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![Madame Bovary par [Gustave Flaubert, Goodreads]](https://m.media-amazon.com/images/I/41A-v1FIupL._SY346_.jpg)
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Madame Bovary Format Kindle
Gustave Flaubert (Auteur) Trouver tous les livres, en savoir plus sur l'auteur. Voir résultats de recherche pour cet auteur |
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- LangueFrançais
- ÉditeurGustave Flaubert
- Date de publication19 décembre 2016
- Taille du fichier2173 KB
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Quatrième de couverture
Extrait
[1]
We were in Study Hall, when the Headmaster entered, followed by a new boy dressed in regular clothes and a school servant carrying a large desk. Those who were sleeping woke up, and everyone rose as though taken by surprise while at work.
The Headmaster motioned us to sit down again; then, turning to the study hall teacher:
"Monsieur Roger," he said to him in a low voice, "here is a pupil I am entrusting to your care; he is entering the fifth. If his work and his conduct are deserving, he will be moved up to the seniors, as befits his age."
Still standing in the corner, behind the door, so that one could hardly see him, the new boy was a fellow from the country, about fifteen years old, and taller than any of us. His hair was cut straight across the forehead, like a village choirboy's, his manner sensible and very ill at ease. Although he was not broad in the shoulders, his suit jacket of green cloth with black buttons must have pinched him around the armholes, and it showed, through the vents of its cuffs, red wrists accustomed to being bare. His legs, in blue stockings, emerged from a pair of yellowish pants pulled tight by his suspenders. He wore stout shoes, badly shined, studded with nails.
We began reciting our lessons. He listened to them, all ears, as attentive as though to a sermon, not daring even to cross his legs or to lean on his elbow, and at two o'clock, when the bell rang, the teacher was obliged to alert him, so that he would get in line with us. We were in the habit, when we entered the classroom, of throwing our caps on the floor, so that our hands would be free; from the doorsill, we had to hurl them under the bench, in such a way that they struck the wall, making a lot of dust; it was the thing to do.
But either because he had not noticed this maneuver or because he had not dared go along with it, after the prayer was over, the new boy was still holding his cap on his knees. It was one of those head coverings of a composite order, in which one can recognize components of a busby, a lancer's cap, a bowler, an otter-skin cap, and a cotton nightcap, one of those sorry objects, indeed, whose mute ugliness has depths of expression, like the face of an imbecile. Ovoid and stiffened with whalebones, it began with three circular sausages; then followed alternately, separated by a red band, lozenges of velvet and rabbit fur; next came a kind of bag terminating in a cardboard-lined polygon, covered with an embroidery in complicated braid, from which hung, at the end of a long, excessively slender cord, a little crosspiece of gold threads, by way of a tassel. It was new; the visor shone.
"Stand up," said the teacher.
He stood up; his cap fell. The whole class began to laugh.
He bent over to pick it up. A boy beside him knocked it down again with a nudge of his elbow; he retrieved it again.
"Get rid of that helmet of yours," said the teacher, who was a wit.
There was a burst of laughter from the class that disconcerted the poor boy, so that he did not know whether he should keep his cap in his hand, leave it on the floor, or put it on his head. He sat down again and laid it on his knees.
"Stand up," said the teacher, "and tell me your name."
Stammering, the new boy articulated an unintelligible name.
"Again!"
The same mumble of syllables was heard, muffled by the hooting of the class.
"Louder!" shouted the teacher. "Louder!"
The new boy, summoning an extreme resolve, then opened an inordinately large mouth and bawled at the top of his lungs, as though shouting to someone, the word Charbovari.
Now an uproar exploded all at once, rose in a crescendo, with outbursts of shrill voices (they howled, they barked, they stamped, they repeated: Charbovari! Charbovari!), then continued in isolated notes, quieting with great difficulty and sometimes resuming suddenly along the line of a bench from which a stifled laugh would start up again here and there, like a half- spent firecracker.
However, under a rain of penalties, order was gradually restored in the classroom, and the teacher, having managed to grasp the name of Charles Bovary, having had it dictated to him, spelled out, and read back, at once commanded the poor fellow to go sit on the dunce's bench, at the foot of the platform. He began to move but, before going, hesitated.
"What are you looking for?" asked the teacher.
"My c…;," said the new boy timidly, casting uneasy glances around him.
"Five hundred lines for the entire class!" The furious exclamation put an end, like the Quos ego, to a fresh squall. "Now, keep quiet!" continued the indignant teacher, wiping his forehead with the handkerchief he had just taken from inside his toque. "As for you, new boy, you will copy out the verb ridiculus sum for me twenty times."
Then, more gently:
"Come now! You'll find your cap; it hasn't been stolen!"
All was calm again. Heads bent over satchels, and for two hours the new boy's behavior continued to be exemplary, even though, from time to time, a pellet of paper fired from the nib of a pen came and splattered on his face. But he would wipe himself off with his hand and remain motionless, his eyes lowered. That evening, in Study Hall, he drew his cuff guards from his desk, put his little things in order, carefully ruled his paper. We saw him working conscientiously, looking up all the words in the dictionary and taking great pains. Thanks, no doubt, to this willingness he displayed, he did not have to go down into the lower class; for while he knew his rules passably well, he had almost no elegance in his constructions. It was the curé of his village who had started him on Latin, his parents, for reasons of economy, having delayed as long as possible sending him to school.
His father, Monsieur Charles-Denis-Bartholomé Bovary, a former assistant army surgeon, compromised, in about 1812, in some business involving conscription and forced, at about that time, to leave the service, had then profited from his personal attributes to pick up a dowry of sixty thousand francs, presented in the form of a hosier's daughter, who had fallen in love with his fine appearance. A handsome, boastful man, jingling his spurs loudly, sporting side-whiskers that merged with his mustache, his fingers always garnished with rings, and dressed in gaudy colors, he had the appearance of a valiant soldier, along with the easy enthusiasm of a traveling salesman. Once married, he lived for two or three years off his wife's fortune, dining well, rising late, smoking great porcelain pipes, coming home at night only after the theater, and haunting cafés. The father-in-law died and left little; he was indignant at this, went into manufacturing, lost some money at it, then retired to the country, where he intended to cultivate the land. But since he hardly understood farming any better than he did chintz, since he rode his horses instead of putting them to the plow, drank his cider by the bottle instead of selling it by the barrel, ate the best poultry in his yard and greased his hunting shoes with the fat of his pigs, he soon realized that it would be better to abandon all financial enterprises.
For a rent of two hundred francs a year, therefore, he found, in a village on the borders of the Caux region and Picardy, a dwelling of a sort that was half farm, half gentleman's residence; and there, morose, gnawed by regrets, railing at heaven, envying all the world, he shut himself away at the age of forty- five, disgusted with men, he said, and determined to live in peace.
His wife had been madly in love with him at one time; she had doted on him with countless slavish attentions that had estranged him from her even further. Once lively, expansive, and wholeheartedly affectionate, she had become, as she aged (like stale wine turning to vinegar), difficult in temper, shrill, nervous. She had suffered so much, without complaining at first, when she saw him running after every slut in the village and when a score of low-life places would send him back to her at night surfeited and stinking drunk! Then her pride had rebelled. She fell silent, swallowing her rage in a mute stoicism, which she maintained until her death. She was constantly out on errands, on business. She would go see the lawyers, the presiding judge, remember the due dates of the notes, obtain extensions; and, at home, she would iron, sew, wash, look after the workers, settle the accounts, while Monsieur, troubling himself about nothing, eternally sunk in a sullen torpor from which he roused himself only to say unpleasant things to her, sat smoking by the fire, spitting in the ashes.
When she had a child, he had to be put out to nurse. Back in their house, the little boy was spoiled like a prince. His mother fed him on jams; his father let him run around without shoes, and, imagining himself an enlightened thinker, even said that he could go quite naked, like the young of animals. In opposition to the mother's inclinations, he had in mind a certain manly ideal of childhood, according to which he tried to mold his son, wanting him to be brought up ruggedly, in a spartan manner, to give him a good constitution. He sent him to bed without a fire, taught him to drink great drafts of rum and to jeer at church processions. But, peaceable by nature, the boy responded poorly to his efforts. His mother kept him always trailing after her; she would cut out cardboard figures for him, tell him stories, converse with him in endless monologues, full of melancholy whimsy and beguiling chatter. In the isolation of her life, she transferred into that childish head all her...
--Ce texte fait référence à l'édition kindle_edition.Description
Book Description
Revue de presse
-Kathryn Harrison, The New York Times Book Review
"[A] brilliant new translation."
-Lee Siegel, The New York Observer
"[Davis] has a finer ear for the natural cadences of English, in narrative and dialogue, than any of her predecessors, and there are many moments in her Madame Bovary when one pauses to admire how clean and spare a sentence seems by comparison with its earlier translated versions. . . . Only a very good writer indeed could have written it. . . . The bones of the original French show clearly through her English, and the rawness of her translation is, on the whole, invigorating."
-Jonathan Raban, The New York Review of Books
"How tickled Madame Bovary herself would be by the latest homage paid to her. . . . I'm grateful to Davis for luring me back to Madame Bovary and for giving us a version which strikes me as elegant and alive."
-Maureen Corrigan, NPR's Fresh Air
"Flaubert's obsessive masterpiece finally gets the obsessive translation it deserves."
-New York
"Davis is the best fiction writer ever to translate the novel. . . . [Her] work shares the Flaubertian virtues of compression, irony and an extreme sense of control. . . . Davis's Madame Bovary is a linguistically careful version, in the modern style, rendered into an unobtrusively American English."
-Julian Barnes, London Review of Books
"Davis captures with precision the sensitivity of the novel's language. . . . [Her] version . . . ultimately demonstrates her own empathy with Emma."
-The New Republic
"At last, the real Madame Bovary . . . The publication of the Davis version is an event. . . . Davis has come closer than any previous translator to capturing Flaubert's style and content accurately for English-language readers. . . . Her version benefits from her finesse as a writer and seems fresh and different compared to other translations."
-The American Spectator
"Davis has produced a very fine [translation that] displays a cool detachment not at all dissimilar to Flaubert's own."
-The New Criterion
"Davis [is] operating in top form in her new translation of Madame Bovary. . . . I was struck delirious by the force of Flaubert's writing, and the precision (the perfection) of Davis's translation."
-Macy Halford, The New Yorker's Book Bench
"Davis's edition should bring a new generation to Flaubert's classic of bourgeois ennui and adultery."
-Newsday
"A new translation that spans the ages [and] hews as close to the original as may be possible. . . . Davis's translation strives for-and largely achieves-the flavor of Flaubert's realism. . . . It provides such an unfussy, straightforward narrative that it underscores how truly modern a writer Flaubert was."
-BookPage
"Davis has forged a masterpiece out of a masterpiece. . . . This Madame Bovary is a veritable page-turner. . . . In French, the story leapt out at me like a hallucinatory Technicolor poem; in the lapidary English of Lydia Davis, I receive the same frisson of recognition-that the novel still lives. . . . Thanks to Lydia Davis, the book remains: a great, companionlike, eternal gilded mirror of Flaubert's world."
-Neil Baldwin, The Faster Times
"Davis . . . does a brilliant job of capturing Flaubert's diamond-hard style. . . . Davis's English prose has precisely the qualities she notes that Flaubert was striving for in French; it is 'clear and direct, economical and precise.' This translation reminds you what an aggressively modern writer Flaubert is."
-Kirkus Reviews
"[Davis] is one of the most innovative prose stylists of our time, and thus an excellent match for Flaubert's masterpiece. Flaubert's sentences are certainly sonorous in French, and the sentences in this translation reveal a similar attention to sound. . . . We are in debt to Flaubert for his influence on much of the writing we have today; the extent of our debt has never been so clear."
-The Believer
Acclaim for Lydia Davis and her translation of Swann's Way
"[Her] capacity to make language unleash entire states of existence reveals the extent to which Davis's fiction is influenced by her work as a translator."
-The New York Times
"Few writers now working make the words on the page matter more."
-Jonathan Franzen
"Davis is the best prose stylist in America."
-Rick Moody
"Swann's Way is transformed into something even more enchanting in Lydia Davis's new translation."
-Vanity Fair
"Davis is closer, much closer, to Proust's French. . . . [Her] Swann's Way is one of those translations . . . that put the question of languages out of your mind, and leave you only with questions of language."
-The Village Voice
"Accessible and faithful to Proust. Davis replicates the hesitations and digressions, the backward looks and forward glances that swell Proust's sentences and send them cascading to their conclusion-without sacrificing the natural air of his style."
-Los Angeles Times Book Review
"Davis is an extraordinary technician of language, capable of revealing elusive human tendencies through the most unusual means."
-Bookforum
"[Davis] commands language and imagery, playing the reader like a master."
-Los Angeles Times
"The subtleties of the French language, in spite of their difficulty, hold no secrets from you. . . . No literary genre deters you. You helped to make known to the English-speaking public some of the finest French literature of the century. . . . You have found a way not only to put your many talents at the service of the French language and culture, but also to place your stamp on the literary legacy of our times."
-French Insignia of the Order of Arts and Letters citation
--Ce texte fait référence à l'édition kindle_edition.
Un mot de l'auteur
Biographie de l'auteur
Détails sur le produit
- ASIN : B01MU2IB7Y
- Éditeur : Gustave Flaubert (19 décembre 2016)
- Langue : Français
- Taille du fichier : 2173 KB
- Synthèse vocale : Activée
- Lecteur d’écran : Pris en charge
- Confort de lecture : Activé
- Word Wise : Non activé
- Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 332 pages
- Commentaires client :
À propos des auteurs
Découvrir d'autres livres de l'auteur, voir des auteurs similaires, lire des blogs d'auteurs et plus encore
Gustave Flaubert est un écrivain français né à Rouen le 12 décembre 1821 et mort à Croisset, lieu-dit de la commune de Canteleu, le 8 mai 1880.
Prosateur de premier plan de la seconde moitié du XIXe siècle, Gustave Flaubert a marqué la littérature française par la profondeur de ses analyses psychologiques, son souci de réalisme, son regard lucide sur les comportements des individus et de la société, et par la force de son style dans de grands romans comme Madame Bovary (1857), Salammbô (1862), L'Éducation sentimentale (1869), ou le recueil de nouvelles Trois contes (1877).
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Un problème s'est produit lors du filtrage des commentaires. Veuillez réessayer ultérieurement.
L'Histoire d'une femme, qui est ignorée par son époux involontairement, il ne sait pas comment s'y prendre il fuit, et elle l'aime elle est en attente de ce que toute femme désire, quand elle se marie, et surtout avoir des enfants.
Sa souffrance est telle, qu'elle va tout tenter pour se rapprocher de lui et lui faire comprendre, mais en vain.
Fatiguée à force de l'éviction de son époux, elle adopte alors une autre façon de faire, elle devient aguicheuse, et cherche à se faire des amants.
Malheureusement, même dans l'adultère, elle n'a pas de chance, les hommes qu'elle côtoie n'en veulent qu'à sa fortune.
Et l'histoire finie plutôt mal pour elle....
Je déconseille vivement cette edition
Inversement j'ai pu lire après une autre edition et apprécier enfin le style de Flaubert
Il y a même des approximations en anglais au milieu du texte. C'est ue HONTE et du VOL. Ai acheté une autre version et c'est pareil, il n'y a que la couverture qui change.
Vous êtes des voleurs et vous vous foutez de la gueule des clients.
Gérard GALVEZ
Lamentable. Le texte est truffé de repères en anglais et d'autres outrages à la littérature. Gustave Flaubert doit se retourner dans sa tombe.
Toutes les versions proposées sont les mêmes. Du vol et du manque de respect pour les clients. ILLISIBLE.
Gérard Galvez
De ce fait La lecture est désagréable c'est pourquoi je demande le remboursement et le retour de ce livre
Meilleurs commentaires provenant d’autres pays

I subsequently bought the Amazon edition (at no cost at all) which is perfectly fine. Here are a couple of the bizarre translations that I've found: 'parents' becomes 'mom and dad' and 'fort' becomes 'fortress'. After one chapter I found the book unreadable and gave up.
Don't bother with this edition.



Although it is widely regarded as a great story, I found the central character to be so shallow and self-centred that I couldn't engage in the story or find it in myself to care what happened to her.
I don't believe that even a good translation would have made me change my mind.

at the time I wrote the draft for this review the only audio version was as far as I knew, the Whole story audio books unabridged 11 CDs version read by Davina Porter who does a great job, she does not overdo it and while keeping perfect balance in the voice she is not too cold or too impartial or too melancholy which is a great thing. in a few words you have the feeling that she is impartial but not too cold or detached, she reads at the right point
Recently Naxos released their own version of the book (11 CDs) and when I knew the reader was Juliet Stevenson I could not resist buying this version as well. for those who do not know Juliet Stevenson she is excellence and to me her voice has also an evocative power that transports me there especially if listened to at night in complete silence ... magic