Parrots and postmodernism
Mar. 16th, 2014 05:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bloodygranuaileIn my Classics book club, we are continuing our theme of reading works derived from other classics (a theme I am beginning to tire of, honestly). First there was Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, which was quite amazing; then, some short stories about Kafka, by Haruki Murakami and Lydia Davis. This time around, we are reading Flaubert’s Parrot, by Julian Barnes.
First off, my enjoyment of this book is likely severely compromised by my not having read any of Flaubert’s novels. I certainly want to read Flaubert’s novels, now, especially Madame Bovary, although to be honest, what I know of it now makes it sound suspiciously like Fantine’s plotline in Les Miserables, or any of another dozen works written by white dudes about fallen women which have gotten themselves classed as Great Literature. Although the ones I’ve read are usually pretty good; I suppose there’s probably a couple hundred or thousand other books written by white dudes in the nineteenth century about fallen women which have not gotten classed as Great Literature, and perhaps those are the bad ones.
This is a thoroughly postmodern novel—or at least, it is a postmodern book; whether or not it is a novel is somewhat debatable. Technically it fits the definition of being a long-form work of prose fiction, although the chapters only loosely flow together into an kind of storyline, so one could well make the cases that it is more of a short story collection—several short works of prose fiction, all roughly about Flaubert or about doctor and amateur historian Geoffrey Braithewaite’s obsession with Flaubert and attempt to find the parrot he kept on his desk when writing Un Coeur simple. The book was often funny, although I often found myself not particularly liking Braithwaite as a narrator; he seemed trying a bit too hard to ape his hero Flaubert’s chronic pessimism, and to be honest, if I want to hear some dude going on resolutely shitting on every single thing anyone says at great length and with a defensive air of superiority, there are like fifty million nerd events in the Boston area I could be attending at any given time. Much of Braithwaite’s narration is also written in second person, but, since the character of the man he is talking to is not well developed (which is an absolute must for second person writing, I think) I ended up feeling fairly defensive myself; like, dude, I haven’t said anything, stop trying to debunk the stupid opinions I never expressed. Also, stop misgendering me.
Due to the loose structure it’s hard to judge this book as a whole: some chapters were quite well-done and others seemed pointless and rambly; some were stories and some were listicles; some were about Flaubert and others were about other people. I think the chapter from Louise Colet’s point of view was excellent; the chapter about why Braithewaite hates critics (it is because of exactly one dumb thing that exactly one critic said, apparently) is mostly just grating. The stuff about the quest for the parrot really was quite interesting; Braithewaite’s amateur detective work brings us into a bunch of museums and through a lot of historical records and that sort of thing.
Overall this was not a bad book, but I was a bit disappointed with it; I think probably because I didn’t have quite the background knowledge to really appreciate it, but also I think it was just one of those times where it wasn’t really what I wanted to be reading—and I have been most fabulously busy lately, so having it on my to-do list (“…and I have to find time to read this damn book before the meeting!”) meant I approached it with less than a relaxed mindset.
Recommended for people who have read some Flaubert and are not in a big hurry.
First off, my enjoyment of this book is likely severely compromised by my not having read any of Flaubert’s novels. I certainly want to read Flaubert’s novels, now, especially Madame Bovary, although to be honest, what I know of it now makes it sound suspiciously like Fantine’s plotline in Les Miserables, or any of another dozen works written by white dudes about fallen women which have gotten themselves classed as Great Literature. Although the ones I’ve read are usually pretty good; I suppose there’s probably a couple hundred or thousand other books written by white dudes in the nineteenth century about fallen women which have not gotten classed as Great Literature, and perhaps those are the bad ones.
This is a thoroughly postmodern novel—or at least, it is a postmodern book; whether or not it is a novel is somewhat debatable. Technically it fits the definition of being a long-form work of prose fiction, although the chapters only loosely flow together into an kind of storyline, so one could well make the cases that it is more of a short story collection—several short works of prose fiction, all roughly about Flaubert or about doctor and amateur historian Geoffrey Braithewaite’s obsession with Flaubert and attempt to find the parrot he kept on his desk when writing Un Coeur simple. The book was often funny, although I often found myself not particularly liking Braithwaite as a narrator; he seemed trying a bit too hard to ape his hero Flaubert’s chronic pessimism, and to be honest, if I want to hear some dude going on resolutely shitting on every single thing anyone says at great length and with a defensive air of superiority, there are like fifty million nerd events in the Boston area I could be attending at any given time. Much of Braithwaite’s narration is also written in second person, but, since the character of the man he is talking to is not well developed (which is an absolute must for second person writing, I think) I ended up feeling fairly defensive myself; like, dude, I haven’t said anything, stop trying to debunk the stupid opinions I never expressed. Also, stop misgendering me.
Due to the loose structure it’s hard to judge this book as a whole: some chapters were quite well-done and others seemed pointless and rambly; some were stories and some were listicles; some were about Flaubert and others were about other people. I think the chapter from Louise Colet’s point of view was excellent; the chapter about why Braithewaite hates critics (it is because of exactly one dumb thing that exactly one critic said, apparently) is mostly just grating. The stuff about the quest for the parrot really was quite interesting; Braithewaite’s amateur detective work brings us into a bunch of museums and through a lot of historical records and that sort of thing.
Overall this was not a bad book, but I was a bit disappointed with it; I think probably because I didn’t have quite the background knowledge to really appreciate it, but also I think it was just one of those times where it wasn’t really what I wanted to be reading—and I have been most fabulously busy lately, so having it on my to-do list (“…and I have to find time to read this damn book before the meeting!”) meant I approached it with less than a relaxed mindset.
Recommended for people who have read some Flaubert and are not in a big hurry.