22, 2023
Die ‚Memoiren eines Irren‘ sind einerseits unfassbar pessimistisch, andererseits regen sie jedoch zum Nachdenken an; das Werk beschäftigt sich mit Fragen wie: Was ist der Sinn des Lebens? Was passiert nach dem Tod? Es sind Fragen, mit denen sich mit Sicherheit jeder einmal auseinandergesetzt hat oder es noch tun wird.
Der Erzähler des Textes bezeichnet sich selbst als ein „Irrer“ - und das nicht bloß einmal; jedoch macht er auf mich nicht den Eindruck, dass er dem Irrsinn verfallen ist; er scheint eher einen Hang zum Pessimismus zu erliegen. Doch dies macht aus einem Individuum keinen Irren.
Vielmehr lässt sich hervorheben, dass der „Irre“ fundiert über Dinge nachdenkt, die ihn beschäftigen - Dinge, die eigentlich alle Menschen beschäftigen.
Der Erzähler des Textes bezeichnet sich selbst als ein „Irrer“ - und das nicht bloß einmal; jedoch macht er auf mich nicht den Eindruck, dass er dem Irrsinn verfallen ist; er scheint eher einen Hang zum Pessimismus zu erliegen. Doch dies macht aus einem Individuum keinen Irren.
Vielmehr lässt sich hervorheben, dass der „Irre“ fundiert über Dinge nachdenkt, die ihn beschäftigen - Dinge, die eigentlich alle Menschen beschäftigen.
August 21, 2017
Questo libro l'ho letto in età sbagliata. Adesso posso ammirarne la scrittura, la sapienza grammaticale, l'incredibile lucidità di un giovinetto, ma non riesco più a farmi devastare dalla furia puberale che ogni passo porta con sé. E' un racconto sulla fine dei sogni, sulla maturità che avanza, sui devastanti interrogativi che un uomo giovane e sensibile è portato a farsi. Ma c'è una domanda che mi pongo, e che penso tutti si pongano nel leggere un libro del genere: come è possibile che un giovane, seppur dotato di talento straordinario, possa regalare al mondo immagini così dettagliate e scritte in modo semplicemente perfetto? Cosa c'era, in quei tempi, che adesso non c'è più? Troppa comunicazione, oggi? Troppo disincanto? Troppa informazione? Troppi coglioni? Non saprei...
Di solito non lo faccio, ma è doveroso riportare questo passo immenso, come uno dei più grandi monologhi della storia:
"Sei grande, uomo! Non per il tuo corpo, certamente, ma per quest’anima che ti ha reso, tu dici, signore della natura: sei grande, padrone e forte. Ogni giorno infatti sconvolgi la Terra, scavi canali, innalzi palazzi, imbrigli fiumi, cogli l’erba, la cuoci e la mangi; solchi l’oceano con la prua dei tuoi vascelli e credi che tutto questo sia bello; ti credi migliore del’animale di cui ti nutri, più libero della foglia in balia del vento, più grande dell’aquila che volteggia sulle cime, forte più della Terra dalla quale trai il tuo pane e i tuoi diamanti, dell’oceano su cui corri. Ahimè! Ogni giorno la terra che tu scavi rinasce, i canali si insabbiano, i fiumi inondano i tuoi campi e le tue città, le pietre dei tuoi palazzi si sgretolano e crollano, le formiche corrono su troni e corone, e tutte le tue flotte non sapranno lasciare sull’acqua traccia più duratura di quella di una goccia d’acqua o del battito di un’ala di uccello. E tu, anche tu, passi su questo mare di secoli senza lasciare traccia di te più di quanto faccia la tua barca sulle onde. Ti reputi grande perché lavori senza sosta, ma proprio il lavoro è la prova della tua debolezza. Sei grande eppure muori, come il cane e la formica, ma con più rimpianto di loro, e poi imputridisci e allora ti chiedo, quando i vermi ti avranno mangiato, quando il tuo corpo sarà dissolto nella tomba e nemmeno la polvere resterà di te, dove sarai, uomo? Dove sarà mai la tua anima?Quest’anima che era il motore delle tue azioni, che spingeva il tuo cuore all’odio, all’invidia, a tutte le passioni, quest’anima che ti vendeva e ti portava a tante bassezze, ora dov’è? Esiste un luogo abbastanza sacro per riceverla? Tu rispetti e onori te stesso come un dio, hai inventato l’idea della dignità dell’uomo, idea che niente in natura potrebbe suggerire, vedendoti. Vuoi che ci si tolga il cappello davanti alla tua carogna umana, putrida di corruzione, ancorché più pura di te quando vivevi. Ecco la tua grandezza. Grandezza di polvere, maestà del nulla!".
Di solito non lo faccio, ma è doveroso riportare questo passo immenso, come uno dei più grandi monologhi della storia:
"Sei grande, uomo! Non per il tuo corpo, certamente, ma per quest’anima che ti ha reso, tu dici, signore della natura: sei grande, padrone e forte. Ogni giorno infatti sconvolgi la Terra, scavi canali, innalzi palazzi, imbrigli fiumi, cogli l’erba, la cuoci e la mangi; solchi l’oceano con la prua dei tuoi vascelli e credi che tutto questo sia bello; ti credi migliore del’animale di cui ti nutri, più libero della foglia in balia del vento, più grande dell’aquila che volteggia sulle cime, forte più della Terra dalla quale trai il tuo pane e i tuoi diamanti, dell’oceano su cui corri. Ahimè! Ogni giorno la terra che tu scavi rinasce, i canali si insabbiano, i fiumi inondano i tuoi campi e le tue città, le pietre dei tuoi palazzi si sgretolano e crollano, le formiche corrono su troni e corone, e tutte le tue flotte non sapranno lasciare sull’acqua traccia più duratura di quella di una goccia d’acqua o del battito di un’ala di uccello. E tu, anche tu, passi su questo mare di secoli senza lasciare traccia di te più di quanto faccia la tua barca sulle onde. Ti reputi grande perché lavori senza sosta, ma proprio il lavoro è la prova della tua debolezza. Sei grande eppure muori, come il cane e la formica, ma con più rimpianto di loro, e poi imputridisci e allora ti chiedo, quando i vermi ti avranno mangiato, quando il tuo corpo sarà dissolto nella tomba e nemmeno la polvere resterà di te, dove sarai, uomo? Dove sarà mai la tua anima?Quest’anima che era il motore delle tue azioni, che spingeva il tuo cuore all’odio, all’invidia, a tutte le passioni, quest’anima che ti vendeva e ti portava a tante bassezze, ora dov’è? Esiste un luogo abbastanza sacro per riceverla? Tu rispetti e onori te stesso come un dio, hai inventato l’idea della dignità dell’uomo, idea che niente in natura potrebbe suggerire, vedendoti. Vuoi che ci si tolga il cappello davanti alla tua carogna umana, putrida di corruzione, ancorché più pura di te quando vivevi. Ecco la tua grandezza. Grandezza di polvere, maestà del nulla!".
December 4, 2013
20.chapter'ın önünde şapka çıkarırım.
August 17, 2016
Flaubert'ı daha yakından tanımak isteyenler için mükemmel bir kaynak. Bir anı kitabından fazlası, yaşam öyküsüne tanıklık etme imkanı bulacaksınız.
Read
August 31, 2017''Kuşku, ruhlar için ölümdür, eskimiş ırklara bulaşan bir vebadır, bilimden gelen ve deliliğe sürükleyen bir hastalıktır. Delilik mantığın kuşkusudur; hatta belki mantığın kendisidir.''
January 2, 2024
Ein wunderbares Buch über die Liebe und wie sie das Leben verändert.
Wer einmal geliebt hat wie Flaubert, der wird wohl auf ewig… ein Irrer.
Wer einmal geliebt hat wie Flaubert, der wird wohl auf ewig… ein Irrer.
August 21, 2016
Much ado about nothing
Flaubert and I
Pour... niaiser et fantastiquer
Quintessence of dust
But in spite of his ingenuity, Flaubert really was just a teenager with his teen angst, dreams, desires and caprices of youth we all had. One might say that's this novel's the main flaw, but I would disagree. Memoirs of a Madman is a reading that can give you an outside look on all your juvenile smugness and folly, so it's a perfect book for teens. Old folks might not get it, because they have a tendency to forget what it's like to be young, confused and disenchanted. They forget that constant feeling of loneliness, those long days in which you felt as if you belonged to a different species that went extinct a long time ago, as if you're the only one left, all alone in the world full of strangers, with no one like you. But what you don't even suspect is that a lot of people feel that way, they just don't show it. And it isn't anything new, it's not a feeling of 21st century, it's been there for a while. The same feeling, the same thoughts, the same pain, the same desires and fantasies I find in this little novel and I deeply regret for not discovering it much earlier.
Suit the action to the word, the word to the action
Reading this was a pure mental abuse. Seriously, I admire myself, for I have the nerves of steel.
Okay, let me try to illustrate: this is a dual language edition where one has a page in French followed by a page in English. That's such an excellent idea, I thought, especially for us, French literature students. I might as well read it. It can't be that hard, right? RIGHT? Well... Wrong!
How the hell could I possibly think that reading one sentence in French, then one in English, then one in French again and back to English, wouldn't be such a nightmare? Especially because I read this on my tablet, in PDF format (where I had to zoom in and out every now and then just so I could turn the page), irritably greasing the screen by moving my index finger across it: left and right, left and right, reading it in French then translating it to English. Since none of those two is my first language, it happens (although rarely, thank God, or I would have gone mad by now!) that I don't know the word neither in French nor in English, so I have to translate it in Serbian. (Viva Google Translate!)
To those who are puzzled by my little tractate, asking themselves why didn't I just read the damn thing in French instead of sticking with the masochistic methods, I have to say: even though I am a French language and literature student, to my shame, I don't know French that well because I've been learning it only for a couple of months (yes, you can be a student of French in my town without having any fundamental knowledge). Therefore, it is quite brave of me (and might I add - ridiculously masochistic) to even try reading a book in French at this level, let alone succeed at it. So, children, if you are reading this: don't try this at home.
With this I conclude my speech on why I deserve a medal.
Beside boasting about my daring feats, probably with a subconscious wish that one of my professeurs would read it by chance and think what a good and hardworking girl I was and reward me with a maximum grade on the upcoming exams, I really do have a review to write.
Flaubert and I
(yes, my dear Yugoslavian friends, this is a reference to THAT movie)
I already read November and it's one of my favorite books, so you could say I was pretty eager to read Memoirs of a Madman. Apart from my liking of November, there was some desire to compare myself with Flaubert, since he wrote this piece when he was only a 17-year-old boy. To fill you in: I, too, am a writer... sort of. Well, aren't we all writers and poets at such a tender age? Anyway, I wrote a novel at about the same age as Flaubert did and when I was reading November, I noticed a great similarity between his personality and mine. That same similarity activated my narcissistic instincts and made me fall in love with that man. I remember how much I wanted to dive in the book and kiss the Narrator, because no one was so like me, no one understood me like he did, no one ever said all those things! Thoughts about how my soulmate died more than 100 years before I was born started haunting me. I am aware of my silliness, but what skill of portraying your thoughts is needed to make a girl born two centuries later sigh in ecstasy over your novella? Not to mention how many quotes I wrote down!
But, although I'm ashamed to admit, I haven't read any other Flaubert's book, which is a shame because then I could draw a comparison between his youthful and mature work. Primarily, I regret not reading Sentimental Education, because it is a widely accepted fact that it draws some of its inspiration from the same ideas that obsessed young Flaubert in his teen years when he wrote Memoirs of a Madman, as well as having the same muse - Elisa Schlésinger. So one could say those two works have some rather interesting connections, but unfortunately, I am "handicapped" as I lack the necessary knowledge to make any further comparisons and, therefore, write a better review. Maybe in the future, when I read all his works, who knows?
Pour... niaiser et fantastiquer
I won't lie, it's pretty obvious that this is Flaubert's first novel, but it is not obvious that he wrote this when he was only a teenager. His vocabulary is surprisingly lavish, his style polished with an evident sense for details (in some of his very powerful descriptions, you can actually see his innate inclinations toward pedantry which will lead him, later in life, to write his, most famous of all novels - Madame Bovary), but what blows my mind is his aesthetic sensibility, the way he can feel the most delicate sensations, the tiniest quivers of a soul, and turn it into the most melodic and picturesque words. After all, it is a lyrical novel. Flaubert explains (or rather, he makes excuses) the inconsistency of his style and pessimism ("In many places you will believe, perhaps, that the language is forced and the picture wilfully darkened", he writes in the preface of Memoirs) by saying: "It is a madman who has written these pages, and if it should frequently seem that words go beyond the feelings they express, it is because elsewhere they were overburdened by the weight of the heart." In that same preface, he also admits his personal feelings took over his work ("The soul stirred the pen and overwhelmed it"), but I don't condemn him for that, because that's the approach every young writer uses when writing his first novel. What is so precious about Memoirs is that exquisite talent of a great writer in its raw state. If you had no idea who Flaubert was and someone gave you to read his first novel telling you only that the writer is a 17-year-old boy, after reading you would most definitely think: "This kid is going places!"
It's impossible not to see that immense talent that just breaks upon you like a tremendous wave and overwhelms you with reverence towards the young genius.
Quintessence of dust
More interesting than his meticulous technique is Flaubert's philosophy, the questions he asked himself, which were way ahead of his age AND time. Keep in mind that Dostoevsky and Flaubert are peers, therefore this was long before Crime and Punishment, and long before writers began to question the motives behind apparently "criminal" actions. The relevance of these questions asked by Flaubert in the 1830s becomes apparent only later in the century. To back up my claims with facts, I shall quote one of those crucial thoughts that made me awe at the author's perspicacity:
Are you the creator of your physical and moral constitution? No, you could be in total control of it only if you had made and modelled it in your own manner. You claim to be free because you have a soul? Well, it is you who have made this discovery which you are incapable of defining. An inner voice tells you so. But you lie, and a voice tells you that you are weak, and you feel within yourself an immense emptiness that you would like to be able to fill with all the things that you throw in there. And even if you did believe in it, are you sure? Who told you so? When, after a long struggle between two opposing feelings, and long hesitation and doubt, you lean towards one of them, you believe that you are the master of your own decision. But, to be master, it would be necessary to feel no leaning at all. Are you master of your good actions when you have the taste of evil deep in your heart, and when you have been born with unpleasant dispositions that your upbringing has fostered? And if you are virtuous, if you are horrified of crime, could you carry one out? Are you free to do either good or evil? For if you are permanently guided by the feeling of virtue, you cannot commit an evil action.
But in spite of his ingenuity, Flaubert really was just a teenager with his teen angst, dreams, desires and caprices of youth we all had. One might say that's this novel's the main flaw, but I would disagree. Memoirs of a Madman is a reading that can give you an outside look on all your juvenile smugness and folly, so it's a perfect book for teens. Old folks might not get it, because they have a tendency to forget what it's like to be young, confused and disenchanted. They forget that constant feeling of loneliness, those long days in which you felt as if you belonged to a different species that went extinct a long time ago, as if you're the only one left, all alone in the world full of strangers, with no one like you. But what you don't even suspect is that a lot of people feel that way, they just don't show it. And it isn't anything new, it's not a feeling of 21st century, it's been there for a while. The same feeling, the same thoughts, the same pain, the same desires and fantasies I find in this little novel and I deeply regret for not discovering it much earlier.
Suit the action to the word, the word to the action
But most of all, it affected me as a writer. It shows you those little mistakes all young writers make, mistakes no one warns you about, those same mistakes you made yourself. In the world of literature, it's almost like chickenpox, it's an inevitable stage when becoming a writer - only years can heal it.
But unlike other young authors who try with all their might to publish their work, Flaubert played it wise and didn't publish anything until Madame Bovary (and I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be such a bombshell if he had published one of his juvenile manuscripts).
It shows just how much patience pays off. And it's really inspiring and comforting, because it doesn't tell you, it shows you that quantity loses its significance with time. After a couple of centuries, no one will care how many books you wrote, did you write them in your teens of just before your death. It just doesn't matter. It shows you that the only right thing a writer can do is patiently strive towards quality. Flaubert teaches you that being "a diamond in the rough" just isn't enough (and it rhymes too!). You have to work hard, nurture your style and even more so your mind.
Just half a year ago, I was absolutely bummed out for not winning at this literary contest. Now that I think of it, it's better that way. My novel wasn't as good as I wanted it to be and I knew I could do better. So I'm going to act like Flaubert and never publish anything until I'm completely satisfied with my work. And since I, too, am a mad perfectionist, it will take some time.
Having read only works from his youth, it really comes as a surprise he became a realist writer when he was all about Romanticism. What kind of transformation was needed to completely change the essence of your art? Wicked.
I thought about giving it a 5 star rating, but it just isn't "perfect" enough and Flaubert knew it, that's why he never published it. So I won't try making it look like he made a mistake for not publishing it, and just give it 4 stars. In spite of that torment with translation, I did enjoy it.
December 31, 2024
Scritto autobiografico di Flaubert, chiaro precursore di "educazione sentimentale". Una breve raccolta di riflessioni giovanili, le prime esperienze con i temi di vita, morte, gioventù, cambiamenti, famiglia, e, soprattutto, amore. Chiaramente è scritto bene, anzi benissimo: parliamo di Flaubert.
Parlando dal punto di vista di un lettore già adulto, È un libro necessario per comprendere l'autore? A mio parere no. È un libro che ti tiene incollato al foglio? No. È un libro che può aggiungere qualcosa di importante ad una visione adulta del mondo? Nemmeno.
Ma non pretendo che possa né che debba farlo. Sono scritti giovanili e in quanto tali mi sembrano più adatti ai giovani lettori. Anzi, per un giovane alle prime esperienze con la vita non faccio fatica a pensare che possa essere un ottimo scritto filosofico a cui appellarsi per far maturare il proprio pensiero. I contenuti sono senza dubbio di spessore, parliamo comunque di Flaubert.
Parlando dal punto di vista di un lettore già adulto, È un libro necessario per comprendere l'autore? A mio parere no. È un libro che ti tiene incollato al foglio? No. È un libro che può aggiungere qualcosa di importante ad una visione adulta del mondo? Nemmeno.
Ma non pretendo che possa né che debba farlo. Sono scritti giovanili e in quanto tali mi sembrano più adatti ai giovani lettori. Anzi, per un giovane alle prime esperienze con la vita non faccio fatica a pensare che possa essere un ottimo scritto filosofico a cui appellarsi per far maturare il proprio pensiero. I contenuti sono senza dubbio di spessore, parliamo comunque di Flaubert.
November 9, 2024
Ce livre devrait s'intituler "Mémoire d'un homme trop conscient", il n'y a pas ce grain de folie qu'on pourrait s'attendre à retrouver. Ici le jeune Flaubert effleure l'absurdité de la vie et traite en jeune garçon les questions existentielles. J'ai trouvé que ses propos étaient particulièrement pertinents et justes sur notre rôle dans le monde.
De plus c'est un très court roman qui se lit en 1h/ 2h . Belle découverte
De plus c'est un très court roman qui se lit en 1h/ 2h . Belle découverte
December 11, 2025
Des fragments qui constituent une œuvre finalement très cohérente. Ce petit ouvrage permet de redécouvrir Flaubert avec un visage autrement pessimiste. Le « fou » qui écrit ses mémoires crie son désespoir et sa déception devant l’absurdité de la vie.
Un magnifique texte qui annonce l’esthétique décadente de la fin du XIXe siècle.
Un magnifique texte qui annonce l’esthétique décadente de la fin du XIXe siècle.
June 28, 2023
Hervorragende Edition mit interessantem Nachwort und gutem Fußnotenapparat. Leider ist der eigentliche Roman ein unausgegorenes Jugendwerk.
April 23, 2024
Uzun süre sonra okuduğum ilk kitaptı, biraz kısa olduğu için seçtim ne yalan söyleyeyim. Zaten bu kadar uzun süre sonra, okumayı çok sevdiğim bir kitapla başlamak istemezdim tekrar okumaya. O yüzden güzel bir girizgah oldu diyebilirim. İki yıldız vermemin sebebine gelirsek, biraz anlamsız bölümlerle dolu gibi geldi bana bu kısa kitap. Zaten yazar çok gençken yazmış, hatta çevirmen bile kitabın önsözünde kitabı yeren şeyler söylemiş. Flaubert romantizm akımına karşı bir yazardı ama bu kitabında bu akıma kapılmış, uzun ve ağdalı cümleler kullanmış gibi yergiler vardı önsözde. Yazarı çok tanımasam da bir bakıma katılıyorum, gerçekten çok uzun ama pek de fazla şey anlatmayan cümleler var gibi kitapta. Bazı yerlerde ise sevdiğim ve "kitap notları defterime" yazmak istediğim bölümler vardı. Belki bir karşılaştırma olması açısından, Flaubert'in ünlü kitabı Madame Bovary'yi de okunacaklar listeme ekledim.
September 10, 2017
Gustave Flaubert, tanto di cappello.
Che saresti diventato un grande scrittore lo si capisce già da queste pagine autobiografiche. Una maturità stilistica che lascia sconvolti. C'è già tanto del Flaubert successivo, nella tematica come nei personaggi (solo io in Maria ci ho visto una Emma Bovary in nuce?). C'è tanto di lui anche nel modo di porsi verso l'esistenza, in quel "sentirsi vecchio" e nel desiderio di isolarsi. E' un'opera ancora strettamente romantica, liricissima.
Detto ciò, "Memorie di un pazzo" mi ha fatto tenerezza. Se l'avessi letto una decina d'anni fa sarebbe stato probabilmente il mio libro preferito. Questo Flaubert diciassettenne è squisitamente adolescenziale nel descrivere i turbamenti del primo amore e le storture del mondo moderno e dell'anima umana. C'è, nelle sue pagine, l'avercela col mondo e con gli uomini in nome di una rabbia astratta e inclassificabile. C'è quell'amore assoluto e totale che è solo dell'adolescenza, che porta a promettere "per sempre", che sembra immortale e unico centro dell'esistenza. Vi sono sentimenti purissimi, non ancora macchiati dal relativismo dell'età adulta.
Tutto quello che lui scrive è capitato anche a me di viverlo e pensarlo in termini molto simili durante i miei diciassette anni, e ne conservo ricordi nostalgici. Ma, appunto, sono ricordi. Leggo queste righe e rivedo, in qualche modo, la me stessa di allora; e la guardo con occhi affettuosi da sorella maggiore e con un sorriso addosso. Passa tutto, sì, anche questa rabbia universale. O si declina in modi differenti.
Dunque grazie, Gustave, per questo viaggio nel tempo e nei ricordi. Mi hai fatto quasi commuovere, tanta è stata l'intensità.
Che saresti diventato un grande scrittore lo si capisce già da queste pagine autobiografiche. Una maturità stilistica che lascia sconvolti. C'è già tanto del Flaubert successivo, nella tematica come nei personaggi (solo io in Maria ci ho visto una Emma Bovary in nuce?). C'è tanto di lui anche nel modo di porsi verso l'esistenza, in quel "sentirsi vecchio" e nel desiderio di isolarsi. E' un'opera ancora strettamente romantica, liricissima.
Detto ciò, "Memorie di un pazzo" mi ha fatto tenerezza. Se l'avessi letto una decina d'anni fa sarebbe stato probabilmente il mio libro preferito. Questo Flaubert diciassettenne è squisitamente adolescenziale nel descrivere i turbamenti del primo amore e le storture del mondo moderno e dell'anima umana. C'è, nelle sue pagine, l'avercela col mondo e con gli uomini in nome di una rabbia astratta e inclassificabile. C'è quell'amore assoluto e totale che è solo dell'adolescenza, che porta a promettere "per sempre", che sembra immortale e unico centro dell'esistenza. Vi sono sentimenti purissimi, non ancora macchiati dal relativismo dell'età adulta.
Tutto quello che lui scrive è capitato anche a me di viverlo e pensarlo in termini molto simili durante i miei diciassette anni, e ne conservo ricordi nostalgici. Ma, appunto, sono ricordi. Leggo queste righe e rivedo, in qualche modo, la me stessa di allora; e la guardo con occhi affettuosi da sorella maggiore e con un sorriso addosso. Passa tutto, sì, anche questa rabbia universale. O si declina in modi differenti.
Dunque grazie, Gustave, per questo viaggio nel tempo e nei ricordi. Mi hai fatto quasi commuovere, tanta è stata l'intensità.
October 25, 2015
Daha önce bu tarz bir kitap okumama rağmen oldukça hoşuma gitti .Gustave ile hayata baktım denebilir. Bir insanın fikirlerine bu kadar katılabilirim. Kitabı okuken kendimden oldukça fazla şey buldum. Kitabı okumak biraz da yazarla karşılıklı oturup çay içmişsin gibi oluyor. Zaten çok uzun bir kitap değil. Ama kesinlikle bir düşünce kitabı. okuyabilirsiniz. Oldukça eğlenceli okuması. Otobüste okurken kendi kendime tebessüm ettiğimde insanların tuhaf bakışlarına maruz kalsamda okunmaya değer bir kitapdı. Herkese iyi kitaplar. Kitaplayalim...
March 10, 2018
Ahh be Gustave.. Kıymetini bilememişler desene. İlk başta kitaba adapte olmakta zorlansam da daha sonraları su gibi aktı. 1838 yılında yazılmış olmasına rağmen inanılmaz derecede benzer düşüncelerimizin olması beni ürpertmedi değil (Her konuda anlaşmıyoruz tabi ki :)). Kitap o kadar güncel ki herkesin bir şeyler bulacağını düşünüyor ve en kısa zamanda Madam Bovary'i okumak için listeme alıyorum. NOT: Madam Bovary'i okuyacak olan veya okumuş olanlar için bu kitap, yazarın iç dünyasını anlamak için bir rehber kitap niteliğindedir (Arka kapak notudur.). 4.5/5
March 9, 2020
İncecik bir kitap olmasına rağmen son derece zor bir okumaydı.Okumayı zorlaştıran şey kitabın dili değil de anlatımıydı.Cidden ismiyle münhasırdı.Sanki bir delinin hezeyanlarını anlattığı anlamsız cümleleri okur gibiydim.Hiç keyif almadım.
June 1, 2020
17 yashinda bele bir sey yaza bilmis adama 5 ulduzdan asagi bir deyer bicmek ne heddime? Elbette ki, razilasmadigim, muzakireye aciq setrler var idi ve bu eser 17 yox, 27 yashinda bir adamin qeleminden cixmish olsaydi ona uygun bir amansizliq sergileyerdim, amma Gustavciga kiyamam))))
February 11, 2020
لغته فيها شاعرية جميلة
January 21, 2023
Finally getting my first taste of Flaubert in the original French, and I decided to start with something shorter to build myself up to finally getting to read Bovary (which is part of the final motivation for me to begin this attempt to learn to read French to begin with). Mémoires d'un fou is a strange little tome - Flaubert wrote it when he was 17, and once you know this you find it unmistakably the work of a teenage boy... and yet already there were the first shoots of what was to become a great talent.
The book is structured quite oddly - there's a main story of sorts, a first (and frustrated) love that shapes the first person narrator indelibly, yet this also contains plenty of other remembrances/reflections on youth that feel more like something from a personal journal, as well as some adolescent philosophy along the way. The last of these three is definitely the worst of the structures and moods the story explores, sometimes becoming quite tedious or trite even though the core mode of thinking is one Flaubert would more or less stick to for the rest of his life with much more development and nuance (and if you ever doubt the extent to which Emma Bovary was in good part a personalisation of Flaubert himself, and his own scathing and mordant wit a kind of self-criticism, you can find it here in barrels). The more nostalgic and melancholic sections on the other hand feel oddly as if they're in an early lineage with what Nerval would do in Sylvie 20 years or so later and which would eventually form the basis of Proust's project, a commonality it's difficult to find between the two great French writers elsewhere.
Already the core elements of the kind of romanticist/realist blend Flaubert would master are in evidence and if at times this made me double-take or roll my eyes, I found that in the closing chapters I was quite moved and that at points the great writer who could turn a phrase as if wielding a dagger into your heart was already in evidence this early on. As much as this is juvenilia, a first draft of a confessional novel that feels very obviously a first draft, it's times like this I'm reminded that however good my own writing may one day get I'm operating a thousand leagues below what Gustave was capable of before he was even fully an adult... depressing for me but at least we all got to experience the benefits.
Also if you're into psychoanalysis you'll get a lot of grist for the mill out of all the sexual elements at play here. Be prepared.
________
Found this a really gentle read that I completed in a single day - had to do some word look-ups but this came close to extensive reading.
The book is structured quite oddly - there's a main story of sorts, a first (and frustrated) love that shapes the first person narrator indelibly, yet this also contains plenty of other remembrances/reflections on youth that feel more like something from a personal journal, as well as some adolescent philosophy along the way. The last of these three is definitely the worst of the structures and moods the story explores, sometimes becoming quite tedious or trite even though the core mode of thinking is one Flaubert would more or less stick to for the rest of his life with much more development and nuance (and if you ever doubt the extent to which Emma Bovary was in good part a personalisation of Flaubert himself, and his own scathing and mordant wit a kind of self-criticism, you can find it here in barrels). The more nostalgic and melancholic sections on the other hand feel oddly as if they're in an early lineage with what Nerval would do in Sylvie 20 years or so later and which would eventually form the basis of Proust's project, a commonality it's difficult to find between the two great French writers elsewhere.
Already the core elements of the kind of romanticist/realist blend Flaubert would master are in evidence and if at times this made me double-take or roll my eyes, I found that in the closing chapters I was quite moved and that at points the great writer who could turn a phrase as if wielding a dagger into your heart was already in evidence this early on. As much as this is juvenilia, a first draft of a confessional novel that feels very obviously a first draft, it's times like this I'm reminded that however good my own writing may one day get I'm operating a thousand leagues below what Gustave was capable of before he was even fully an adult... depressing for me but at least we all got to experience the benefits.
Also if you're into psychoanalysis you'll get a lot of grist for the mill out of all the sexual elements at play here. Be prepared.
________
Found this a really gentle read that I completed in a single day - had to do some word look-ups but this came close to extensive reading.
September 4, 2022
Von literaturgeschichtlichem Interesse. Meines reichte zwar aus, mir anhand des Jugendwerks "Memoiren eines Irren" einen Eindruck davon zu verschaffen, wie ein künftiges Genie mit 17 geschrieben hat. Auch die Einordnung in das Gesamtwerk Flauberts im ausführlichen Nachwort von Wolfgang Matz fand ich spannend. Den 60-seitigen Mittelteil mit Briefen des jungen Flaubert habe ich aber übersprungen, das muss ich zugeben.
Anlässlich von Flauberts 200. Geburtstag ist es nur würdig und recht, sich mit diesem epochemachenden Autor auf diese Weise zu beschäftigen. Wer aber unmittelbar und unverstellt Flauberts Genie genießen will, sollte doch lieber erst mal "Madame Bovary" lesen.
Anlässlich von Flauberts 200. Geburtstag ist es nur würdig und recht, sich mit diesem epochemachenden Autor auf diese Weise zu beschäftigen. Wer aber unmittelbar und unverstellt Flauberts Genie genießen will, sollte doch lieber erst mal "Madame Bovary" lesen.
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