Whatever this book may be or may not be,
after much re-reading, it remains perpetually the novel of all novels
which the criticism of fiction cannot overlook; as soon as ever we
speak of the principles of the art, we must be prepared to engage with
Flaubert.
This is an accepted necessity among critics, and no doubt there is
every reason why it should be so. The art of Flaubert gives at any
rate a perfectly definite standard; there is no mistaking or
mis-reading it. He is not of those who present many aspects, offering
the support of one or other to different critical doctrines; Flaubert
has only one word to say, and it is impossible to find more than a
single meaning in it. He establishes accordingly a point in the sphere
of criticism, a point which is convenient to us all; we can refer to
it at any time, in the full assurance that its position is the same in
everybody's view; he provides the critic with a motionless pole. And
for my particular purpose, just now, there is no such book as his
Bovary; for it is a novel in which the subject stands firm and clear,
without the least shade of ambiguity to break the line which bounds
it. The story of its treatment may be traced without missing a single
link.
It is copiously commented upon, as we know, in the published letters
of its author, through the long years in which phrase was being added
to phrase; and it is curious indeed to listen to him day by day, and
to listen in vain for any hint of trouble or embarrassment in the
matter of his subject.
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