Remember, remember,
the fifth of November,
the gunpowder treason and plot.
I see no reason
why the gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot.
.

Neu gelesen:

Julian Barnes, Flaubert's Parrot

Doch, doch, "neu gelesen" stimmt tatsächlich, obwohl das Buch schon seit 2002 in meinem Regal steht. Ein "Two-in-One" Band mit "The History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters" noch dabei, den Julian Barnes mir bei der LitCologne 2002 sogar signierte, und anscheinend habe ich nach der Lektüre des anderen Teils den ersten schlicht und einfach vergessen. Wie das eben so geht. Somit war diese so ungewöhnliche wie anschauliche 'Biografie' von Flaubert so überfällig wie unverzichtbar und ich bin wirklich froh sie jetzt endlich gelesen zu haben. Nur an den Stellen, an denen Dr. Braithwaite nicht mehr umhin kann über den Tod seiner Frau zu sprechen, wünschte ich doch, ich hätte den Band vor 2008 gelesen. Aber da hilft alles nichts.
Und ja, ich sehe schon, zumindest um Madame Bovary komme ich einfach nicht mehr drumrum.

You expect something from me too, don't you? It's like that nowadays. People assume they own part of you, on no matter how small an acquaintance; while if you are reckless enough to write a book, this puts your bank account, your medical records, and the state of your marriage irrevocably into the public domain. Flaubert disapproved. "The artist must manage to make posterity believe that he never existed." For the religious, death destroys the body and liberates the spirit; for the artist, death destroys the personality and liberates the work. That's the theory, anyway. Of course, it frequently goes wrong.

Ellen. My wife: someone I feel I understand less well than a foreign writer dead for a hundred years. Is this an aberration or is this normal? 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.

(Julian Barnes, Flaubert's Parrot, 1984)