Recently, I reread Madame Bovary, by Gustave Flaubert. I wanted to read something that teemed with fascinating details. Flaubert is a master of detail. By the end of the novel, I was feeling a little guilty by reading this book; I had the peculiar feeling that by reading it, I was reanimating all the suffering that occurs in this tragic story, the bulk of it precipitated by the monumental appetite of Emma Bovary, a yearning so outlandish, so romantic, and so sublime, that it kills her. If the book sits on the shelf unread, I feel, nobody suffers. A foolish, deeply narcissistic notion since at any one moment, and at any time of day, thousands are reading Madame Bovary. Those poor characters will never get any rest. I will, of course, read it again. It’s one of those books that gets bigger and lusher and stronger with each renewed engagement. The details help give it a Zen-like stillness, the natural serenity of objects, small, delicate things. I feel at home with them, with these details, these exquisite touches of light and filigree. And so I began making haiku out of them. Most of them occur at the beginning and midway; as I got caught up in the plot, I paid less attention to details and more attention to emotion. I’ll back another day to glean some more.
satin shoes, the soles
of
which yellowed from the wax
of the parquet floor
the scent of the cigar box
lining,
verbena mixed with
tobacco
embroidery
on
a rosewood loom, over which
revels
a woman’s curls
ambassadors walking
on
parquet floors, in salons
paneled with mirrors
restaurants
where
people dine after midnight
laughing by candlelight
sighs in the moonlight
tears
that flow over the hands
that one abandons
a boudoir with
silk
blinds, filled planters, a bed
mounted on a platform
she picks up a book
dreaming
between the lines
and drops it on her knees
playing piano
in
a red velvet dress a breeze
wanders her motions
at four o'clock
in
the evening, the kerosene
lamp has to be lit
the dew had left silver
lace
joining the cabbages
with long light threads
the trellis covered
with
straw, the vine on the wall
like a large sick snake
when his lamp is lit
the
shadow of the pharmacist
leaning on his desk
above the door of the inn
the
faded old lion still shows
its poodle curls
tousled brown
hair
descending her back
disappearing
into shadows
the gold trim
of
the barometer threw shimmering
lights on the coral
two
swallowtail-shaped
weather
vanes silhouetted
against
the pale dawn
the bank was slippery
clumps
of watercress helped
to keep from falling
she felt herself
vibrate
as if the violins
rolled
over her nerves
cavatina
in
G major with a solemn air
bemoaning love
Emma leaned over
scratching
the velvet rim
of her
opera box
and this illusion
that
charmed her seemed to be
her life itself
Emma laughed
when
the champagne overflowed
the rings on her fingers
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