The memory of this ball, then, became an occupation for Emma.
Whenever the Wednesday came round she said to herself as she awoke, “Ah! I was there a week—a fortnight—three weeks ago.”
And little by little the faces grew confused in her remembrance.
She forgot the tune of the quadrilles; she no longer saw the liveries and appointments so distinctly; some details escaped her, but the regret remained with her.
And thus ends chapter eight of Madame Bovary. It is an archetypal chapter for any romance novel, be it Cinderella or any period romance - the grand ball. We start riding up in the carriage, we enter a strange new world of sights and delights, and we are swept off our feet in a waltz with by a dark and mysterious stranger. By the end of the night, our senses are so thoroughly numbed we wonder what it all was - a dream, perhaps?
Perhaps.
And like a dream, the memory soon fades, but not the feelings in which this dream hath planted.
Two things strike me about this chapter. One is how slow it was, purposefully done to immerse you in the tastes, smells, sights, sounds, and all encompassing feeling of what is was to be in one of these affairs back in that day. Today, yes, this is invaluable information since that time no longer exists, and these words (and words of other books) are mostly what we have to go on to understand this era. I can see now how a reviewer, if this were a modern book about a modern party, would have absolutely panned this chapter as a waste of time, we know what a party looks like! We know how this is! Get to the good stuff and stop wasting my time.
Impatience is the curse of the modern era.
Once I got over my modern 30-second or less attention span, I started to relax and enjoy the slow ride. You do not get that much at all these days, a leisurely, slow motion camera swooping over every delectable dish, every hushed conversation, every random happenstance, and every sight and smell of a place which once was and never shall be again. You don't get that these days. We write only the good stuff, and trim the fat. We cut the crust off the bread. We forego the greater sense of there for the immediacy of the moments between two characters.
I liked this chapter a lot, even though it did little and meant by itself less to he overall flow than just a portal she stepped through in that Alice in Wonderland looking-glass moment.
It was a chapter that made me say, "I am slowing down just a little in my next book."
Even if it costs me a star or two on my reviews. Too slow paced. Too much detail. Some parts that dragged. That whole chapter meant nothing.
Well, sorry, there is a reason for everything, and if I wish to take my time and celebrate stepping through that looking glass for a moment longer than what our attention spans are used to, I am going to take it. This isn't padding, and there is a reason for it all. Be patient. I know, I feel that is asking a lot of readers these days.
The second thing which strikes me about this chapter is how it seems to float again. We are back to Emma as an observer, as almost a character without any character at all. She exists to observe, almost as if her eyes are the camera which takes in everything yet offers nothing in return. This feels like those full-motion-video games which the player's eyes are the camera, a handsome prince walks up, puts his face in the lens, and asks, 'How are you doing, this evening, my fair lady?' You get the feeling there is no lady there at all, and we are waltzing on the edge of second person narrative in this moment.
You enter the ball room, and everyone around you is wearing frilly and layered ball gowns, white pinned up wigs, and a dashing man in a long red coat with a penciled mustache and wink in his eye catches your gaze.
That. To me, it feels like that. Then again, in romance we do a lot of 'the reader should imagine being in the story' so we create characters like that, which a person could easily replace with themselves. You see this in a lot of YA fiction these days, angst-filled, loner, has a family but not really, strong-willed, vulnerable, and independent types that more reflect the qualities of people that read the genre than they are possibly a real person in a real world. Real people are complicated, protagonists in commercial fiction typically are not since they need to role-play with the reader's fantasies.
It is not wrong, just a style used to raise immersion. But I get that feeling.
Reading, I feel, takes me back. It salves the pain. It lights the fire. It gives me ideas. Reading is that thing we sometimes put off doing, yet it always delivers to us the essential elixir of life that raises our spirits. We forget, we do not read, and then we fall out of life.
The more I read the happier I am.
The less Internet and television I do the happier I am, though these things have me addicted like a drug. They are so easy. The feelings which they generate are so instant and immediate it is like a rush every time I return to that fix. Social media especially. I was never big on doing social media, but I was big on reading it.
I need to reduce my TV and Internet time, I do. The sole exception is the time I spend with you. That is a part of my rehab, and I see this as finding a balance between sharing my thoughts, writing new books, and participating in this thing we call life.
But there are truths I find along the way. Simple things I see. Things others may not agree with but I find compelling nonetheless. thoughts on this world we live in and the worlds we only can visit in books.
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