Adolphe by Benjamin Constant
My rating: 4/5 cats
i give a resounding five stars cats to the first part of this book, and three to the end.
overall, it is a perfect encapsulation of a love experience, from its initial obsessive beginnings to the eventual resentment and tender suffering for the sake of another’s feelings. and then—silly silly melodrama.
it is unfair of me to judge the ending of this book. it is a product of its time and i can’t hate on it for giving its audience what they wanted; what they expected. and i can’t be a hypocrite and love wuthering heights and be unmoved by this. (although w.h. earned its ending, and this, being so short, has less character-imprinting to assist it)
but as far as a perfect rendition of the arc of a love affair, i have to applaud this. it manages to slow down the hyper-emotive feelings of personal experiences into universal and relatable ones in a way that is breathtaking…at first.
then it gets a little batshit, into overcalculating proust-territory. but for a while, i was alongside of him yelling “yes! yes! yes!”
and no one believes your preface, constant…everyone knows exactly what and whom this is about. nice backpedal, though.
i read this because it tied in with The Late Lord Byron, and knowing the full story, this is kind of an interesting piece of literary history, and madame de stael comes across way better in this than byron ever did in Glenarvon, which was his own lunatic ex’s take on their relationship. but if any of my former lovers decide to write a book about me, i am stopping that bitch at the press.
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