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1rebeccanyc
Alien Hearts is de Maupassant's last novel, and I found it somewhat tedious. Here's the review I posted on the book page:
Never has such a short novel seemed so long, unless I've blocked others out of my memory. I've spent days trying to figure out what to say about it, because de Maupassant is an excellent writer, but I just could not bring myself to care about the romantic torments of his protagonist, a rich young man with time on his hands named Mariolle, or the woman he becomes obsessed with, Madame de Burne, who seems to play with the emotions of men for fun. Furthermore, many of the characters in the novel say insulting and degrading things about women, although I suppose this only reflects the time and the place. This was a bleak novel in which the members of the upper classes, even when artists of various kinds, seem removed from the reality of life and spend their time playing at parties and affairs and gossip; the only people who seem to have a grasp on something substantive are a sculptor who enters the story only briefly and a young girl Mariolle meets when he flees to the country to try to forget Madame de Burne. I felt that I was experiencing some of the torment Mariolle felt by reading endlessly about his thoughts and feelings; all I can say is that Proust did this a lot better even though he did it at much greater length. I wanted to like this book a lot more than I did.
Never has such a short novel seemed so long, unless I've blocked others out of my memory. I've spent days trying to figure out what to say about it, because de Maupassant is an excellent writer, but I just could not bring myself to care about the romantic torments of his protagonist, a rich young man with time on his hands named Mariolle, or the woman he becomes obsessed with, Madame de Burne, who seems to play with the emotions of men for fun. Furthermore, many of the characters in the novel say insulting and degrading things about women, although I suppose this only reflects the time and the place. This was a bleak novel in which the members of the upper classes, even when artists of various kinds, seem removed from the reality of life and spend their time playing at parties and affairs and gossip; the only people who seem to have a grasp on something substantive are a sculptor who enters the story only briefly and a young girl Mariolle meets when he flees to the country to try to forget Madame de Burne. I felt that I was experiencing some of the torment Mariolle felt by reading endlessly about his thoughts and feelings; all I can say is that Proust did this a lot better even though he did it at much greater length. I wanted to like this book a lot more than I did.
