Promethea by Alan Moore

Here’s what I’ve been reading in the last month or two. There is something to like in all of them.

Hungry As The Sea by Wilbur Smith

Wilbur Smith writes exhilarating sentences that pull you along through page after page of cliff-hanging action. When it comes to describing how to rescue a stricken cruise ship from the icy wastes of the Antarctic, he is awesome. But ask him to play with the relationship between a petite curvy blonde and a fearless rugged adventurer and he falls back on hollow clichés. He’s still far ahead of Colleen Collins but he’s a long way behind Maugham, while Flaubert is just a tiny speck on his horizon. His prose never falters but he has no vocabulary for the nuances of lived emotion.

A Spy By Nature by Charles Cumming

This introspective and accessible novel appears to be based on real experiences. It has the stamp of authenticity in part because the protagonist is gauche and immature, an intriguing blend of intelligence and stupidity that makes you fully believe he could be rejected by MI6 and used instead for a piece of trivial industrial espionage in which the the height of danger is the possibility of being caught at the photocopier. There is a touching scene in which he is almost seduced by a lovely American woman who turns out to be working for the CIA. Who would have guessed? There are some nicely observed descriptions of, for instance, a piece of bread dissolving in olive oil. The ending made me wince. What an oaf!

A Sentimental Education by Gustave Flaubert

Sublime and beautiful. Frédéric Moreau is another naive and gauche young man and at times I wanted to wring his neck. I could relate better to the cynical and louche Arnoux. But when you start to feel like this about the characters it’s because the details are so masterfully drawn. The story lacks the narrative verve of something by Wilbur Smith and I had to re-read many passages because my concentration wavered, but the personalities and the events linger on in the imagination long after the book is back on the shelf.

The Dark Forest by Hugh Walpole

I downloaded this from Project Gutenberg. Hugh Walpole was a bestselling novelist in the 1930s and I was curious about the quality of his work after reading that his success was largely due to his ability to make social connections and take his detractors out for a good dinner at an expensive restaurant. The Dark Forest is based on his experiences with the Red Cross on the Eastern Front in World War One. It’s sombre, earnest and very slow. The characterisation is painstaking but desperately dull. Wilbur Smith would have had a lot more fun with this material.

Promethea (Book 1) by Alan Moore

This is brimming with mischievous ideas, as you might expect from a work extolling the virtues of the creative imagination. Alan Moore lets his interest in magic and the occult have free rein in this comic series, which is about a young woman who becomes the mythical creature she is researching. This mystic mayhem and witty hocus pocus is definitely good for the soul. I love the way Alan Moore’s playful imagination makes use of everything it encounters. He’s one the boldest adventurers in the realm of the Immateria, which is the place where stories live.

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

I love this novel. I enjoyed every moment. It has depth, insight, humour, pathos, subtlety and suspense. I find it hard to analyse because I just like the way Dostoyevsky thinks and the fun he has with his characters. He lets them talk and talk. Sometimes they seem to talk about whatever comes into their heads. I loved this about The Idiot too. It was reading The Idiot as a teenager that made me decide to spend three years studying comparative literature at university. I thought to myself, whatever else happens in my life, I will always make time for reading the novels of my friend Fyodor Mikhaylovich.

Shock Waves by Colleen Collins

The subtitle of this novel is Sex on the Beach, which kind of gives away the whole plot. I was hoping to identify with the heroine, Ellie Rockwell, who likes Lou Reed. (I like Lou Reed.) She also likes Marilyn Manson. (I don’t like Marilyn Manson.) Her dubious musical tastes and the fact that she is really a black-haired goth rather than the blonde beach babe she has turned herself into, are her guilty secrets as she tries to seduce and hang onto her childhood idol, Bill Romero. I didn’t like Bill Romero. Unfortunately, I didn’t like Ellie Rockwell either. I think she likes Lou Reed for the wrong reasons. Still, it was a very easy book to read with simple but effective vocabulary.

Medea by Euripides

What a shocker! After bringing his exotic barbarian wife home to civilised Corinth, Jason deserts her in order to marry a local princess. Who is the barbarian here? Understandably, Medea is plunged into despair. But she puts on a false face, poisons the rival princess and stabs her own children to death in order to deprive Jason of the joy of holding them in his arms. She gets away with it, too, fleeing the scene in a chariot whisked through the heavens. The scene with the chariot is pretty impressive but, disappointingly, the horrible deaths happen off-stage. This is a failing in French classical tragedians too. Didn’t anyone explain to them the show-don’t-tell rule? Thank goodness modern film makers have read all those books on how to write screenplays.

Les Femmes Savantes by Molière

This is what happens when you bring together the disciplined focus of classical French theatre and the exuberant buffoonery of improvised Italian farce. Sheer comic genius. Molière is a model for writers everywhere. There are some lessons for grammarians here too.

The Hairless Mexican by W. Somerset Maugham

This is a spy story based on Maugham’s experiences in World War One. It’s more exciting than A Spy By Nature, funnier than The Dark Forest, sexier than Shock Waves, more ironic than Hungry as the Sea and shorter than The Brothers Karamazov.

Julian Barnes, El loro de Flaubert. Barcelona: Anagrama.

Segons un vell escriptor argentí molt amic nostre, hauriem de considerar a Gustave Flaubert com el primer exemplar d’una nova espècie que ell mateix hauria creat: l’espècie del novel·lista com a sacerdot. La imatge de Flaubert tancat a la seva casa familiar de Croisset, inclinat sobre els seus papers, lluitant hores senceres amb la sonoritat d’una sola frase, és gairebé una icona d’aquesta vocació estranya que empeny a algunes persones, persones adultes i sovint responsables, a dedicar bona part del seu temps i tot el seu cervell a explicar-nos històries que mai no van succeir.

Aquesta imatge del Flaubert malalt de literatura, esclavitzat per l’escriptura dels seus llibres, té el seu origen en la correspondència del propi escriptor, un corpus immens de cartes enviades als amics i a les amants on Flaubert, com aquell qui explica grans aventures, anava detallant dia rera dia el procés de creació de les seves novel·les, des de la inicial Madame Bovary fins a la inconclusa Bouvard et Pécuchet. A poc que us interessin Flaubert i el seu «destí exemplar» (Borges dixit), la lectura d’aquesta correspondència és gairebé un plaer obligatori; a la nostra biblioteca, sense anar més lluny, trobareu una selecció editada per Fuentetaja sota el títol Sobre la creación literaria.

A la novel·la que avui us recomano, Julian Barnes aprofita aquesta imatge sacerdotal de Gustave Flaubert però la matisa (la complementa, millor) amb un munt d’altres imatges possibles. El Flaubert de El loro de Flaubert és un home que als vint anys ja es sentia vell, condemnat a somniar la vida en lloc de viure-la, però és també un home que es va passar dos anys viatjant per Egipte i per Terra Santa, que va ser condecorat amb la Legió d’Honor i que va tenir tota mena d’aventures sexuals més o menys estranyes amb prostitutes orientals, amb escriptores parisines i fins i tot amb amics de tota la vida.  

El loro de Flaubert és un llibre sobre Flaubert, però és també, o sobretot, un llibre sobre l’amor a Flaubert. Un excèntric narrador (vidu, metge jubilat i addicte als llibres i a la vida del nostre escriptor) és la lleugera excusa narrativa que serveix a Julian Barnes per bastir un exercici exemplar de metaliteratura: metaliteratura d’aquesta que, quan tanques el llibre, et fa córrer en busca dels llibres sobre els quals acabes de llegir. Julian Barnes ha llegit molt i molt bé a Flaubert, i sent els seus llibres com una cosa viva, important i útil encara després de tants anys. I, més important encara, ens sap transmetre a nosaltres aquesta sensació de vida. Llegir El loro de Flaubert és espiar pel forat del pany una relació ben íntima i intensa: la relació que s’estableix entre un lector i el seu escriptor favorit.

Vosaltres que sou també lectors apassionats i agraïts, segur que sabeu apreciar aquest regal que ens ha fet a tots el senyor Barnes. 

Non leggete, come fanno i bambini, per divertirvi, o, come fanno gli ambiziosi, per istruirvi. No, leggete per vivere.

Gustave Flaubert

ACIDENTE – Sempre deplorável ou lastimável (como se alguém pudesse achar alegre uma desgraça…).

ALEGRIA – Sempre acompanhada de “louca”.

AQUILES – Acrescentar “dos pés ligeiros”; isto faz crer que se leu Homero.

ASSASSINO – Sempre covarde, mesmo quando foi intrépido e audacioso. Menos culpado do que um incendiário.

CALOR -  Sempre insuportável. Não se deve beber quando faz calor.

INTRODUÇÃO – Palavra obscena.

IMBECIS – Todos aqueles que não pensam como nós.

INVERNO – Sempre excepcional (ver verão). É mais saudável do que as outras estações.

ITALIANOS – Todos músicos. Todos traidores.

LOIRAS – Mais quentes do que as morenas (ver morenas).

MORENAS – Mais quentes do que as loiras (ver loiras).

NEGRAS – Mais quentes do que as brancas (ver morenas e loiras).

OTIMISTA – Equivalente de imbecil.

RISADA – É sempre homérica.

RUIVAS – Ver loiras, morenas e negras.

SANÇÃO PRAGMÁTICA – Ninguém sabe o que é.

SÍFILIS – Mais ou menos, todo mundo tem sífilis.

VERÃO – Sempre excepcional (ver inverno).

      BOOK EVENTS

      THURSDAY 

      Food for Thought: Main Liberary book club- Joel D. Valdez Main Library.  1010 N. Stone Ave.  group will discus LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.  Noon- 1 p.m. Nov. 19.  Free.  791-4010

      Great Literature of All Times- Oro Valley Public Library.  1305 W. Naranja Drive.  Discussion of Gustave Flaubert’s MADAME BOVARY (1857) 10 a.m- noon.  Nov. 19.  Free 229-5300

      FRIDAY

      Meet the authors- Antigone Books, 411 N. Fourth ave.  Talks and slide presentations from Linda and Dick Buscher, authors of HISTORIC PHOTOS OF ARIZONA and Roger Carpenter, editor of LETTERS FROM TUCSON 1933- 1942.  7 p.m.  Nov. 20.  Free. 792-3715

      SATURDAY

      50th Anniversary Book sale- UA Press parking lot.  355 S. Euclid Ave. UA Prss celebrates 50 years of publishing.  An -all-you-can stuff bag sale.  10 a.m- 2 p.m..  Nov. 21 Free.  621-3920.

      Ashley Elizabeth Ludwig-  Bookmans.  6230 E. Speedway.  Author will sign her new book, ALL OR NOTHING.  11 a.m. – 1 p.m.  Nov. 21.  Free.  748-9555

      Joe Sweeney- Mostly Books, 6208 E. Speedway.  Sci-fi author will sign her book A RANDOM COLLECTION OF EVENTS.  2-3 p.m.  Nov. 21.  Free.  571-0110.

      Robert Marsett- Mostly Books, 6208 E. Speedway.  Marsett will sign copies of his book, DON’T MEAN NOTHIN’: A SOLDIER STORY OF CAMBODIA AND VIETNAM.  3-4 p.m.  Nov. 21.  Free.  571-0110

      NEXT SUNDAY

      KITTY HUMBUG’S CHRISTMAS TAIL book signing- Madaras Gallery  3001 E. Skyline Dive.  Artist and author Dianna Madaras will sign and personalize books.  1-3 p.m.  Nov. 22.  Free.  615-3001 

       Mystery Book Group- Antigone Books, 411 N. Fourth Ave.  Group will discuss THE SANCTUARY SEEKER by Bernard Knight.  12:30 p.m.  Nov. 22.  Free.  792-3715.

      Thanksgiving Fiesta 2009-  Singing Wind Bookstore.  700 W. Singing Wind Road.  Benson.  Authors will read and sign their books.  1-5 p.m.  Nov. 22.  Free.  1-520-586-2425.

       Buddhist Book Group-  Antigone Books, 411 N. Fourth Ave.  Group will discuss ESSENCES OF THE HEART SUTRA: THE DELAI LAMA’S HEART OF WISDOM TEACHINGS by the Dalai Lama.  2 p.m.  Nov. 22.  Free.  792-3715 

      Find more calendar listings on-line at dailystarcalendar.com

Nel romanzo di Flaubert la trama è completamente imperniata su Emma Bovary (Rouault il cognome da nubile).  Lei è figlia di un ricco proprietario terriero della zona di Rouen, in Normandia, Francia. Va in sposa ad un medico benestante di campagna, Charles Bovary.

Già dal matrimonio Emma è annoiata dalla vita con suo marito, maldestro e noioso a suo dire, e spera che rimanendo incinta di un maschio la cosa possa riordinare la loro famiglia. La nascita di una figlia invece spezza la voglia di vivere della donna, e da qui inizia il vero centro del romanzo, la trattazione dell’adulterio di Emma. Dopo il parto conosce un giovane studente di giurisprudenza, Leon Dupuis, con il quale inizia una relazione complicata mai intrapresa. Lei è combattuta tra il resistere o il cedere al corteggiamento di Leon, ma non avrà da scegliere dato che lui se ne andrà prima che possa succedere qualcosa.

Emma intanto, per sfuggire alla noia che prova con l’inconsapevole marito e per colmare il vuoto che ha dentro che nemmeno lei riesce a spiegarsi, inizia a consolarsi con acquisti che soddisfino la sua vanità e il suo vuoto interiore. Emma in sostanza spende tutti quei soldi per l’odio che prova per il marito e addirittura per la piccola Berthe.  Una delle scene più penose del romanzo, o forse la più penosa, è quando, nel momento in cui la figlia cerca di abbracciare Emma, quest’ ultima la respinge causandole addirittura una ferita alla guancia.

Dopo la relazione con Leon, e mentre i suoi debiti salgono sempre di più, Emma conosce un altro uomo, ma ormai non ha più il dubbio se cedere o no all’adulterio, e quindi intraprende una storia con Radolphe Boulanger. Dopo una tempestosa fase di passione lei viene abbandonata il giorno prima della data in cui sarebbero dovuti fuggire insieme, e così lei ricade nella noia e nei suoi debiti, ormai incolmabili. Dopo i rifiuti alle sue richieste di soldi ai suoi amanti, Emma cade letteralmente in una depressione incurabile, in un degrado fisico e morale che la porteranno infine a suicidarsi con l’arsenico.

La trama è piuttosto semplice, e potrebbe essere proprio una scelta per far risaltare i problemi veri e propri che il romanzo e l’autore vogliono mettere in evidenza.  L’adulterio ovviamente è l’elemento centrale del romanzo, ma credo che anche tutti i fattori che l’hanno provocato (la vita di coppia, il voler essere di più di quanto si possa, la noia) siano spiegati in modo molto chiaro, anche se spesso bisogna saperli trovare.

Giacomo Poet

Gustave Flaubert ci narra la storia di questa giovane donna francese, Emma Bovary, che, ammaliata dalla ricchezza e dal romanticismo cade nella perversa aria dell’adulterio per cercare in qulche modo di sfuggire alla monotonia del matrimonio, ricercando folli passioni e un grande amore. Così, incurante delle conseguenze e di tutto ciò che la circonda, Emma inizia questa sua “nuova” vita, fatta di sogni, amore, tradimento, in una continua lotta contro se stessa. Lo scrittore, appunto, ci svela questa frustrazione che Emma ha dentro di se, un continuo tormento che non riesce a placare; una donna insoddisfatta della propria vita e delle proprie scelte, che la portranno a una tragica fine.

Una storia sconvolgente resa tale ancor più dal modo di scrivere dell’autore, minuzioso nel raccontare e nel dettagliare queste passioni, anche se la storia può sembrare banale. L’uso di parole singolari e perfette, messe in quel modo e in quel determinato contesto, rendono ancor più travolgente questa storia.

Nadina Grahic

Aliás, mais as coisas eram próximas, mais seu pensamento se afastava delas. Tudo o que a rodeava imediatamente, campo entediante, pequenos-burgueses imbecis, mediocridade da existência, parecia-lhe uma exceção no mundo, um acaso singular em que ela se achava presa, enquanto do outro lado estendia-se, à perda de vista, a imensa região das felicidades e das paixões.

Le parecía que en algún sitio de la tierra se tenía que dar la felicidad, como una planta oriunda de aquel suelo y que en cualquier otra parte prospera mal. ¡Qué pena no poder acordarse ella sobre la balaustrada de algún chalet suizo o ir a encerrar su melancolía en un cottage escocés, junto a un marido vestido de terciopelo negro con chaqué de faldones, botas suaves, puños en las bocamangas y sombrero de copa alta! Hubiera deseado tal vez poder hacerle a alguien aquellas confidencias. Pero ¿cómo hablar de un malestar inaprensible que cambia de apariencia como las nubes y forma remolinos como el viento? Le faltaban las palabras, la ocasión, la audacia.

Madame Bovary / Gustave Flaubert / 1857

“Maksima nad maksimami. Resnico o pisanju lahko poznaš, še predno si objavil eno samo besedo; resnico o življenju pa lahko spoznaš šele takrat, ko je že vseeno.”

(Julian Barnes – Flaubertova papiga)

“Ljubimci so kot siamski dvojčki, dve telesi in ena sama duša. A če eden umre prej, se za tabo vleče truplo.”

(Julian Barnes – Flaubertova papiga)

“Vem pa tole: včasih je preteklost kot z mastjo premazan prašiček; včasih kot medved v brlogu; in včasih, prav preprosto, kot blisk papige, dvoje posmehljivih oči, ki se iz gozda svetijo proti nam.”

(Julian Barnes – Flaubertova papiga)

“Ponos je divja zver, ki živi v jamah in se potika po puščavi: nadutost pa je papiga, ki skače z veje ne vejo in čveka, da bi jo vsi videli.”

(Julian Barnes – Flaubertova papiga)

“1857. Knjig ne delamo tako kot otroke: gradimo jih kot piramide. Obstaja tehtno premišljen načrt in nato postavljamo velike kamnite kocke eno na drugo. In to je vratolomno, garaško delo, ki jemlje mnogo časa. In vse brez smisla! Kar takole stojijo v puščavi! Vendar se čudovito vzdigujejo. Ob njihovem vznožju ščijejo šakali in nanje se vzpenjajo meščani itn. Nadaljuj to primerjavo.”

(Julian Barnes – Flaubertova papiga)

Por Cláudia Gregório

“Solene Corno”, acredite. A expressão está numa sentença de um juiz…　
Que situação! Estava eu lendo as notícias online no último sábado, quando deparei-me com esta manchete “Marido traído processa amante da mulher, e sentença fala em ’solene corno’.”

Não tem como não despertar curiosidade. Lá fui eu ler do que se tratava. Qual foi meu espanto. Não sabia se não acreditava nas expressões usadas pelo excelentíssimo magistrado, ou se ficava indignada com a situação do pobre coitado em questão.

“Solene corno”, é apenas uma das expressões utilizadas por um juiz numa sentença do 1º Juizado Especial Cível do Tribunal de Justiça do Rio de Janeiro. A reportagem contava que a decisão foi dada em um processo em que um marido traído acusava o amante da mulher de calúnia e ofensa à honra e pedia danos morais.

Aí realmente, a minha curiosidade aumentou. E continuei a leitura. O caso começou quando o marido, um policial federal, descobriu a traição da mulher. Ele, então, resolveu telefonar para o amante para cobrar explicações e exigir o afastamento do mesmo. Mas, o policial teria feito ameaças ao amante da mulher dele.

Assustado, o amante procurou à corregedoria da PF, e denunciou as ameaças. Porém, não houve sigilo no processo administrativo e o “solene corno”, ops… o marido, sentiu-se ultrajado. Pois passou a ser motivo de deboche e chacota dos “mui” colegas de trabalho. Por isso, decidiu entrar na Justiça pedindo danos morais ao amante.

“Devaneio sobre homens de meia idade”… Antes de anunciar a decisão, o juiz devaneia e faz uma comparação entre o homem e a mulher de meia idade e os motivos de trair e ser traído. E cita o juiz: “Alguns homens, no início da ‘meia idade’, já não tão viris, o corpo não mais respondendo de imediato ao comando cerebral/hormonal e o hábito de querer a mulher ‘plugada’ 24hs, começam a descarregar sobre elas suas frustrações, apontando celulite, chamando-as de gordas (pecado mortal) e deixando-lhes toda a culpa pelo seu pobre desempenho sexual”, diz, na sentença, o juiz Paulo Mello Feijó. Mulheres ‘traem de coração’, diz juiz.

E o magistrado ainda diz no documento que as mulheres na fase pré-menopausa “desejam sexo com maior freqüência, melhor qualidade e mais carinho – que não dure alguns minutos apenas”.

E o magistrado ainda explica que mulheres nessa situação têm dois caminhos: ou se fecham deprimidas ou “buscam o prazer em outros olhos, outros braços, outros beijos (…) e traem de coração”.

Nesses casos, o pensamento é, segundo Feijó, “Meu marido não me quer, não me deseja, me acha uma ‘baranga’ – (azar dele!) mas o meu amante me olha com desejo, me quer – eu sou um bom violino, há que se ter um bom músico para me fazer mostrar toda a música que sou capaz de oferecer!!!!

“Sentença diz ainda: ’solene corno!’

O juiz, que cita os clássicos da literatura “Madame Bovary”, de Gustave Flaubert, e a Capitu de “Dom Casmurro”, de Machado de Assis. Depois de expor as hipotéticas situações conjugais, Feijó conclui: “Um dia o marido relapso descobre o que outro teve a sua mulher e quer matá-lo – ou seja, aquele que tirou sua dignidade de marido, de posseiro e o transformou num solene corno!”. “Portanto, ao réu também deve ser estendido (…) perdão, porque as provas nos autos demonstraram que o autor perdoou sua esposa e agora busca vingança contra o réu, que também é vítima de si mesmo juntamente com a esposa do autor.”

Com isso, finalmente, o magistrado julga o pedido do marido improcedente e o processo deve ser arquivado.

Na reportagem do portal G1 dizia que o Magistrado tinha sido procurado para comentar da decisão.

Agora, comentar o que?
Quem deveria comentar alguma coisa seria a parte interessada em questão. O marido traído é chamado educadamente de “Solene Corno” assumido, pois o magistrado diz que o marido em questão perdoou a mulher, e ainda diz em outras palavras que o referido em questão é “brocha”, pois parece que não dá conta do recado, por isso a mulher procurou outro….enfim, que situação!!!!!!

There’s not much more to say about Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary that hasn’t already been said, or that wouldn’t make me sound like the protagonist in John Cheever’s “An Educated American Woman”. But it’s always interesting to see how thoughts (and pain, and headaches, and heartaches) evolve on the handwritten page. Most of Flaubert’s draft pages may be found here, though I’ve yet to figure out how to download the file.

Najnowsza książka z serii “Wielcy pisarze w nowych przekładach” – Trzy baśnie Gustave Flauberta w przekładzie Renaty Lis i Jarosława Marka Rymkiewicza – już w księgarniach!

Książka, którą oddajemy do rąk czytelników, jest wspaniałym popisem literackiego kunsztu Flauberta. Teraz, po niemal stu pięćdziesięciu latach od śmierci tego pisarza, można już spokojnie powiedzieć – nikt, w literaturze europejskiej, nie pisał lepiej od niego; i nikt już lepiej pisać nie będzie, ponieważ lepiej pisać nie można. Pytanie, czemu służył ten kunszt, do czego Flaubert go używał? Jego trzy baśnie o życiu, kiedy przeczytaliśmy je na nowo, wydały się nam fascynującą opowieścią o przeświecającej przez ludzkie życie tajemnicy losu – całkowicie niezrozumiałej, nawet budzącej grozę. Zdawały się też opowiadać o czymś więcej jeszcze – o podstawowej i nieusuwalnej tajemnicy istnienia ludzi, zwierząt i rzeczy, tajemnicy ich pojawiania się i znikania w czasie, którą realistyczna metoda Flauberta paradoksalnie wydobywa na jaw i podkreśla. Zrozumieliśmy, że celem słynnego Flaubertowskiego opisu bynajmniej nie było możliwie precyzyjne, możliwie najdokładniejsze i najściślejsze przedstawienie widzialnej rzeczywistości, lecz coś całkiem innego – ujawnienie widmowości istnienia. Oto są widma istnienia – tak najkrócej można by określić temat Trzech baśni.

Renata Lis i Jarosław Marek Rymkiewicz
Patronat medialny:
Tygodnik Powszechny, TOK FM

Gustave Flaubert , Trzy baśnie, Sic! Wydawnictwo 2009r, 256 str., oprawa miękka ze skrzydełkami, format 125 x 197 cm, ISBN 978-83-60457-84-9, cena detaliczna 39,00 zł

I kick off a new series at The Spearhead analyzing literature with a Roissyspheric look at Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary. A snippet:

If the amount of outrage and vitriol directed at something is correlated with its truthfulness, Madame Bovary was one of the most unpleasantly honest novels of the nineteenth century. When Flaubert’s seminal work was first published in 1856, public prosecutors charged him with “outrage to public morality and religion,” which lead to one of the most famous obscenity trials in literary history. Flaubert was acquitted of all charges the following year, and Madame Bovary went on to secure its place in the canon of Western literature. What about this little novel so upset the sensibilities of the French morality police? Quite simply, Madame Bovary laid bare the true nature of woman to an audience that had become dulled with Victorian sentimentalism. In particular, Flaubert exposed the nature of female infidelity and the role men play in fostering it.

Read and comment over there.

And if you haven’t weighed in on my open thread on the fundamentals of game, now’s a great time to do so. I’ll be writing a post based on my thoughts and the best responses later this week. Your opinion matters…at least this time.

Have you ever written a story (an essay, a screenplay, a poem…), then decided it wasn’t worth the price of the paper and ink you wasted on it? Have you imagined people laughing when they read it (and not in a good way)? Have you believed your work had no sparkle, was boring, was not noteworthy?

If you’re a writer, the answer is probably yes.

In my last post about perfectionism, I discussed the importance of creating even when your life isn’t in perfect order. But what if you’ve managed to write something you don’t believe deserves to see the light of day?

Here’s a little secret my Inner Perfectionist tried to hide from me for a long time: a lot of what you write will be bad. Or uninspired. Boring. Or half-finished because the idea fizzled out. And that’s okay. It’s not only okay, it’s part of the creative process.

Let me repeat that, because it’s important: Producing bad writing is part of the creative process.

It’s easy to imagine our favorite authors sitting at their desks, inspired every day while they effortlessly write out the masterpieces we love, barely changing a comma once they’ve finished. But it’s important to remember they struggled just as much as we do.

Here’s a little proof:

Every creator painfully experiences the chasm between his inner vision and its ultimate expression. The chasm is never completely bridged. We all have the conviction, perhaps illusory, that we have much more to say than appears on the paper. —Isaac Bashevis Singer

Easy reading is damn hard writing. —Nathaniel Hawthorne

Every writer I know has trouble writing. —Joseph Heller

Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. —George Orwell

The work never matches the dream of perfection the artist has to start with. —William Faulkner

I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true, but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within. —Gustave Flaubert

I could go on, but you get the point.

Here’s the only way I know to combat this problem: Allow yourself to make mistakes. Write with abandon. Fail spectacularly.

An editor once told me my submission to his literary journal was the silliest story he’d ever read. Ouch! My own Inner Perfectionist couldn’t have dismissed my efforts with more derision. But I didn’t let his comments stop me. Okay, I may have cried a little. Or cursed the editor for his abysmal judgment. It’s possible I stuck a few pins into my literary journal editor-shaped voodoo doll.

But then I picked myself up, applied some ego salve to my bruised psyche, and raised my pen again. Because here’s what I’ve learned: Creative gems live in the middle of piles of dreck. Diamonds aren’t mined from pits lined with sheets of diamond, and gold isn’t panned from rivers of gold. These things are more valuable because they are rarer than the rock and the water they inhabit. You have to get your hands dirty, covered in grit and slime, to pull out a gem. It’s the same with a work of art.

The only way to write a good story (essay, screenplay, poem…) is to write lots of bad stories (essays, screenplays, poems…). Embrace your mediocre writing and your pieces that fizzle out. Because the more rock you chisel through, the closer you get to a diamond. And once you start finding diamonds, a funny thing happens. Your percentage of dirty rock to diamond shifts, and you gradually begin to find more precious things within your huge pile of work.

It’s never going to be all diamonds and no rock. Not even close. But as you continue to work at your craft, you learn to spot the diamonds more easily and to mine them faster. You learn to polish dull gems and make them shine. And, perhaps most important, you finally learn to stop hating the rock. Because you realize it’s just a layer you must get through in order to reach the jewel within.

- I want a first. I want a first so badly it physically hurts. And this I shall achieve by reading and rereading set texts, and getting my derriere to the library as often as possible to do some actual book-based research instead of relying on the internet (bad idea) for essay fodder; I shall do all work when it is set. This I fervently promise.

- I will find a new hobby and throw myself into it. I am very nearly sort of considering dancing. Yeah I know. Except, I really want to be able to dance. Failing that, to siiiiiiing like a skylark!

- The Rocky Horror Show is coming to Brighton next month. I want to recruit people and go dressed up, which isn’t out of the ordinary, but is a requirement. Dibs on Magenta. I has the hair!

This is what my reading list looks like at the moment; things in bold are things I’m reading/rereading now, things with lines through are obviously the ones I’ve already read. Doing…OK, I suppose.

Twelfth Night (1601)

A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1595/6)

Coriolanus (1608)

Henry IV, Parts 1 (1596/7) and 2 (1598)

Othello (1603/4)

King Lear (1605)

Cymbeline (1609/10)

The Tempest (1611)

Aphra Behn, Oroonoko

Madame de Lafayette, The Princesse of Clèves

Daniel Defoe, Robinson Crusoe

J. W. Goethe, The Sorrows of the Young Werther

Charles Dickens, Great Expectations – yeah, I finally finished it! Nearly cried. It was awkward.

Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady

James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man n.b. I like to think I have an advantage with this one, since I’ve been given a lecture on the book by the lady who wrote the accompanying notes, Jeri Johnson. Not only is she very intelligent, she is extremely funny. Incidentally, I once mentioned this to a weirdo I was debating the merits of Critical Thinking with on the internet, and said weirdo said not to name-drop. a) I shall name-drop as much as I wish and b) I MET JERI JOHNSON, BITCH. One-nil to ME. Ahem.

Marcel Proust, The Way by Swann’s [Vol. 1 of In Search of Lost Time]

Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my friend and housemate Rachel for today. She is elderly because she is no longer a teenager, and as such the occasion needs to be marked with wine. And spirits.

Both high and liquid