This charming story paints the literary life of Paris in the nineteenth century. Sylvestre Bonnard, a retiring philologist and bachelor, upon finding the daughter of his long ago love, resolves to provide for her and supply her with a dowry. However, she already has a guardian. After a series of incidents, and learning that she is being badly treated, Bonnard is driven to abduct her. He escapes prosecution and eventually is appointed her guardian. When Jeanne, his ward, marries, he sells his treasured library to secure her dowry, guiltily withholding a few volumes, and retires to the country.Critics have split over just what is the crime referred to in the title. Is it the crime of abduction of which Bonnard is guilty, or the crime of retaining a few beloved books from auction, or is his rescue of Jeanne from mistreatment a poignant irony, making his crime one of benevolence in an inherently malignant social order? It is the reader's call.
Henri-Benjamin Constant de Rebecque was a Swiss-born, nobleman, thinker, writer and French politician.
Constant was born in Lausanne, Switzerland, to descendants of noble Huguenots who fled France during the Huguenot wars in the early 16th century to settle in Lausanne. He was educated by private tutors and at the University of Erlangen, Bavaria, and the University of Edinburgh, Scotland. In the course of his life, he spent many years in France, Switzerland, Germany, and Great Britain.
He was intimate with Anne Louise Germaine de Staël and their intellectual collaboration made them one of the most important intellectual pairs of their time. He was a fervent liberal, fought against the Restauration and was active in French politics as a publicist and politician during the latter half of the French Revolution and between 1815 and 1830. During part of this latter period, he sat in the Chamber of Deputies, the lower legislative house of the Restoration-era government. He was one of its most eloquent orators and a leader of the parliamentary block first known as the Independants and then as "liberals."
"I still remember with emotion the days and nights that we spent together, drinking tea and talking with inexhaustible ardour on every possible subject" (127).
It took a book by a Swiss written in 1807 for me to experience the clearest, most insightful description of what I went through in many relationships -- whether I was in them for love or only for the pleasure of giving the other person pleasure. Astonishing self-honesty from Benjamin Constant, one of the founders of liberalism.
"You know my situation, that character of mine which people call strange and unsociable, that heart which is out of tune with all the interests of others, which is solitary in the midst of society, yet which suffers from the solitude to which it is condemned."
This book is startling, because Constant is frightfully candid about the rise and collapse of a love affair. His psychological insights and vulnerable confessions must have truly unsettled people who knew him, especially those who knew Adolphe was a thinly disguised autobiography, and those who heard Constant real it aloud on numerous occasions. I won't quote any of the many romantic passages I marked, because future readers should privately marvel at the excerpts that resonate with them - the lines above and below are other observations I wanted to share, though. I'll only note I have William Gaddis to thank for this experience, as he nods to the book early in The Recognitions when Wyatt lends it to Otto ("Here. Take this. Keep it. Read it. It's a good novel.").
Five stars for Adolphe, three for The Red Notebook, a posthumously published account of Constant's wild adolescence.
I simply wish to state for the benefit of others, since I have now retired from the world, that it takes time to accustom one's self to mankind, fashioned as it is by self-interest, affectation, vanity, and fear. The astonishment of youth at the appearance of so artificial and labored a society denotes an unspoiled heart rather than a malicious mind.
I am not surprised that man needs a religion; what astonishes me is that he should ever think himself sufficiently strong or sufficiently secure against misfortune to dare reject one: his weakness should, I feel, dispose him to invoke them all; in the dark night which surrounds us, can we afford to reject a single gleam? In the midst of the stream which is bearing us away, is there a single branch to which we dare refuse to cling?