))) The Book: A Sentimental Education by Gustave Flaubert. As some of you might know, I like my French novels. It’s one literary passion my college professors didn’t manage to extinguish by force of essays on the-critics-criticizing-the-criticism. To clarify the extent of my obsession, I once recorded my way across Belleville to find multiple voices for my Julien Sorel (after falling uder Stendhal’s spell), another time invited Des Coulam to follow the footsteps of the characters of Zola’s L’Assommoir on my behalf, and he kindly obliged. Currently, I am in the company of the hapless Frédéric Moreau as he allegedly studies Law, but mostly really scampers around Paris (wouldn’t you?), in a futile attempt to ‘make his name’.
Not faffing around: rebels at the barricades.
Flaubert said about the creation of this novel: “I want to write the moral history of the men of my generation– or, more accurately, the history of their feelings. It’s a…
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