| Flaubert's novel was a disturbing read. He assembles a cast of characters who manage not to grow, change, learn, or really connect throughout. They are all utterly trapped within themselves and thus can never really give or receive love. Most shamble along in bovine somnambulance (Charles) or trite smugness (Rodolfe). The two dynamos, Emma and Homais are both the big readers and the major actors; always reading, always striving, machinating, doing. Yet for what? Everything they strive for is vanity, hypocrisy, and destructive. The gender tweak here is that Emma's coveteousness and adultery lead to suicide; Homais's scientific, anticlerical activities lead him to rewards and recognition in his field, though nearly costing several people their lives along the way. For Flaubert, conforming to conventional morality or rebelling against are both futile, sterile strategies. The result is a world of cold instrumentality, devoid of real intimacy. This cynical vision fuels his critique of the bourgeoisie who are by definition precluded from honoring true love and morality. Flaubert does render silent emotions and invisible desires with a most penetrating precision in prose. But it is to dissect and lay bear for derision. Do not look for hope or tenderness here. |