"Madame Bovary, c'est moi."Gustave Flaubert might have written Madame Bovary in much the same spirit as Cervantes wrote Don Quixote; aspiring to warn the masses against reading too much (like there could be such a thing). But apparently he himself felt an affinity with his widely despised character. Apparently enough of an affinity to say that he was Madame Bovary.
Poor Emma Bovary set herself up to fail. Her avid reading of romantic novels led her to have certain expectations. No one told her about the difference between reality and fiction, and hence she went through life expecting to be swept away by great love and craving luxury. Of course, all there was in store for her were disappointing love affairs, debt and arsenic.
This blog is a statement of sorts. A confession. I plead guilty. Guilty of romanticizing, fantasizing and idealizing à la Emma Bovary.
The Madame Bovarys of this world may annoy some, but this is a place for shameful indulgence. A place devoted to immersion into all things fiction.
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