When I was at university my best friend and I would regularly write to each other as, for the first time, we were at different ends of the country. These letters [yes, letters – we were not being pretentious; neither of us could afford a computer as kids and so didn’t know how to use email until later] would usually contain details of any, uh, girl-related activity, music recommendations and book recommendations. Parts of these letters have stayed with me – certain relationships [one in particular with a girl called Julie; my mate had issues with Wayne, her ex], certain records he urged on me and which I bought as soon as I was able, and certain books I sought out from the library. One of the books he once recommended was a French novel, about a young man trying to make his way in the world. I replied to my friend that it sounded interesting, or something of that sort, and a week later a package, rather than the expected letter, arrived. Inside was Le Rouge et la Noir by Stendhal. As I opened the book I noticed that my friend had written something on the reverse of the cover. “Julien Sorel is you!” it said.What did he mean by that? Well, first of all, to call me, at that time, an arrogant boy with a chip on my shoulder about my upbringing is probably right on the money. Furthermore, I must admit, that I was, shall we say, a bit of a cad, and that, more specifically, I approached my relations with women almost as though they were a test of my daring or courage. I was, then, regularly getting myself embroiled in ridiculous situations, things like seeing how many girlfriends I could manage at the same time; or sleeping with my friend’s girlfriend, in the same halls of residence in which he also lived, only a couple of rooms away in fact, so that I had to hotfoot it out of there in the early hours of the morning, hoping that he wouldn’t be on the corridor and catch me. I also got up to various sordid things in photobooths, on trains and at concerts, and so on. Now, before anyone starts spamming me with negative comments, I am fully aware that this was not admirable, nor recommendable, behaviour; but, yes, it is fair to say that I was a little like Julien Sorel.Julien is the poor son of a carpenter, who has ambitions to be a priest; he is, on the surface at least, a sensitive, bookish sort. In the early stages of the novel one might think that The Red and The Black is going to be a French version of Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure, a book that will focus on the exploits of a generally good boy as he struggles to better himself. However, when Julien moves in with the de Renal’s, in the capacity of tutor to their children, it quickly becomes clear that he is a rather haughty and self-obsessed sort, who considers the world something to bring under his heel, and often sees and uses people dispassionately. This dispassionate approach is particularly interesting in relation to the lady of the house, Louise de Renal, with whom he starts an affair. Julien, whose hero is Napoleon, conducts this relationship as though undertaking a military campaign. He makes notes for himself, writes plans; he doesn’t behave intuitively, or act on passionate impulse, but, rather, does what he thinks he ought to do in order to win the mayor’s wife, making bolder and bolder plays seemingly as a way of finding out what exactly he can get away with. Crucially, he doesn’t really want the woman, but thinks it fitting that he have her, and enjoys the idea that a rich lady will fall for the likes of him; it is, for him, the winning that counts, he has no great interest in drinking the victory champagne. As suggested in my opening paragraphs, Julien, just like my good self, is particularly sensitive regarding his background; and this colours the way that he sees the world. He appears to believe that everyone undervalues him, or disdains him, and so, in a kind of retaliation, or boon to his ego, he wants to conquer them.“I ought to keep a diary of this siege, he said to himself on returning to the hotel; otherwise I will lose track of my assaults.”Madame de Renal, on the other hand, genuinely loves Julien, although it is suggested that she loves him more for what he is not than what he is. I found her a fascinating character, both in terms of her personality and psychology and what she says about Stendhal as a writer. She is considered in Verrieres to be a chaste, proud and high-minded woman, who will not succumb to flirtation, having spurned the advances of Valenod. However, Stendhal portrays her as essentially artless; she is a woman who does not consider herself superior to men, but, rather, thinking them coarse and dull, she has no interest in them. There’s a really nice insight when it is said that she doesn’t find her husband boring simply because she finds other men more boring than him. I loved that; a really clever, subtle distinction. She falls for Julien, then, because he is not a man; he is, at seventeen, literally a boy; indeed, when she first sees him she likens him to, even suspects him of being, a girl dressed as a boy, and notes his fine pale complexion. Once she gets to know him a little, he also gives the impression of being cultured and well-read and in touch with his own finer feelings. Everything he is, her husband, and other provincial men, are not.In the hands of many writers Louise de Renal would be unbearable. Dickens’ work features a number of these inexperienced, otherworldy women, and readers generally want to lynch them. Yet, while she does occasionally irritate, for the most part I found Madame thoroughly endearing. And this is because Stendhal doesn’t really judge his characters, or only in a gently satirical way, or try and tell you what to think of them; he allows them to breathe, and doesn’t make them ‘a type’ of one extreme or another. Louise, for example, is an adulteress, who adores her lover more than her own children, which is not particularly admirable, of course. Yet she is also sympathetic, primarily because she is clumsily dealing with the novel state of being in love, and because her husband is a boor. She is strangely noble, because her feelings are pure, but ignoble in her actions. Likewise, she is artless, but not dim; she is both strong and weak…she is, as much can be the case with any fictional character, like a real person.While Book One is a pretty standard, but very enjoyable, tale of a cheating milf and her young lover, featuring much roguery and melodrama, the second, which involves Julien’s relationship with Mathilde de La Mole, is something else entirely. Of course, it is different on the most literal, basic level, in that Mathilde is a younger woman, similar in age to Julien, and she is not married, but this is obviously not what makes Book Two so extraordinary. I was once in a relationship that simply would not settle down, would not work; it was, I think I have said elsewhere, an Israeli-Palestinian type deal. Anyway, after some time spent needling each other, my ex-girlfriend one day said to me, “we both want the power in the relationship; we’re too proud and bloody-minded to allow ourselves to submit, even for a moment, to the other. And so we are constantly trying to make the other submissive.” Or words to that effect. And I think she was right. What is so startling about Julien and Mathilde’s relationship is that it is just like this so modern a conflict. They are equals – not socially, but intellectually and emotionally – and they are both too proud to give in to the other; so they spend much of their time antagonising each other, butting heads; yes, they will occasionally call a truce, and so come together, but one or both will regret it almost immediately afterwards. The thing is, love can only flourish if one relinquishes one’s ego, one’s absolute power over oneself. Moreover, it is worth mentioning that, once again, Mathilde esteems Julien for what he is not, rather than what he is; he is not like the tiresome, predictable suitors she has previously attracted; she sees danger in him and reckless passion.None of this, however, is the novel’s real selling point; I was very impressed by much of what Stendhal pulls off in The Red and The Black but there is one thing about it that had me in awe. Andre Gide said that the book was far ahead of its time, and Friedrich Nietzsche spoke glowingly of the Frenchman’s psychology, but neither, in my opinion, quite goes far enough in their praise. Ahead of its time? Reading it you’d think Sendhal had a DeLorean. The first psychological novel? It’s as though Henry James had looked at Dumas’ body of work and thought ‘I can do that – rascals, heroism, cheating women – a piece of piss!’ And, lo, he did do it, furnishing the adventure story with unrelenting, complex introspection. In all seriousness, I couldn’t believe what I was reading: there are pages and pages given over to the characters’ thought processes, so much so that for much of the second half there’s hardly any plot at all. For example, there’s a chapter in my translation called Dialogue With a Master, most of which is dedicated to de Renal’s interior monologue concerning his suspicions about Julien and his wife. Moreover, Mathilde’s presence in the text is almost entirely in her head and Julien’s. And this book was published in 1830! Truly, if Virginia Woolf is to be called a modernist, then what is Stendhal?
Vabbè, dai, recensioni su “Il rosso e in nero” ne sono state scritte a bizzeffe. Aggiungerne un’altra sarebbe superfluo. Vediamo di farne, allora, qualcosa di diverso: appunti sparsi, annotazioni estemporanee, così come mi vengono. Una recensione un po’ per scherzo, insomma, e molto lacunosa.Per esempio, io direi che il padre di Stendhal assomiglia in maniera inquietante a Monty Burns, dei Simpson:[Padre di Stendhal][Monty Burns]A Stendhal non piaceva molto suo padre. E a Julien Sorel non piaceva affatto il suo. Madame Bovary, c'est moi affermava infatti Flaubert (ammesso e non concesso l’abbia detto davvero). Come andrà a finire la storia, Stendhal ce lo dice subito, suppergiù dopo una trentina di pagine:Sull'inginocchiatoio Julien notò un pezzo di carta stampata, che sembrava messo lì apposta perché qualcuno lo leggesse. Vi lasciò cadere lo sguardo e vide: “Particolari sull'esecuzione e sugli ultimi momenti di Louis Jenrel, giustiziato a Besançon, il ...”La carta era strappata. Sul retro si potevano leggere le due prime parole di una riga: Il primo passo.«Chi avrà messo qui questo pezzo di carta?» pensò Julien. «Povero disgraziato,» aggiunse con un sospiro, «il suo nome finisce come il mio...» e spiegazzò il foglio.Nell'uscire Julien ebbe l'impressione di vedere del sangue vicino all'acquasantiera: era acqua benedetta sparsa a terra, e il riflesso delle tende rosse che coprivano le finestre la rendeva simile al sangue.Marie Henri Beyle aveva una faccia simpatica, a giudicare da questo ritratto di Olof Johan Södermark. Tanti bei ricciolini, un po’ sullo stereotipato genere “Bonaparte” e un po’ sull’altrettanto stereotipato genere “antico romano”. La barba mi ricorda tanto Camillo Benso Conte di Cavour. Gli occhi, se il pittore ha colto il vero, non paiono guardare esattamente nella stessa direzione. Quello sinistro (guardando il ritratto) punta sull’osservatore, ma quello destro (sempre guardando il ritratto) punta leggermente più in basso. Per guardare cosa?Stendhal, tramite la figura di Sorel, invita a riconsiderare tre termini che, apparentemente e solitamente sono ritenuti sinonimi, ma che in realtà non lo sono. Chi è un “egotista” (vocabolo da lui stesso inventato)? Chi è un “egoista”? Chi è un “egocentrico”? Io ho trovato queste definizioni, che mi sono sembrate abbastanza chiarificatrici: Un “egotista” ipervaluta se stesso in relazione all'Altro.Un “egoista” trae un vantaggio personale a discapito dell'Altro.Un “egocentrico” non considera l'Altro, negandolo. Ecco, Julien Sorel è un “egotista” (o “egotico”, secondo l’Accademia della Crusca). Ossia, è ambizioso, ma non è né cinico, né estraneo all’ambiente in cui vive.Le descrizioni paesaggistiche e quelle più propriamente storiche sono straordinariamente lievi in Stendhal. Preferisce che entrambi filtrino un po’ alla volta attraverso le situazioni che vivono i personaggi, piuttosto che farne un uso massiccio inserito tra i capitoli o a mo’ di parentesi “didattiche” e/o “didascaliche”. Anche questo aspetto è molto moderno. Quello che sto per scrivere potrà apparire molto bizzarro e quasi irriverente nei confronti di un autore così acclamato e così, come si suol dire, “classico”. Ma l’ho pensato, per cui lo dico lo stesso (è difficile che non lo faccia, del resto): Stendhal mi ha rammentato Stephen King. Me lo ha rammentato perché ho avuto la netta sensazione che, esattamente come è quasi sempre per King, avesse una “storia” in testa che intendeva raccontare. E che gli premesse farlo. E quindi lo ha fatto. Una delle migliori ragioni, se non la migliore in assoluto, per scrivere. Semplice, chiara e onesta. I lettori lo sanno. Tutti i lettori e non solo i “fedeli lettori”. :-)Stendhal non è estraneo a toni che, a volte, sconfinano con il romanzo d’appendice, ma non li disdegna. Al contrario, se ne appropria per usarli ai suoi fini.Alcune debolezze di Julien Sorel sono struggentemente simili a quelle di Stendhal.Il rosso e il nero. Le rouge et le noir. Come una partita a scacchi? Oppure come una roulette? Forse un po’ di entrambi, direi. Ma il punto è che Julien Sorel era inevitabilmente destinato a perdere, sin dall’inizio. Non aveva chance alcuna. O meglio, una ce l’avrebbe anche avuta: diventare socio di Fouqué. Ma non poteva, perché sentiva confusamente di ambire a ben altro. E, comunque, Stendhal non glielo avrebbe mai permesso. In fondo, era il “passaporto” dell’autore per condurre il lettore attraverso un pezzo di storia francese. ;-))La presa di coscienza finale di Julien è amaramente simile a quella della Clarissa Vaughan (alias "Mrs. Dalloway") di Cunningham: “Era quella la felicità, era quella”. Purtroppo, ce ne si accorge sempre troppo tardi.******In buona sostanza, è un bellissimo affresco di un particolare momento storico. E’ un romanzo ricco di personaggi, accuratamente delineati e a tutt’oggi vividissimi, sebbene, ovviamente, un tantino datati. Si legge senza sforzo, anche se, forse, le parentesi sentimentali un po’ di noia la suscitano, ma presto riscattata da quel che accade al contorno. Per me è stata una rilettura, che non rimpiango di aver fatto. Magari a voi, ugualmente, non dispiacerà accostarvene per la prima volta.*******Ventiseiesimo GdL della Stamberga dei LettoriDa domenica 1 febbraio 2015 a sabato 7 febbraio 2015: Parte I da Capitolo I a LETTERA ANONIMA (subito dopo il capitolo XX);Da domenica 8 febbraio 2015 a sabato 14 febbraio 2015: Parte I da Capitolo XXI a Capitolo XXX; Parte II da Capitolo I a Capitolo IV;Da domenica 15 febbraio 2015 a sabato 21 febbraio 2015: Parte II da Capitolo V a Capitolo XXII;Da domenica 22 febbraio 2015 a sabato 28 febbraio 2015: Parte II da Capitolo XXIII a Capitolo XLV.
What do You think about The Red And The Black (2002)?
Il a déjà été dit plusieurs fois, mais je ne me fatigue jamais de le redire, émerveillée – la fascination des classiques se trouve, pardonnez-moi le truisme, dans leur impeccable classicisme – c’est-à-dire, dans le fait qu’ils sont en même temps anciens et actuels, connus et surprenants, lus et à découvrir. Je relis, pour la troisième fois, je pense, Le Rouge et le Noir, et sa modernité m’éblouit comme si je le lisais pour la première fois. Je sais bien que Stendhal a été un innovateur dans le roman du XIXe siècle, et qu’il a contrarié ses contemporains par sa capacité, entre autres, de réinventer la sensibilité romantique avec des moyens réalistes, ce qui a fait Prosper Mérimée, si je me rappelle bien, lui reprocher d’avoir trahi l’idéal de l’art en dévoilant les tares indicibles de l’âme humaine. Mais je sais également que l’innovation littéraire n’est pas toujours une garantie d’immortalité, surtout étant donné la rapidité avec laquelle les nouveautés se démodent pour faire place à d’autres nouveautés. Pourtant, dans notre époque littéraire si flegmatique pour ne pas dire cynique, ou tout semble avoir été dit, écrit, essayé, voici un roman qui peut encore étonner, non nécessairement par les méthodes employés (la plupart étaient déjà connues de son temps, les autres sont entrées dans la normalité de l’écriture par après), mais par l’étrange rencontre de ces méthodes apparemment contradictoires dans une seule œuvre qui peut être considérée à la fois réaliste, romantique, sociale, psychologique, historique, autoréférentielle, métaromanesque, etc. – vu que tous ces termes semblent à la fois justes et inappropriés, selon cette habitude écolière d’utiliser l’alternance (ou… ou) plutôt que l’addition (et… et) pour caractériser un écrit et les voici regroupées et entremêlées dans une harmonie étonnante là où on aurait pu accuser l’hybridité, la superficialité et même l’incohérence…Sans parler du double registre de la narration, lui aussi contradictoire : grave et ironique à la fois, en vrai roman postmoderne : la fameuse ironie romantique des quelques passages isolés (dans lesquels le narrateur s’interroge soit de la sagesse d’inclure dans le roman des scènes politiques susceptibles à ennuyer le lecteur, soit des scènes de mœurs susceptibles à le férir) est remplacée et surpassée par une ironie plus subtile toutes les fois que le narrateur soit joue avec la perception du lecteur en lui suggérant des points de vue sur les personnages qui s’avèrent partiels ou inexactes soit l’utilise comme moyen d’introspection. Au début du roman, par exemple, le point de vue du narrateur nous impose l’image d’un Julien ambitieux mais borné, dont l’orgueil se substitue à l’intelligence : « Avec une âme de feu, Julien avait une de ces mémoires étonnantes si souvent unies à la sottise ». Plus loin, pourtant, nous retrouvons le même héros s’autoironisant avec une finesse qui s’échappe à toute suspicion de pauvreté d’esprit :Julien atteignit à un tel degré de perfection dans ce genre d’éloquence, qui a remplacé la rapidité d’action de l’empire, qu’il finit par s’ennuyer lui-même par le son de ses paroles.Comme un bildungsroman, le livre suit le destin de Julien autour du thème de l’inné et l’acquis. Ses traits de caractère fondamentaux – l’intelligence, l’orgueil et l’ambition vont l’aider à conquérir une société censée à le mépriser pour son origine humble, mais ces mêmes traits vont le perdre. Dans la préface de mon édition, le professeur V. Del Litto voit en Julien plutôt quelqu’un gouverné par le sentiment que par la raison : « L’ambition et l’hypocrisie ne forment qu’apparemment le fond du caractère de Julien Sorel. Si le jeune homme en véritable disciple de feu Tartuffe, n’avait poursuivi que des buts ambitieux, il ne se serait pas livré au meurtre. Vouloir tuer, et d’une manière si spectaculaire, n’est pas le fait d’un ambitieux, mais d’un passionnel. De fait, l’hypocrisie n’est pour Julien qu’une attitude imposée par la société où il est obligé de vivre. »L’hypothèse est séduisante, mais elle ne me semble pas tout à fait juste. Moi, je vois en Julien un orgueilleux démesuré plutôt qu’un ambitieux ou un passionnel. C’est l’orgueil blessé et non l’amour qui le pousse à tirer sur Mme de Rênal, l’insulte qu’il a subie à cause de sa lettre et qui ne peut pas être effacée qu’avec le sang. Amour, avenir, vie, rien n’est plus important que réparer cette offense. S’il est vrai que l’amour prend, comme le croit Stendhal quatre formes, amour-goût, amour-physique, amour-vanité et amour-passion, c’est l’amour-vanité ce que Julien éprouve pour les deux femmes : en ce qui concerne Mme de Rênal c’est la vanité d’avoir réussi les défis qu’il s’est proposés et de se faire aimer par une femme dont la condition sociale est bien supérieure à lui ; en ce qui concerne Mathilde de La Mole la vanité de se faire aimer par la plus belle fille de la haute société (n’oublions pas qu’elle lui semble plutôt laide au début) et bien-sûr de triompher contre ses rivaux au noms illustres. Quant à Mathilde, son amour est aussi un « amour de tête » né de sa fierté, de la conscience de sa supériorité. Deux mises en abyme ou si vous voulez deux présages annoncent le destin de ces deux personnages : la page de journal avec l’article d’un crime passionnel que Julien voit dans l’église au début du roman et le conte tragique d’amour entre Boniface de La Mole et la reine Margueritte de Navarre. La seule qui vit l’amour passionnel (le seul vrai amour, selon Stendhal) et la seule qui va mourir à cause de cet amour, est Mme de Rênal. Même l’amour que Julien lui déclare après sa tentative de meurtre, n’est pas le vrai – c’est plutôt cet amour-goût, né de son désir de laisser après lui le souvenir d’un sentiment exaltant, ennoblissant, et, pourquoi non, compensatoire :« Ai-je beaucoup aimé ? Ah ! j’ai aimé Mme de Rénal, mais ma conduite a été atroce. Là, comme ailleurs, le mérite simple et modeste a été abandonné pour ce qui est brillant… »Je pense de nouveau aux paroles de Prosper Mérimée : « Il y a dans le caractère de Julien des traits atroces, dont tout le monde sent la vérité mais qui font horreur » et je trouve leur pathétisme peu justifié. Julien n’est pas du tout une âme noire, mais tragique. Comme dans nous tous, le rouge de l’aube et le noir de la nuit se sont posés plus d’une fois sur son cœur mais c’est sa lutte contre la platitude de l’existence qui le rend exceptionnel. C’est pourquoi je ne peux pas être d’accord avec ceux qui disent que la fin du roman est forcée et lui nuit. Au contraire, c’est la fin naturelle d’un jeune homme dont le plus grand ennemi était la médiocrité et qui par conséquent n’aurait jamais pu s’habituer à une existence tranquille et insipide, à côté de Mathilde, dans un coin perdu du pays. Par conséquent, sa sortie de la scène, tout comme son entrée, était censée être spectaculaire.
—Stela
If nothing else, read Moncrieff's translation to seep yourself in the highly latinate, generally overeducated and comfortably contorted prose ('But the adroitness with the want of which we are reproaching him would have debarred the sublime impulse of seizing the sword which, at that moment, made him appear so handsome in the eyes of Mademoiselle de La Mole') -- it will do wonders for the style of your work emails. Trust me on this one.What to say about Stendhal? I think he exists halfway between Austen and Dostoevsky. The Red and the Black is fundamentally a novel of manners concerned with class mobility and lack thereof, as with Austen, but with a healthy dose of bombast that Dostoevsky so enjoys. A great bulk of action occurs in drawing rooms and such, though not all. Stendhal lacks Austen's narrow provincialism, and the characters certainly lack the British reserve. Where Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy may achieve their final unbridled passionate consummation by holding hands, Stendhal's lovers will fornicate wildly under the cover of night with the aid of purloined ladders, sometimes each desperately trying to believe they feel what they think they should feel while their primary concern is really with who gets the better of whom. Or sometimes the love is impossibly sweet and self sacrificing, unyielding and frightfully destructive.Some time ago I heard the sixteen year old girl next door have a clandestine, tearful conversation with someone much quieter in front of our houses at two in the morning on a weekday. Overheard in brief moments of wakefulness -- 'Don't run away from me -- I'll chase you.' -- a bit of quaver in the voice, it's taking some bravery, so aware of how she's exposing herself yet finding herself proud of how the words sound. Like she's trying on a daring dress, looking at herself in the mirror, both scandalized and seduced by the effect. That's what Stendhal is all about -- that moment of discovery.
—David Agraz
It's fairly easy to see why this book isn't more well-known as it was ahead of its time in 1830 and overshadowed by Flaubert, Balzac, and Hugo. And despite the fact that some consider it among the first "modern" novels it is probably a bit too dated to appeal to a more modern-focused crowd. I think I've come to a perfect period in my reading where this makes perfect sense. After Proust, Banffy and Zilahy - another read about courtly high society was a tough sell but I persevered a bit exhausted but wiser for my efforts. Like Banffy and Zilahy - Stendhal's work is predominately concerned with the psychological lives of socially engaged thinker/outsiders. Like Witkacy - this means infinitely more interesting and prone to emotional swings that are sometimes deadly and often sexy. I imagine this was pretty racy stuff in the 1830's as characters brush elbows as gently as the petals in the ornate gardens and meet their deaths with profoundly less subtlety. The range of human feeling is rendered with a wide palette of interactions that are executed with a fine intelligence that never condescends and tells you exactly how to feel. Who are the pious? The justified? The likeable? You'll decide but only the most overtly hapless bores are worthy of disregard. No sharp mind will be too bored - but no dullard will be engaged. As much and I enjoyed this - it was work. The prose isn't anything so difficult - but it's all very contemplative and dense. There's little alacrity in general but Stendhal has a subtle sense of humor that works much like Zilahy's Angry Angel - nothing base or cheap. The Red and the black is like a field-guide to exploiting rich women who are so bored that they are happy to be dragged to hell just to have someone do something exciting to them. Social climbing is seen as the worst sin that only results in calunmy and humiliation. As in other similar dramas - the victims are educated just enough to enter society and love-sick enough to attract rogue genius up their ladders for a dangerous liaison. This invariably leads to non-marital impregnation, social downfall and subsequently death. A scoundrel and the child of a scoundrel never occupy life together for long. Pay close attention and you will learn fairly time-tested formulas for attracting, conquering and devouring your prey if such things appeal to you. But woe to thee that doesn't have the heart and mind to benefit from their advantages - because like Witkacy made clear - it's insatiability that invites Mephistopheles. I just may never willingly read another French/Hungarian/Austrian 19-th century court drama again - and there's free beer tomorrow. Unlike Banffy and Zilahy - Stendhal rarely shares a meal or several glasses of wine with the reader. So the next time I won't not read a courtly screw and stew - I think it will be set about 900 miles to the east of Paris and people will at least dance a czardas.
—Chuck LoPresti
