#les rougon macquart

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She lived in the midst of roses, lilacs, wallflowers, and lilies of the valley; and Marjolin would playfully sniff her skirt, breathe in, furrow his brow, and exclaim: ‘Lily of the valley!’ Then he would sniff her waist and bodice: ‘Wallflowers!’ Then her sleeves and wrists: ‘Lilac!’ Then the back of her neck, all round her throat, cheeks, and lips: ‘Roses!’ Cadine laughed and called him an idiot, and told him to stop because he was tickling her with the end of his nose. Her breath was like jasmine. She was a bunch of flowers, full of warmth and life.

Émile Zola, The Belly of Paris (trans. Brian Nelson)

[athenenoctua9]

À deux doigts de lancer une série de posts aesthetic sur les Rougon Macquart d'Emile Zola !!!

[jeseraiunepatate]

C’est fou mais la très faible lectrice que je suis a toujours voué un culte particulier aux Rougon Macquart de Zola, que j’ai connu avant de me passionner de sciences sociales. L’autre jour j’ai dit à Maxime que j’avais compris Marx en lisant Zola, ça fait très gaucho-marxiste-bobo-étudiante-en-socio mais franchement c’est vrai, lire Germinal et L’Assommoir ça a véritablement changé ma vie et je l’aime beaucoup ce petit Emile accusateur wesh.

[athenenoctua9]

Currently reading:

[athenenoctua9]

Oula... j'ai un peu peur. Je sais pas si c'est que la bande annonce est mal montée mais ça ne me donne pas envie. C'est mon deuxième livre préféré au monde donc je vais quand même lui donner une chance.

[athenenoctua9]

Currently reading:

[athenenoctua9]

Currently reading:

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One evening he told her about the woman in the Boulevard Montmartre, the woman in the pink bonnet whose blood had run onto his hands. He still often thought about that poor creature. In his nights of anguish in Cayenne her image had often appeared before him; and he had returned to France with the mad notion of seeing her walking down the street in broad daylight, although he had never stopped feeling the weight of her body across his legs. And yet, he thought, she might perhaps have recovered. Sometimes, when he was walking in the street, he had the sudden impression that he had seen her, and his heart almost stopped; and he sometimes followed pink bonnets and shawl-draped shoulders with a wildly beating heart. When he closed his eyes, he could see her walking towards him; but she would let her shawl slip, showing the two red stains on her bodice; and then he saw her waxen face, her empty eyes, and her mouth twisted in pain. For a long time his great sorrow had been not to know her name, and being forced to see her as a mere shadow.

Émile Zola, The Belly of Paris (trans. Brian Nelson)