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The Letters, 1830-1880
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The Letters, 1830-1880

4.4 of 5 stars 4.40  ·  rating details  ·  67 ratings  ·  1 review
Any reader should find here something of interest in Gustave Flaubert's letters, whether it be the intimate revelations of an original mind, the rich portrait of a time and place or the linguistic and stylistic brilliance of a great writer. The reader learns of the young Flaubert, unhappy at school, tormented as a lover. We travel with him to the temples and brothels of Eg ...more
Hardcover, 720 pages
Published December 1st 2001 by Picador (first published February 25th 1980)
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Laurent
Since Flaubert tried to separate his literary work from his private life this makes for a very enlightening read,
showing the (witty and somewhat flawed) man behind Madame Bovary, Bouvard & Pécuchet and other Classics.
In these Letters he speaks to friends and lovers about Art, Religion, Syphilis, Politics, Morality, losing friends, his family life, and his books
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Gustave Flaubert (December 12, 1821 – May 8, 1880) is counted among the greatest Western novelists. He was born in Rouen, Seine-Maritime, in the Haute-Normandie Region of France.

Flaubert's curious modes of composition favored and were emphasized by these peculiarities. He worked in sullen solitude, sometimes occupying a week in the completion of one page, never satisfied with what he had composed,
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More about Gustave Flaubert...
Madame Bovary Sentimental Education Three Tales Salammbô Bouvard and Pecuchet

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“Just when the gods had ceased to be, and the Christ had not yet come, there was a unique moment in history, between Cicero and Marcus Aurelius, when man stood alone.” 4 likes
“Osećam za tebe izvesnu mešavinu prijateljstva, privlačnosti, poštovanja, razneženosti srca i zanetosti čula, koja sačinjava složenu celinu kojoj ne znam imena, ali koja mi izgleda postojana. U mojoj duši ima za tebe orošenih blagoslova ... Ti si tu u jednom kutu, na malom tihom mestancu, samo za tebe. Ako zavolim koju drugu, ostaćeš tamo ipak (čini mi se); bićeš kao supruga, ona koju najviše volimo, kojoj se vraćamo; a, uostalom, zar se ne bi samo po nekom sofizmu tvrdilo protivno ? Ispitaj duboko u sebi : postoji li neko osećanje koje si imala, a koga je nestalo ? Ne, sve ostaje, zar ne ? Sve. Mumije koje nosimo u srcu nikad se ne raspadaju u prašinu, i kad se nagnemo nad otvor grobnice, vidimo ih kako nas gledaju otvorenih očiju, nepomične.

Jednog dana čula vas odvuku odatle; ćudljivi prohtev se zanese novim prelivanjima. Šta to mari ? Da sam te onda voleo kako si tada htela, ne bih te ovoliko voleo sada. Ljubavi koje se kap po kap cede iz čovekovog srca najposle naprave stalaktite u njemu. To je bolje nego velike bujice, koje ga odnesu sa sobom. U tome je istina, i ja ostajem pri njoj.

Jeste, volim te, Lujza, sirotice moja, želeo bih da ti život bude ugodan u svakom pogledu, i posut peskom, oivičen cvećem i radostima. Volim tvoj lepi, dobri i otvoreni lik, stisak tvoje ruke, dodir tvoje kože pod mojim usnama. Ako sam opor prema tebi, pomisli da je to posledica trenutaka tuge, nervoznih stanja koja me grizu, grobnih čežnja koje me stalno gone ili preplave. U dnu duše osećam uvek nešto kao ostatak srednjevekovne sete moje domovine. Nešto miriše na maglu, na kugu prenesenu sa Istoka, nešto pada sa strane sa svojim rezbarijama, obojenim oknima i olovnim zabatima, kao stare drvene ruanske kuće. Tu ste se u zid uvukli, lepa moja; ima mnogo stenica, češite se.”
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