Gustave Flaubert

Madame Bovary

Madame Bovary, often ranked among the greatest novels of all time, is considered Gustave Flaubert’s masterpiece, with authors from Henry James to Proust to Nabokov heaping it with praise.
The novel tells the story of Madame Bovary, a commoner wife of a country doctor, and her attempts to escape the drudgery of day-to-day mediocrity by engaging in adulterous affairs and overspending on luxuries. She remains unsatisfied even though her husband adores her and they want for little, and her shallowness eventually leads to their ruin.
Today Madame Bovary, with its careful but charming description of the banality of everyday life, is considered the first great example of literary realism in fiction novels. Eleanor Marx-Aveling’s translation, though over a hundred years old, is remarkably fresh and smooth, and is a pleasure even for modern readers.
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    ajama083compartió su opiniónhace 6 años
    💡He aprendido mucho
    🎯Justo en el blanco

    I am struck perhaps by how tragic it is. How transient life and love and keeping up pretenses are. Even we as the reader are fickle switching our opinions our views on each of the characters, sympathizing first with Charles then Emma and then Charles again.
    What is love?

    Saumu Hussaincompartió su opiniónhace 4 meses
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    Biljana Lukaccompartió su opiniónhace 2 años
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    Елизаветаcompartió una citael año pasado
    “Has it ever happened to you,” Léon went on, “to come across some vague idea of one’s own in a book, some dim im­age that comes back to you from afar, and as the com­pletest ex­pres­sion of your own slight­est sen­ti­ment
    Malina Malinacompartió una citahace 8 años
    in a stammering voice
    Gayatre Pillaicompartió una citaanteayer
    in­stant­an­eous turn­ing to de­cay of everything on which she leant? But if there were some­where a be­ing strong and beau­ti­ful, a vali­ant nature, full at once of ex­al­ta­tion and re­fine­ment, a poet’s heart in an an­gel’s form, a lyre with sound­ing chords ringing out ele­giac epi­tha­lamia to heaven, why, per­chance, should she not find him? Ah! how im­possible! Besides, noth­ing was worth the trouble of seek­ing it; everything was a lie. Every smile hid a yawn of bore­dom, every joy a curse, all pleas­ure sati­ety, and the sweetest kisses left upon

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