Flaubert's Parrot
by Julian Barnes
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A kind of detective story, relating a cranky amateur scholar's search for the truth about Gustave Flaubert, and the obsession of this detective whose life seems to oddly mirror those of Flaubert's characters.Tags
Recommendations
Member Recommendations
JuliaMaria "Madame Bovary, c'est moi": Wer also mehr über Flaubert erfahren möchte (und jeder und jede andere auch), sollte unbedingt diesen Klassiker lesen.
Also recommended by KayCliff
50
wrmjr66 If you like Three Tales, you might enjoy Flaubert's Parrot, but if you like Flaubert's Parrot, you must read Three Tales!
50
KayCliff Two inhibited, unreliable narrators
JuliaMaria Was können wir über Flaubert wissen, hat sich auch Sartre gefragt und in "Der Idiot der Familie" beantwortet. Es handelt sich um eine mehrbändige (!) Biografie vermischt mit philosophischen und psychoanalytischen Betrachtungen.
KayCliff Both novels have self-deluded narrators using strategies of deferral and digression.
JuliaMaria In beiden Romanen geht es um das Schreiben und ein Papagei spielt eine wichtige Rolle.
Member Reviews
The storyline of this book centers on deciphering the mystery of which stuffed parrot actually sat on Flaubert’s desk while he wrote his books. Two museums claim to own this bird, which served as a muse to Flaubert. Narrator Geoffrey Braithwaite is a retired doctor with a passion for Flaubert’s writings. He would love to publish his own work about Flaubert, and fancies himself an amateur scholar.
A look below the surface is needed to fully appreciate this masterly crafted book. Dr. Braithwaite is searching for meaning in a recent significant event in the narrator’s life. This book is a combination of biography (of both Flaubert and the narrator), critique of literary criticism, and self-disclosure. It is about writing as an show more artform, and what a writer’s art reveals about the author, and similarly, what a critic’s viewpoint reveals about the critic.
It is a humorously written clever work of creative brilliance that deals with both obsession and the drive to gain meaning from tragedies in one’s life. I have only read a couple of Flaubert’s works so I do not think it is necessary to be well-versed in his writings to appreciate this book. It will not be for everyone, but I enjoyed every minute of it and will likely re-read it in the future. show less
A look below the surface is needed to fully appreciate this masterly crafted book. Dr. Braithwaite is searching for meaning in a recent significant event in the narrator’s life. This book is a combination of biography (of both Flaubert and the narrator), critique of literary criticism, and self-disclosure. It is about writing as an show more artform, and what a writer’s art reveals about the author, and similarly, what a critic’s viewpoint reveals about the critic.
It is a humorously written clever work of creative brilliance that deals with both obsession and the drive to gain meaning from tragedies in one’s life. I have only read a couple of Flaubert’s works so I do not think it is necessary to be well-versed in his writings to appreciate this book. It will not be for everyone, but I enjoyed every minute of it and will likely re-read it in the future. show less
There is a story here, but if you blink, you’ll miss it. On its surface this book reads like a literary analysis, biography, and trivia about Gustave Flaubert. Every now and then the first-person narrator drops tidbits of personal information about his marriage and his late wife that gradually take shape into a tragedy. Parrots appear frequently enough to serve a symbolic purpose, but not so often that the symbolism seems heavy-handed. It’s hard to find the line between fact and fiction in this novel. It works for me, but it might not work for everyone.
Julian Barnes’s francophilia pulls him in two directions in this novel. In one direction, the fascination — bordering on obsession — with Gustave Flaubert, one of the great (perhaps the greatest) of the masters of the classic nineteenth-century novel. In the other, the postmodern assertion, proclaimed in particular by French writers, that the traditional novel is as dead as the traditional symphony and can no longer be written. The result of this tension is an enjoyable read.
The narrator is Geoffrey Braithwaite, a sixtyish retired surgeon and amateur Flaubert scholar. His quest for Flaubert is a refracted way of telling his own life story — a fine example of British reticence. The result is Braithwaite’s admission, toward the show more end of the tale: “Books make sense of life. The only problem is that the lives they make sense of are other people’s lives, never your own” (p. 168 in the edition I read).
Along the way, Barnes launches amusing jabs at the lit-crit industry. Another recurrent theme is the struggle to make sense of the past. The narrator’s pessimistic view of the possibilities of success in this doesn’t run so deep as to keep him from trying. The outcome of the endeavor is embodied by the parrot of the title. But I’ll leave that for you to find out. show less
The narrator is Geoffrey Braithwaite, a sixtyish retired surgeon and amateur Flaubert scholar. His quest for Flaubert is a refracted way of telling his own life story — a fine example of British reticence. The result is Braithwaite’s admission, toward the show more end of the tale: “Books make sense of life. The only problem is that the lives they make sense of are other people’s lives, never your own” (p. 168 in the edition I read).
Along the way, Barnes launches amusing jabs at the lit-crit industry. Another recurrent theme is the struggle to make sense of the past. The narrator’s pessimistic view of the possibilities of success in this doesn’t run so deep as to keep him from trying. The outcome of the endeavor is embodied by the parrot of the title. But I’ll leave that for you to find out. show less
The storyline of this book centers on deciphering the mystery of which stuffed parrot actually sat on Flaubert’s desk while he wrote his books. Two museums claim to own this bird, which served as a muse to Flaubert. Narrator Geoffrey Braithwaite is a retired doctor with a passion for Flaubert’s writings. He would love to publish his own work about Flaubert, and fancies himself an amateur scholar.
A look below the surface is needed to fully appreciate this masterly crafted book. Dr. Braithwaite is searching for meaning in a recent significant event in the narrator’s life. This book is a combination of biography (of both Flaubert and the narrator), critique of literary criticism, and self-disclosure. It is about writing as an show more artform, and what a writer’s art reveals about the author, and similarly, what a critic’s viewpoint reveals about the critic.
It is a humorously written clever work of creative brilliance that deals with both obsession and the drive to gain meaning from tragedies in one’s life. I have only read a couple of Flaubert’s works so I do not think it is necessary to be well-versed in his writings to appreciate this book. It will not be for everyone, but I enjoyed every minute of it and will likely re-read it in the future. show less
A look below the surface is needed to fully appreciate this masterly crafted book. Dr. Braithwaite is searching for meaning in a recent significant event in the narrator’s life. This book is a combination of biography (of both Flaubert and the narrator), critique of literary criticism, and self-disclosure. It is about writing as an show more artform, and what a writer’s art reveals about the author, and similarly, what a critic’s viewpoint reveals about the critic.
It is a humorously written clever work of creative brilliance that deals with both obsession and the drive to gain meaning from tragedies in one’s life. I have only read a couple of Flaubert’s works so I do not think it is necessary to be well-versed in his writings to appreciate this book. It will not be for everyone, but I enjoyed every minute of it and will likely re-read it in the future. show less
I thoroughly enjoyed this book and have been inspired to finally read Madame Bovary in the very near future. Julian Barnes writes magnificently, from pedantic historiographical prose to witty commentary. His conception of this novel is inventive and captivating. I loved the narrator— Geoffrey Braithwaite — his wit, his humanity, his world view. Quotes I’ve shared with others:
1. “What a smug moralizing bastard he was. He wore ethics the way tarts wear makeup.” Braithwaite referring to another character, not Flaubert
2. Braithwaite addressing us as readers — “… As for the hesitating narrator, look, I’m afraid you’ve run into one right now. It might be because I’m English. You guessed that at least, that I’m show more English? I…I…look at that seagull up there! I hadn’t spotted him before, slip-streaming away waiting for the bits of gristle from the sandwiches. Listen, I hope you won’t think this rude but I really must take a turn on deck. It’s becoming quite stuffy in the bar here. Why don’t we meet on the boat back instead? Two o’clock ferry? Thursday? I’m sure I’ll feel more like it then. All right? What? No, you can’t come on deck with me. For gods’ sakes! Besides I’m going to the lavatory first. I can’t have you following me in there, peering ‘round from the next stall. I apologize. I didn’t mean that. Two o’clock, in the bar, as the ferry sails. Oh! And one last word…the cheese shop in the Grand Rue…don’t miss it. …” show less
1. “What a smug moralizing bastard he was. He wore ethics the way tarts wear makeup.” Braithwaite referring to another character, not Flaubert
2. Braithwaite addressing us as readers — “… As for the hesitating narrator, look, I’m afraid you’ve run into one right now. It might be because I’m English. You guessed that at least, that I’m show more English? I…I…look at that seagull up there! I hadn’t spotted him before, slip-streaming away waiting for the bits of gristle from the sandwiches. Listen, I hope you won’t think this rude but I really must take a turn on deck. It’s becoming quite stuffy in the bar here. Why don’t we meet on the boat back instead? Two o’clock ferry? Thursday? I’m sure I’ll feel more like it then. All right? What? No, you can’t come on deck with me. For gods’ sakes! Besides I’m going to the lavatory first. I can’t have you following me in there, peering ‘round from the next stall. I apologize. I didn’t mean that. Two o’clock, in the bar, as the ferry sails. Oh! And one last word…the cheese shop in the Grand Rue…don’t miss it. …” show less
A view of the 'stable but hopeless' quality of our lives, the search for ourselves in past lives, the search for meaning in our own: the better search is for the beauty and truth in art -- consolation vs desolation. Using a biography of Flaubert as both mask and muse, the narrator hides and reveals his own thoughts on relationships, historical truth, writers, and our obsessive need for facts to obscure our own private truths: the 'religion of despair.' The closer we get to the past in depth, the wider the expanse becomes, stable but hopeless Great quotes from Flaubert really make one relate to Flaubert and want to read his works. Good use of call-backs and one line chapter endings to summarize, ironically, and set up for proceeding show more call-backs and theme. show less
This is a wonderful book that defies categorization: it is a biography of Gustave Flaubert, an analysis of his thought and writing, a critique of literary criticism, an appreciation bordering on obsession of Flaubert the man and writer, a novel as the author-protagonist gradually reveals himself to be a man trying to fathom the suicide of his wife; throughout, it is a meditation on life and memory and identification and history and death and love and sex. It is a book that deserves re-reading because of the wealth of ideas that it raises without always pretending to have the answers, indeed for many things there are no “answers”, there are no “whys” because this is life.
Barnes is a writer who wrestles with the meaning of life show more and lives lived without reaching for the pat answers that so many search for. Meditating upon his wife’s suicide, the author says: “Books say: she did this because. Life says: she did this. Books are where things are explained to you; life is where things aren’t. I’m not surprised some people prefer books. Books make sense of life. The only problem is that the lives they make sense of are other people’s lives, never your own.”
What are history and memory and truth? And can “truth” be discerned when past events are interpreted by the players who have conscious and unconscious cares or desires in how they shape those memories; and what are the limitations of memory just due to the functioning of the brain? “How do we seize the past? How do we seize the foreign past? We read, we learn, we ask, we remember, we are humble; and then a casual detail shifts everything.” Barnes recounts an incident in Flaubert’s life for which Flaubert and a friend with him had quite different versions and he concludes: “What happened to the truth is not recorded.” Because it is the nature of things that it cannot be recorded unless a version is agreed immediately and set down and signed by the participants! The fallacy of memory is sometimes a protective mechanism: could an individual survive if he remembered perfectly and felt on his skin or in his mind every painful or evil thing that ever happened to him? Of course not: so “Memories come out of hiding, but not emotions; not even the memories of emotions.” What about History? Does it not guide us in assessing the past? Perhaps not: “we can study files for decades, but every so often we are tempted to throw up our hands and declare that history is merely another literary genre: the past is autobiographical fiction pretending to be a parliamentary report.” And then how do you factor-in that, “It is not just the life that we know. It is not just the life that has been successfully hidden. It is not just the lies about the life, some of which cannot now be disbelieved. It is also the life that was not led.” How can anyone hope to really construct a past?
And what about Flaubert as a writer? “He believed in style more than anyone. He worked doggedly for beauty, sonority, exactness: perfection—but never the monogrammed perfection of a writer like Wilde. Style is a function of theme. Style is not imposed on subject-matter, but arises from it. Style is truth to thought. The correct word, the true phrase, the perfect sentence are always ‘out there’ somewhere; the writer’s task to locate them by whatever means he can.” Barnes on Flaubert’s maxims: “Form isn’t an overcoat flung over the flesh of thought…; it’s the flesh of thought itself. You can no more imagine an Idea without a Form than a Form without an Idea. Everything in art depends of execution: the story of a louse can be as beautiful as the story of Alexander. You must write according to your feelings be sure those feelings are true, and let everything else go hang. When a line is good, it ceases to belong to any school. A line of prose must be as immutable as a line of poetry. If you happen to write well, you are accused of lacking ideas.” Writers today, according to Barnes: “Well they seem to do one thing well enough, but fail to realise that that literature depends on doing several things well at the same time.”
How does Flaubert approach writing and life? He, “teaches you to gaze upon the truth and not blink for its consequences; he teaches you, with Montaigne, to sleep on the pillow of doubt; he teaches you to dissect out the constituent parts of reality, and to observe that Nature is always a mixture of genres; he teaches you the most exact use of language; he teaches you not to approach a book in search of moral or social pills—literature is not a phramacopoeia; he teaches the pre-eminence of Truth, Beauty, Feeling and Style. And if you study his private life, he teaches courage, stoicism, friendship; the importance of intelligence, skepticism and wit; the folly of cheap patriotism; the virtue of being able to remain by yourself in your own room; the hatred of hypocrisy; distrust of the doctrinaire; the need for plain speaking.”
Barnes on patriotism: “The greatest patriotism is to tell your country when it is behaving dishonourably, foolishly, viciously. The writer must be universal in sympathy and an outcast by nature; only then can he see clearly.”
Barnes on life: “When you are young, you think that the old lament the deterioration of life because this makes it easier for them to die without regret. When you are old, you become impatient with the way in which the young applaud the most insignificant improvements—the invention of some new valve or sprocket—while remaining heedless of the world’s barbarism. I don’t say things have got worse; I merely say the young wouldn’t notice if they had. The old times were good because then we were young, and ignorant of how ignorant the young can be.”
Maxims for life: “You cannot change humanity, you can only know it. Happiness is a scarlet cloak whose lining is in tatters. Lovers are like Siamese twins, two bodies with a single soul; but if one dies before the other, the survivor has a corpse to lug around. Pride makes us long for a solution to things—a solution, a purpose, a final cause; but the better telescopes become, the more stars appear. You cannot change humanity, you can only know it….Truths about writing can be framed before you’ve published a word; truths about life can be framed only when it’s too late to make any difference.”
A wonderful book show less
Barnes is a writer who wrestles with the meaning of life show more and lives lived without reaching for the pat answers that so many search for. Meditating upon his wife’s suicide, the author says: “Books say: she did this because. Life says: she did this. Books are where things are explained to you; life is where things aren’t. I’m not surprised some people prefer books. Books make sense of life. The only problem is that the lives they make sense of are other people’s lives, never your own.”
What are history and memory and truth? And can “truth” be discerned when past events are interpreted by the players who have conscious and unconscious cares or desires in how they shape those memories; and what are the limitations of memory just due to the functioning of the brain? “How do we seize the past? How do we seize the foreign past? We read, we learn, we ask, we remember, we are humble; and then a casual detail shifts everything.” Barnes recounts an incident in Flaubert’s life for which Flaubert and a friend with him had quite different versions and he concludes: “What happened to the truth is not recorded.” Because it is the nature of things that it cannot be recorded unless a version is agreed immediately and set down and signed by the participants! The fallacy of memory is sometimes a protective mechanism: could an individual survive if he remembered perfectly and felt on his skin or in his mind every painful or evil thing that ever happened to him? Of course not: so “Memories come out of hiding, but not emotions; not even the memories of emotions.” What about History? Does it not guide us in assessing the past? Perhaps not: “we can study files for decades, but every so often we are tempted to throw up our hands and declare that history is merely another literary genre: the past is autobiographical fiction pretending to be a parliamentary report.” And then how do you factor-in that, “It is not just the life that we know. It is not just the life that has been successfully hidden. It is not just the lies about the life, some of which cannot now be disbelieved. It is also the life that was not led.” How can anyone hope to really construct a past?
And what about Flaubert as a writer? “He believed in style more than anyone. He worked doggedly for beauty, sonority, exactness: perfection—but never the monogrammed perfection of a writer like Wilde. Style is a function of theme. Style is not imposed on subject-matter, but arises from it. Style is truth to thought. The correct word, the true phrase, the perfect sentence are always ‘out there’ somewhere; the writer’s task to locate them by whatever means he can.” Barnes on Flaubert’s maxims: “Form isn’t an overcoat flung over the flesh of thought…; it’s the flesh of thought itself. You can no more imagine an Idea without a Form than a Form without an Idea. Everything in art depends of execution: the story of a louse can be as beautiful as the story of Alexander. You must write according to your feelings be sure those feelings are true, and let everything else go hang. When a line is good, it ceases to belong to any school. A line of prose must be as immutable as a line of poetry. If you happen to write well, you are accused of lacking ideas.” Writers today, according to Barnes: “Well they seem to do one thing well enough, but fail to realise that that literature depends on doing several things well at the same time.”
How does Flaubert approach writing and life? He, “teaches you to gaze upon the truth and not blink for its consequences; he teaches you, with Montaigne, to sleep on the pillow of doubt; he teaches you to dissect out the constituent parts of reality, and to observe that Nature is always a mixture of genres; he teaches you the most exact use of language; he teaches you not to approach a book in search of moral or social pills—literature is not a phramacopoeia; he teaches the pre-eminence of Truth, Beauty, Feeling and Style. And if you study his private life, he teaches courage, stoicism, friendship; the importance of intelligence, skepticism and wit; the folly of cheap patriotism; the virtue of being able to remain by yourself in your own room; the hatred of hypocrisy; distrust of the doctrinaire; the need for plain speaking.”
Barnes on patriotism: “The greatest patriotism is to tell your country when it is behaving dishonourably, foolishly, viciously. The writer must be universal in sympathy and an outcast by nature; only then can he see clearly.”
Barnes on life: “When you are young, you think that the old lament the deterioration of life because this makes it easier for them to die without regret. When you are old, you become impatient with the way in which the young applaud the most insignificant improvements—the invention of some new valve or sprocket—while remaining heedless of the world’s barbarism. I don’t say things have got worse; I merely say the young wouldn’t notice if they had. The old times were good because then we were young, and ignorant of how ignorant the young can be.”
Maxims for life: “You cannot change humanity, you can only know it. Happiness is a scarlet cloak whose lining is in tatters. Lovers are like Siamese twins, two bodies with a single soul; but if one dies before the other, the survivor has a corpse to lug around. Pride makes us long for a solution to things—a solution, a purpose, a final cause; but the better telescopes become, the more stars appear. You cannot change humanity, you can only know it….Truths about writing can be framed before you’ve published a word; truths about life can be framed only when it’s too late to make any difference.”
A wonderful book show less
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Author Information
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Julian Barnes was born in Leicester, England, on January 19, 1946. He received a degree in modern languages from Magdalen College, Oxford University in 1968. He has held jobs as a lexicographer for the Oxford English Dictionary, a reviewer and literary editor for the New Statesmen and the New Review, and a television critic. He has written show more numerous works of fiction including Arthur and George, Pulse: Stories, The Noise of Time, and England, England. He received the Somerset Maugham Award in 1980 for Metroland, the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize in 1985 and a Prix Medicis in 1986 for Flaubert's Parrot, and the Man Booker Prize in 2011 for The Sense of an Ending. He also writes non-fiction works including Letters from London, The Pedant in the Kitchen, and Nothing to Be Frightened Of. He received the Shakespeare Prize by the FVS Foundation in 1993, the Austrian State Prize for European Literature in 2004, and the David Cohen Prize for Literature in 2011. He writes detective novels under the pseudonym Dan Kavanaugh. His works under this name include Duffy, Fiddle City, Putting the Boot In, and Going to the Dogs. (Bowker Author Biography) show less
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Common Knowledge
- Canonical title
- Flaubert's Parrot
- Original title
- Flaubert's Parrot
- Original publication date
- 1984
- People/Characters
- Gustave Flaubert; Geoffrey Braithwaite; Louise Colet
- Important places
- Museum of Rouen, Rouen, Normandy, France; Croisset, Normandy, France
- Epigraph
- When you write the biography of a friend, you must do
it as if you were taking revenge for him.
- Flaubert, letter to Ernest Feydeau, 1872 - Dedication
- To Pat
- First words
- Six North Africans were playing boules beneath Flaubert's statue.
- Quotations
- Books say: she did this because. Life says: she did this. Books are where things are explained to you; life is where they aren’t.
On the site there now stands a large paper-mill ... The vast paper factory was churning away on the site of Flaubert's house. I wandered inside; they were happy to show me round. I gazed at the pistons, the steam, the vats an... (show all)d the slopping trays: so much wetness to produce something so dry as paper. I asked my guide if they made any sort of paper that was used for books; she said they made every sort of paper. The tour, I realized, would not prove sentimental. Above our heads a huge drum of paper, some twenty feet wide, was slowly tracking along on a conveyor. It seemed out of proportion to its surroundings, like a piece of pop sculpture on a deliberately provoking scale. I remarked that it resembled a gigantic roll of lavatory paper; my guide confirmed that this was exactly what it was.
Literature includes politics, and not vice versa. Novelists who think their writing an instrument of politics seem to me to degrade writing and foolishly exalt politics. No, I'm not saying they should be forbidden from having... (show all) political opinions or from making political statements. It's just that they should call that part of their work journalism. The writer who imagines that the novel is the most effective way of taking part in politics is usually a bad novelist, a bad journalist, and a bad politician.
When she dies, you are not at first surprised. Part of love is preparing for death. ... Afterwards comes the madness. And then the loneliness. ... Other people think you want to talk ... you find the language of bereavement f... (show all)oolishly inadequate.
The greatest patriotism is to tell your country when it is behaving dishonourably, foolishly, viciously.
Whores: Necessary in the nineteenth century for the contraction of syphilis, without which no one could claim genius. - Last words
- (Click to show. Warning: May contain spoilers.)Perhaps it was one of them.
- Blurbers
- Irving, John ; Heller, Joseph ; Ellman, Richard ; Greene, Graham
- Original language
- English
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