I was so happy to finish this piece of Zola's Rougon-Macquart epic as quickly as I usually tear through his books, especially because I'm having so much trouble getting through La Fortune des Rougon. This is no l'Assommoir or Nana, but Le Ventre de Paris falls nicely in place within the series, almost as an aside. It's almost as if this book's purpose was to let Zola stretch his wings as nothing more than a typical novelist, a break from the intense tragedies he usually describes so vividly, a sort of writer's workshop. Not that le Ventre de Paris isn't a tragedy--it's just tragic on a less soul-crushing level than the rest of the series so far.The plot is loosely woven between rambling descriptors to bait each of the five senses, rivaled only by Huysmans in sheer excess. The reader feels like a goose being fattened to be made into foie gras, force-fed words that seem fulfilling at first, yet which quickly become overwhelming in their richness. Also like Huysmans, the intent seems to be exactly that: to describe things with such detail as to completely overwhelm one's senses, emphasizing and effectively mimicking the brutally uncomfortable feeling of overindulgence.The descriptions of Les Halles, Paris' central market, leave absolutely nothing to the imagination--this passage describes the window display of the Quenu-Gradelle charcuterie, where the protagonist, Florent Quenu, is first saved and ultimately doomed:"Here and there fern-leaves, tastefully disposed, changed the plates which they encircled into bouquets fringed with foliage. There was a wealth of rich, luscious, melting things. Down below, quite close to the window, jars of preserved sausage-meat were interspersed with pots of mustard. Above these were some small, plump, boned hams, golden with their dressings of toasted bread-crumbs, and adorned at the knuckles with green rosettes. Next came the larger dishes, some containing preserved Strasbourg tongues, enclosed in bladders coloured a bright red and varnished, so that they looked quite sanguineous beside the pale sausages and trotters; then there were black-puddings coiled like harmless snakes, healthy looking chitterlings piled up two by two; Lyons sausages in little silver copes that made them look like choristers; hot pies, with little banner-like tickets stuck in them; big hams, and great glazed joints of veal and pork, whose jelly was as limpid as sugar-candy. In the rear were other dishes and earthen pans in which meat, minced and sliced, slumbered beneath lakes of melted fat. And betwixt the various plates and dishes, jars and bottles of sauce, culis, stock and preserved truffles, pans of foie gras and boxes of sardines and tunny-fish were strewn over the bed of paper shavings. A box of creamy cheeses, and one of edible snails, the apertures of whose shells were dressed with butter and parsley, had been placed carelessly at either corner. Finally, from a bar overhead strings of sausages and saveloys of various sizes hung down symmetrically like cords and tassels; while in the rear fragments of intestinal membranes showed like lacework, like some guipure of white flesh. And on the highest tier in this sanctuary of gluttony, amidst the membranes and between two bouquets of purple gladioli, the window stand was crowned by a small square aquarium, ornamented with rock-work, and containing a couple of gold-fish, which were continually swimming round it." It's simultaneously revolting and intriguing, and the reader digests it as ravenously as Florent, who is nearly starved to death as he takes this all in. Most of the intensely descriptive parts involve market scenes, and Zola uses them brilliantly to illustrate his point about "the fat and the thin," or the rich and the poor.Another passage describes the window of a jewelry store in the eyes of a market girl:"In the evenings she would dazzle herself with the displays in the windows of the big jewellers in the Rue Montmartre. That terrible street deafened her with its ceaseless flow of vehicles, and the streaming crowd never ceased to jostle her; still she did not stir, but remained feasting her eyes on the blazing splendour set out in the light of the reflecting lamps which hung outside the windows. On one side all was white with the bright glitter of silver: watches in rows, chains hanging, spoons and forks laid crossways, cups, snuff-boxes, napkin-rings, and combs arranged on shelves. The silver thimbles, dotting a porcelain stand covered with a glass shade, had an especial attraction for her. Then on the other side the windows glistened with the tawny glow of gold. A cascade of long pendant chains descended from above, rippling with ruddy gleams; small ladies' watches, with the backs of their cases displayed, sparkled like fallen stars; wedding rings clustered round slender rods; bracelets, broaches, and other costly ornaments glittered on the black velvet linings of their cases; jewelled rings set their stands aglow with blue, green, yellow, and violet flamelets; while on every tier of the shelves superposed rows of earrings and crosses and lockets hung against the crystal like the rich fringes of altar-cloths. The glow of this gold illumined the street half way across with a sun-like radiance. And Cadine, as she gazed at it, almost fancied that she was in the presence of something holy, or on the threshold of the Emperor's treasure chamber." Le Ventre de Paris is a collection of indulgences, and in the backdrop a harmless, idealistic revolutionary is so blinded by this excess that he doesn't notice the backstabbing, greedy, ravenous vultures circling around him throughout the entire book (until it's too late, of course).
I’m not going to lie: I was on the verge of giving up when I reached Chapter Three. The revolting description of the putrid smells of the Central Markets (present-day Les Halles), while evincing Zola’s extraordinary keen observation of details and his skills with words, was a major turn-off. I think I will avoid eating cheese for a long time to come.Notwithstanding, I did slog along to reach Chapter Five, whence the action started to pick up steam, and by the time I finished the novel, tears filled my eyes. In the final analysis, I have to admit that I still liked Zola’s use of symbolism that is heavily laced with satire, especially in his tongue-in-cheek depiction of the hypocrisy of the haves (“the fat”) towards the have-nots (“the thin”) (like Beautiful Lisa’s initial superficial warmth towards Scraggy Florent, which then turns to bitter alienation when her self interest is threatened), of the envious tendencies of the wannabe haves (like the jealous malice of the gossipy and greedy Mademoiselle Saget, Madame Lecoeur, La Sarriet and Madame Mehudin), and of the invincible driving force of materialism in a bourgeois society in general (like the markets being symbolized as the “glutted, digesting beast of Paris, wallowing in its fat and silently upholding the Empire”). It seems to me that somewhere beneath all the stomach-turning descriptive lexicon, Zola wants to express just one thought in this novel, which is what the painter Claude says in exclamation at the very end: “What blackguards respectable people are!”In a less serious note, the novel does offer some interesting tidbits about Paris in the early days of the Second Empire. One of these was a practice where bijoutiers peddled leftover food scraps from the large restaurants, the royal households and state ministries to the underprivileged class for a few sous per portion. Another was that the fattening of pigeons was done by specially trained laborers called gaveurs, whose job was to force-feed the pigeons.
What do You think about The Belly Of Paris (2006)?
The cover of this novel should come with a warning. Well, may be not even just a warning, for it should be sold with a calorie counter. I am afraid I may have put on several kilos while reading this. Perhaps it would be advisable to read it while running on the treadmill. The lush descriptions of succulent food could well activate and stimulate the production of a peculiar kind of literary enzymes which multiply by ten the energy provided by ingested food if it has been deliciously described.Warnings should go also for the vegetarians. Or the sections dealing with raw meat on display, black pudding, lard and all kinds of sausages, could make them feel disgusted with Zola. These ought to be marked and those who want their cholesterol (the LDL kind) somewhat high would be interested in giving it a pass. The pescetarian types could instead go direct to the Fish pavilion and read and smell the bounty piscary. Zola’s account of the fish counter has the variety and range of an oceanic aquarium. In all shapes and tints. Flesh and Fish then. If these victuals are often presented in opposition Zola exploits this by making it drive some aspects of the novel. For the plot moves along the rivalry between the Butcher and Fishmonger ladies.Other people may prefer to move ahead and read the counter on cheeses and butters over and over again. Never would I have thought that anyone would ever write such an Ode to the Cantals, Gruyères, Bries, Port-Saluts, Roqueforts, Monts-d’Or, Neufchâtels, of this world. Sumptuous and delectable. I certainly belong to that group, and if I could only put one update for this book, it would be this glorious passage. But then, I am a lacto-addict.And even if the book first pays attention to the vegetables, it may be of interest to leave that section to read at the end. I always liked the French custom of eating salad at the end of meals. I don’t know why Zola did not follow this commendable habit here. No matter, his vegetables sparkle like colourful jewels.But not everything is the food. There is history too. Although I have read a fair amount of Zola in the past, for its literary appeal, I was now drawn for its documentary value. And I have not been disappointed. This novel can be read as an intense social, economic and political document.Although published in 1873, when France had installed the Third Republic, the novel is set in the early years of the Second Empire when the population of Paris had doubled in just a few decades. This was the time of the Haussmannization of the city, and amongst other projects, the Central Market of Paris was rebuilt in a structure of glass and steel pavilions to accommodate the provisioning of the city. Balzac had already been fascinated by the logistics required for the supply of food for the daily consumption of Parisians. And Zola followed Balzac’s steps in this too. Reading his Ventre de Paris one feels the compulsion to google all kinds of data relating to Les Halles of Victor Baltard (1805-1974).But what fascinated me the most during this read was Zola’s exploration of the nature of substantiality and his blurring of the borderline separating the human from the material. In some of his descriptions there is a symbiosis between the individual and the corporeality of her/his world that goes beyond anthropomorphism. Inevitably, I had to think of Arcimboldo’s fantasies..For there is something Surreal in Zola’s Naturalism.
—Kalliope
«Чрево Парижа» можно сравнить с производственным романом. Действующие лица работают, а автор во всех деталях делится с читателем информацией. Энциклопедия жизни Франции середины XIX века — иначе охарактеризовать эту книгу не получается. Золя разбавляет описания диалогами и действиями персонажей, но всё это выглядит крайне бледно. Можно подумать, человек человеку — волк. Иных ассоциаций не возникает. Каждый персонаж пытается урвать кусок получше, заплатив за него поменьше. Изредка вперёд выходит благородство отдельных членов общества, но смотрится оно довольно непривычно. Читатель не сможет проявить сочувствие к угнетаемым, которые сами при удобном случае сами нагреют первого попавшегося им зазевавшегося человека. Не желает Золя уделять внимание совестливости, а может в его время данное понятие не имело того значения, до которого человечество дошло в XX веке. Всегда нужно думать только о себе — такое впечатление складывается от первых книг цикла: Пьер Ругон показал пример детям, а те своими поступками продолжили дело отца, как и их двоюродная родня из семейства Антуана Маккара.(c) Trounin
—Trounin
The main character of this book, Florent – a man who was deported during the days that followed Louis-Napoléon's coup – who returns (illegally) to Paris after some years in exile, does not belong to the Rougon-Macquart family. But his sister-in-law, Lisa, is. When he gets to the capital he goes to Les Halles, a new and gigantic market, where his brother who has become a butcher and has a shop with his wife. They soon try to accomodate him to a confortable life-style and try to make him gain weight. Indeed, even if Florent is a harmless individual – but with some revolutionary ideas and hatred towards the Empire – he will not be accepted and gradually be perceived as an agent of chaos who wants to disrupt the easy and calm lives the people in Les Halles are living. Florent is a 'thin', which immediately generates mistrust in the eyes of Lisa, who thinks of herself as a respectable woman, who minds her own business (and is getting on pretty well) and is actually quite satisfied with the Empire, as long as they don't bother her way of living. The book basically shows this cruelty, this tyranny that lies behind those who think themselves as decent. The description of the market, and the foods is almost nauseating in the sense that there seems to be an infinite amount of it, striking colours and smells that mix with each other.
—Teresa
