Madame Bovary Haiku

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