 |
| Émile Zola 1840-1902 |
Despite being a loud-mouthed American who writes a blog about electronic editions of precious works of world literature, I feel it is my calling--nay, my duty--to try to write well-reasoned, insightful and penetrating observations about the great books I encounter. If I can't say something constructive, I will usually withhold comment. I don't trash books here, and I don't define my literary tastes in terms of what I don't like. The Overleaf is a place for inclusiveness that seeks to make literature accessible, not to show off how cool and fancy my tastes are. I like to think of my readers coming along for the ride as we discover books together.
To respect, admire and enjoy a work of literature is the trifecta of a fulfilling reading for me. If I finish a book and I'm able to apply those three words to the experience, I know that something truly speaks to me. Not that I expect books to consistently deliver on all three levels; sometimes the story or plotting aren't so hot, but the characters are brilliantly rendered. Now and then I'll encounter a work where the language may be a little stilted and the dialog somewhat stiff, but the theme is compelling. One can admire execution while expressing reservations about the overall result (or vice versa) without trashing a book. If I read something that I just don't care for, I usually keep mum about it here.
For the past couple of months, we have been looking at the development and influence of naturalism in the works of Ivan Turgenev, Theodore Dreiser, George Moore and James Joyce. I couldn't justify covering this topic without exploring at least one book by one of the granddaddies of naturalism, Émile Zola. French authors can be intimidating because it seems like those guys really enjoyed composing dense, grand, seemingly impenetrable, multi-volume novels it would take you a lifetime to read. And Émile Zola has a doosey--the Rougon-Macquart series, a twenty volume novel about life under Napoleon III. I'm sure it's wonderful, but no thanks! I just wanted a taste so I could put what I had learned about naturalism into broader perspective.
I was pleased to have found Thérèse Raquin, a stand-alone novel and his first to attract attention to his talents. This novel seemed the best place to start, and indeed it was; it gave me a great deal of insight as to how naturalism originated and evolved as well as into why this guy is so lauded as one of the great French novelists. After reading it, I can honestly say that he was a heck of a writer. But did I enjoy the book and the experience of reading it? Like a relationship in flux on Facebook, "It's Complicated"…
Thérèse Raquin (1867) by Émile Zola
Consider Madame Raquin. a widow who adopts Thérèse, a niece in need of a home after the death of her mother. She raises her with her son, Camille, a boy whose sickliness causes her mother to smother him with affection and care. Consider also that, despite Thérèse's good health, her aunt treats her the same as Camille--forcing her to take the boy's medicine along with him, despite her strength and health. Thérèse plays the part of an obedient, compliant daughter and companion to her cousin. Consider also that it is expected for these first cousins to marry someday so that Madame Raquin can have peace of mind knowing that her son will be looked after when she dies. As this destiny is fulfilled, so the trouble begins in Thérèse Raquin.
Forced to play a role in her family that is the exact opposite of her nature, it is no surprise that she avails herself of the first opportunity to feel real passion as Laurent, a co-worker of Camille's, becomes a weekly guest for dinner and dominoes every Thursday night in the apartment above Madame Raquin's mercery shop. Captivated by one another, they soon secretly seek each other's company and carry on a lusty affair. Dissatisfied with having to sneak around, Thérèse and Laurent decide that the best way to ensure their continued happiness is to kill Camille so they can be married.
And so they do. They drown Camille and claim it was an accident, fool everyone around them and get away with it. But they are then seized with ferocious guilt for their actions and are haunted nightly by visions of Camille's drowned body. Those visions don't go away after they're married, either; things get considerably worse. As their fear intensifies, the passion that brought Thérèse and Laurent together fades, and the now married couple descends into a nightmare of fear, hatred and self destruction. I won't spoil the ending for you, but I don't need to tell you that all of this doesn't end well.
In his preface to the second edition of this novel (quoted in the preface to the 1901 edition available on Project Gutenberg), Zola says that temperament rather than character was his primary interest in creating this novel. He treats his characters as though they are subjects in a scientific experiment. Yet the narrator isn't entirely disinterested, as he freely refers to his protagonists as murderers, brutes and fools throughout the novel. But indeed, every character present acts out of selfishness or at least self interest. As a result, there's no one really likable in this novel, and those who seek characters they like and identify with (all too common these days) will be sorely disappointed--at least not those who are unwilling to plumb the depths of their souls to find affinity with people who have committed acts for which they are ashamed and horrified. And we all have at least one or two of those, even if they are acts we have only committed in our hearts.
I can see why Victorian England was uncomfortable with racy French books like this one. Compared to George Eliot, Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy and W. M. Thackeray, this stuff is really off the hook. Zola speaks to the common undercurrent of guilt and fear that lurks in all human beings, and if you can't identify with that, you are probably fooling yourself. That's precisely why this novel works; it forces readers to confront their own unpleasant attitudes and experiences. That's one of the things truly great art does. Bravo to Émile Zola for using the medium of the novel so ingeniously, but one really wouldn't call the experience of reading it "fun". This book is well crafted, forward looking and disquieting. Worth reading? Definitely. But perhaps only once.
It would be easy to dismiss if it weren't so brilliantly written. The opening chapter that describes Madame Raquin's mercery shop and the greasy Paris neighborhood that surrounds it really draws the reader in with dark, exquisite detail. A gruesome chapter in which Laurent visits the morgue to see if his victim's body has been found is genuinely disturbing. The horrifying sights he sees are distressing enough to provide fodder for Laurent's nightmares and our nightmares as well. Zola describes the hideously bloated and mangled remains of drowning victims as they are observed by callous or indifferent onlookers. It is both chilling and a tremendous piece of writing. And the tension is maintained throughout the final third of the book leading to the final climax with meticulously well-metered prose. This guy knew how to write.
Thérèse Raquin depicts human beings at their absolute worst. Beneath the veneer of these middle class people lurk the hearts of savage beasts. Indeed, middle class gentility is scathingly rebuked to the point of being so over the top that it becomes almost comic. Maybe I'm a jaded twenty-first century reader who sees the middle class as too easy a target for such savage treatment. Perhaps I'm a bit nonplussed by Zola's oversized, overflowing coffers of boiling vitriol. I can't deny that Thérèse Raquin is an important novel that helped pave the way for modernism, the psychological novel, Jean Paul Sartre and Film Noir, but I can deny myself the anguish of a second read without much hesitation. My official verdict: Very good, but sheesh!
No comments:
Post a Comment