
Some books are very hard to
classify and categorize. This is one such book. Officially, it is a fiction, a
novel. In terms of genre, it should be put in the same shelf as Cakes and Ale
by Maugham or The Ghost Writer of Philip Roth, both I have read this year. But then, maybe not. The two are
totally fictional, in terms of all the characters contained in them, even
though they do have a writer as the central character. But then, that is all that has to do with writing. I don’t think we ever consider the writer’s profession as a central
point of those novels. Also the characters are out and out fiction. That is
where this book is different. It is about the giant of French literary history
(and now, of English classical literature)- Gustave Flaubert.
The characters and references are all real. Julian Barnes
throws all his weight behind the genius who is the key protagonist in the
fiction, follows the dictum of a perfect biography as mentioned by Flaubert in
a letter in 1872, where he wrote, “When you write the biography of a friend,
you must do it as if you were taking revenge for him.” Julian Barnes, although
speaking through the character of Geoffrey Braithwaite, fights valiantly, with
unwavering loyalty. Braithwaite is a British doctor, in his sixties, travelling
to France, looking for Flaubert’s stuffed parrot, and tracing his life, through
trains of France. But then this is not a non-fiction, and not a biography. We
know it is not to be a biography, when early in the book, he muses, why not the
writer as a person be left alone, and his work be allowed to represent him,
once he is gone. He further writes about the impossibility of writing a biography of someone like Flaubert,
when he writes, “What chance would the craftiest biographer stand against the
subject who saw him coming and decided to amuse himself.”
The story begins with Braithwaite searching for the Parrot, which Flaubert
borrowed while writing “Un Coeur Simple (A Simple Heart)”. However, once he begins dwelling into
it, the writing- the process, effort and the art of it begins drawing him into
it. The facts become vain, and from then on it levitates, it hovers above the point
where fiction, fantasy and facts merge. The writer becomes the muse. We notice
this transition when Barne as Braithwaite quotes from the scene of death of
poor Fe`licite` from Un Couer Simple. Flaubert writes there, “There was a smile on her lips. The movement
of her heart slowed down, beat by beat, each time more distant, like a fountain
running dry or an echo disappearing; and as she breathed her final breath she
thought she saw, as heavens opened for her, a gigantic parrot hovering above
her head.” Gorgeous prose, but Barnes doesn’t stand their clapping, like a
schoolboy, his mouth open in awe; nor does he succumb to convert this into a literary analysis. He goes after the writer, and the writing. He touches the
exact nib of Flaubert’s exquisite pen and swims through the ink from which such
wonderful words would flow. He gets into the process and writes- Imagine the
technical difficulty of writing in which a badly-stuffed bird with a ridiculous
name ends up standing in for one third of the Trinity, and in which intention
is neither satirical, sentimental nor coy. He doesn’t evaluate the plot, nor
measure the worthiness of the waving of the words; his discerning fingers run
through the silk of those words. At this point, one can visualize, the ghost of
the giant of classical literature, Gustave Flaubert, his six-foot-one frame,
out on the verandah of that house in Rouen, France, with Julian Barnes, sitting
at his feet, his head resting on his knees, as Flaubert writes. He is Flaubert's companion, and we, the readers get a chance to look into the extraordinary
talent which took to the “difficulty o of
telling such a story from the point of view of an ignorant, old woman without
making it derogatory or coy.” This, we know, is also the strength of Madam
Bovary, and this is the strength of his writing and a testimony to the sensitivity of a writer's soul.
This is a book on writing and Gustave Flaubert is a
near-fictional teacher that Julian Barnes creates here, when for instance he
writes, that – words came easy to
Flaubert; but also saw the underlying inadequacy of the words. Then he goes
on to quote Flaubert from Madam Bovary- Language
is like a cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for the bears to dance to,
while all the time we long to move the stars to pity. It is a writer here
paying homage to another writer. He acknowledges the solitude that the
profession of writing, undeniably requires, when he quotes from one of the
Flaubert’s letter, “If you participate in life, you don’t see it clearly: you
suffer from it too much or enjoy it too much. The artist…is a monstrosity,
something outside nature.” Barnes also writes at one point that the writer
should walk into life only up to an extent, as
someone wades into the sea, only up to the knees. My mind wanders to much popular stories of Ghalib being a drunkard and the truth captured in historical accounts of his life, where it is clearly mentioned that Ghalib, who wrote a lot about wine and drinking was a stickler of schedule and a disciplined drinker of alcohol, as I read - a drunkard can not write a drinking song.
Julian Barnes love for Flaubert is hard to hide. He finds
quarrel with Flaubert’s British biographer- Enid Starkie, who taught language
at Oxford. She criticizes Flaubert, and this infuriates Braithwaite (Barnes, I
would say). She finds Flaubert’s account of Emma Bovary’s eyes unreliable. She
writes that unlike Balzac, Flaubert doesn’t
build up his characters, by objective, external description; in fact, so
careless is he of their outward appearance that on one occasion, he Emma brown
eyes; on another deep black; and on another blue eyes. Braithwaite is annoyed. He says that it is
totally up to the writer if he wants to use the eyes or anything else, in particular, as a prop or a tool to build a character to carry the story forward. He argues his
point brilliantly and could hold true for many writers, “In the writer’s moment of private candor, he probably admits the
pointlessness of describing the eyes. He slowly imagines the character, molds
her into shape, and then- probably the last thing of all- pops a glass eye into
the empty sockets. Eyes? Oh, yes, she’d better have eyes, he reflects with a
weary courtesy.
Not to leave it at that, Barnes also has Braithwaite
mention three references from Emma Bovary to prove the falsity of Enid Starkie’s
observation. The one I liked best, I quote here, “Her eyes seemed bigger to him, especially when she was waking up and
fluttered her lids several times in succession; they were black when she was in
shadow and dark blue in full daylight; and they seemed to contain layer upon
layer of colors which was thicker in here deep down, and became lighter towards
the enamel-like surface.” We know
here, not only has Flaubert, found a perfect reader, we as reader, have found
the perfect writer. The critic, we know, here has counted the trees and missed the
forest.
This is a very smooth, quick running, witty book. Only part which
disappointed me was that of Flaubert’s lover and Poet, Louise Colet. It to me,
did not add to the story, and seemed to only be brought in to bring some sort
of balance to unabashed affection of the author to Flaubert.
That said, this book is a book for
the readers, and a book for the writers. We look at the work and writing of
Flaubert through the eyes of Julian Barne and learn a thing or two about
writing. And no, it is not a boring literary analysis, lesson in creative writing or historical biography
of a great writer, as I said earlier. It is about heart and about eyes- the
many-colored eyes of Madame Bovary.
About the Book:
Author: Julian Barne
Published: 1984
Awards: Shortlisted for Man Booker Prize
Genre: Speculative Fiction
(Amazon Link - Flaubert's Parrot )
Comments
I only disagree with the review on one point: I think Colet is essential. She both
fascinated and irritated Flaubert-rather like the iconic parrot-or three.
My thanks! By the way, has anybody reviewed Nabokov's "Pnin"?
Mari Christian