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A review by blueyorkie
Bouvard e Pécuchet by Gustave Flaubert
5.0
The peasant and the working-class world had no better treated by a Flaubert who, although born in Rouen, was no illusion of the natural greed of his compatriots. In the events of 1848, the great and small cowardice of the notables sifted. With a rare purity and the absolute opposite of the Hugo of the "Misérables", Flaubert finally camps irretrievable children of the convict that Bouvard & Pécuchet, as are philanthropists as moved naive, try in vain to raise out mud where they were born.
In short, this book is incredible cruelty to human nature, to which he leaves no possible forgiveness. And yet, in front of this parade written of silhouettes, the reader has fun from start to the end, sharing between laughter that inspires him the successive failures of the poor Bouvard and Pécuchet and the tenderness that, little by little, the fundamental originality of these two characters finished up encouraging him.
Of course, we do not laugh out loud - though, sometimes. And here we are, much closer to English humour than Rabelaisian bursts. Nevertheless, this novel reads without effort in a single day, and when it closes, one wonders if, finally, in his youth, we did not miss Gustave Flaubert.
In short, this book is incredible cruelty to human nature, to which he leaves no possible forgiveness. And yet, in front of this parade written of silhouettes, the reader has fun from start to the end, sharing between laughter that inspires him the successive failures of the poor Bouvard and Pécuchet and the tenderness that, little by little, the fundamental originality of these two characters finished up encouraging him.
Of course, we do not laugh out loud - though, sometimes. And here we are, much closer to English humour than Rabelaisian bursts. Nevertheless, this novel reads without effort in a single day, and when it closes, one wonders if, finally, in his youth, we did not miss Gustave Flaubert.