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3.9 AVERAGE
3.9 AVERAGE
Everything is terrible and nothing matters. That's the message I took from this book and I loved every second of it. Zola's not afraid to get dark--really dark--and no character is safe. Any time you think something can't possibly get worse, it does. Perhaps Zola was a little heavy-handed with the whole alcohol=bad thing, but the book is beautifully written and I was entranced by every page.
Une grande œuvre naturaliste qui nous narre la déchéance de Gervaise et de son entourage en nous plongeant dans la société ouvrière du XIXe. Le point de vu focalisé du narrateur sur celui d'un personnage féminin nous dépeint une atmosphère misogyne qui fait réagir. Cette œuvre ne m'a pas laissé indifférente et demeure de plus en plus tragique au fil des pages parcourues.
Quelle lecture. Ici Zola illustre parfaitement à travers le personnage de Gervaise la splendeur et la déchéance que l’on peut vivre au sein d’une même vie. Cette femme va connaître bon nombre de statuts sociaux, du plus haut en tant que gérante d’une affaire qui fonctionne, à exclue de la société, qui meurt dans la pauvreté la plus totale. L’omniprésence de l’alcool et son implacable emprise sur les personnages est impressionnante. La teneur naturaliste du roman et de l’écriture est très intéressante et nous fournit une histoire plus vraie que nature. Je recommande fortement. Je pense que L’Assommoir va devenir un de mes romans préférés de Zola.
dark
emotional
sad
tense
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Content Warnings
Graphic: Alcoholism, Toxic relationship, Violence
Feel like it makes sense that Zola hung around with painters, because parts of his novels remind me of paintings: the way he describes a single moment or event (the feast that marks the Coupeau's downfall, a lazy winter afternoon at the laundry, making blood pudding in the previous The Belly of Paris) or the way he describes a trade (the laundry, Coupeau's job as a roofer (he has an apprentice drag around a cast iron oven to help him solder the zinc, I guess because butane torches weren't invented yet), the goldsmiths (they work from their apartment, use a glass globe filled with water to concentrate light, and sweep all their dust into a firepan to recover lost gold dust).
Coupeau's stay at the asylum (The Duke of Gut-rot's trip to his county estate, as someone jokes) isn't convincing (literally ramming his head into a padded wall) but my only real complaint is with the premise: that the author is setting out to show how characters in the Second Empire are effected by heredity. It's particularly obnoxious when it raises its head here, because he keeps suggesting that Nana is destined from birth to become a prostitute. But I don't think Zola really believes it. Nana aside, he plays that idea down. If anything, you can read a lot of these novels as the exact opposite, as the effects of the environment on character. Even Nana, who probably became a prostitute because everyone expected her to become one.
The hardest part of the book for me was the descent of the family from the working class into poverty. I can't handle degradation like that. I just don't have the heart for it, I guess. Violence, fine. Starvation and extreme destitution and penury, no. It's worse than a horror film for me.
Highlighted parts:
Precursor to "pump it directly into my veins":
The work of a Roofer (technically a zingueur, a worker of zinc):
‘Wretched dawdler, come on! Give me the irons! No sense staring into thin air, you silly beanpole! The larks won’t be dropping ready roasted out of the sky!’
But Zidore was in no hurry. He was interested in the neighbouring roofs and a large plume of smoke rising in the distance above Paris, somewhere by Grenelle, which could be a fire. But he did at last lie down flat on the roof, with his head above the void, and passed the irons to Coupeau, who began to solder the sheet of zinc. He bent down and reached up, always keeping his balance, sitting on one buttock, perching on the tip of a foot, held in place by a finger. He had a superb sense of balance, and nerves of steel, quite at home defying danger. They were on familiar terms. It was the street that was afraid of him.
Use holy water to do abortions, I guess so they don't end up in purgatory:
‘Hell, I don’t know! There was a rumour going around,’ Virginie replied. ‘But I wasn’t there, of course. In any case, it goes with the job. They all do it.’
‘Ah, no,’ said Mme Putois. ‘It’s silly to go to them. What, and get yourself crippled! No thanks! Especially when there’s one sovereign remedy. Every evening you drink a glass of holy water and make the sign of the cross three times over your belly with your thumb. It blows away then like an ill wind.’
Mother Coupeau, whom everyone thought was asleep, shook her head in protest. She knew another way, and this one really was infallible. You had to eat a hard-boiled egg every two hours and put spinach leaves on the small of the back. The four other women looked serious. But Augustine, the one with the squint, who would start to giggle all on her own, and no one ever knew why, emitted the chicken’s cackle that was her own peculiar laugh.
Some good English jokes: Also there's doing an English Piss (like a French Leave, telling someone you're going to the bathroom and then bolting).
Contemporary audiences liked the book for its use of the vernacular:
‘Sign me up,’ he muttered, ‘if she’ll pee in my mouth like that.’
‘Oh, the dirty devil!’ the ladies exclaimed. ‘How disgusting can you get!’
No one likes Clemence because she dresses indecently and vomits:
One thing about living before near universal literacy is that you could gain social capital by reading to people:
He didn’t answer straight away. Then, without looking up:
‘I’m at the parliamentary page. Here are some ten-a-penny Republicans, those damned lazy beggars on the Left. Do the people elect them so that they can dribble this sugar-water? Here’s one who believes in God and is getting all lovey-dovey with those bastards in the government. Now, if I was elected, I’d go up on the rostrum and say: Shit! Yes, not another word. That’s my opinion!’
Coupeau gets cucked because he vomits all over the place, so Gervaise has no choice but to sleep with her ex-husband. Also they invite him into their house and form a weird menage-a-trois built on denial:
It did indeed smell very strongly. Gervaise, who was looking for matches, walked on something damp. When she managed to light a candle, they were greeted by a pretty sight. Coupeau had thrown up all over the place. The room was full of vomit, the bed was covered in it, as was the carpet; even the chest of drawers was splattered. Moreover, Coupeau had fallen off the bed where Poisson must have thrown him, and was snoring away in the midst of his filth. He was spread out in it, sprawling like a pig, one cheek spattered with vomit and exhaling his foul breath through an open mouth, his already grey hair lying in the wide pool around his head.
‘Oh, the swine! The swine!’ Gervaise said, over and over, in exasperation. ‘He’s fouled everything… No, no, not even a dog would have done that. A dead dog is cleaner.’
Neither of them dared to move, uncertain where to step. The roofer had never come home so drunk or made such a repulsive mess in the room. Hence the sight of him was a severe blow to whatever feelings his wife still had for him. Previously, when he had come back slightly tipsy or with one too many under his belt, she had been indulgent, and not repelled by it. But this was too much; she felt nauseous. She wouldn’t have picked him up with a pair of tongs. The very idea of this slob’s skin coming into contact with her own repelled her, as if she had been asked to lie down beside the corpse of someone who had died of a frightful disease.
‘I must sleep somewhere, though,’ she muttered.
(Oh and then toddler Nana sees this happening and that's what confirms her whore destiny somehow.)
Coupeau's stay at the asylum (The Duke of Gut-rot's trip to his county estate, as someone jokes) isn't convincing (literally ramming his head into a padded wall) but my only real complaint is with the premise: that the author is setting out to show how characters in the Second Empire are effected by heredity. It's particularly obnoxious when it raises its head here, because he keeps suggesting that Nana is destined from birth to become a prostitute. But I don't think Zola really believes it. Nana aside, he plays that idea down. If anything, you can read a lot of these novels as the exact opposite, as the effects of the environment on character. Even Nana, who probably became a prostitute because everyone expected her to become one.
The hardest part of the book for me was the descent of the family from the working class into poverty. I can't handle degradation like that. I just don't have the heart for it, I guess. Violence, fine. Starvation and extreme destitution and penury, no. It's worse than a horror film for me.
Highlighted parts:
Precursor to "pump it directly into my veins":
Spoiler
He gave a laugh like a rusty chain going over a pulley and shook his head, with a loving glance at the liquor factory. God-damn it! What a darling she was! There was enough in that great copper belly to keep one’s throat oiled for a week. He wished they would just solder the end of the tube to his teeth so that he could feel the vitriol while it was still warm, filling him up, flowing right down to his heels, on and on, like a little river.The work of a Roofer (technically a zingueur, a worker of zinc):
Spoiler
Here, the roof suddenly sloped away above the gaping hole of the street. The roofer, as if in his own house, was wearing felt slippers; he eased his way forward, dragging his feet and humming ‘Oh, the little lambs!’ When he was positioned above the hole, he slid down, bracing himself with one knee against the brickwork of a chimney, and stayed there, hanging halfway, with one of his legs dangling above the pavement. When he turned round to shout to that lazybones Zidore, he steadied himself against a corner of the brickwork, because of the street, down there, beneath him.‘Wretched dawdler, come on! Give me the irons! No sense staring into thin air, you silly beanpole! The larks won’t be dropping ready roasted out of the sky!’
But Zidore was in no hurry. He was interested in the neighbouring roofs and a large plume of smoke rising in the distance above Paris, somewhere by Grenelle, which could be a fire. But he did at last lie down flat on the roof, with his head above the void, and passed the irons to Coupeau, who began to solder the sheet of zinc. He bent down and reached up, always keeping his balance, sitting on one buttock, perching on the tip of a foot, held in place by a finger. He had a superb sense of balance, and nerves of steel, quite at home defying danger. They were on familiar terms. It was the street that was afraid of him.
Use holy water to do abortions, I guess so they don't end up in purgatory:
Spoiler
‘Do you really think she did that? Got rid of a baby?’ said Clémence.‘Hell, I don’t know! There was a rumour going around,’ Virginie replied. ‘But I wasn’t there, of course. In any case, it goes with the job. They all do it.’
‘Ah, no,’ said Mme Putois. ‘It’s silly to go to them. What, and get yourself crippled! No thanks! Especially when there’s one sovereign remedy. Every evening you drink a glass of holy water and make the sign of the cross three times over your belly with your thumb. It blows away then like an ill wind.’
Mother Coupeau, whom everyone thought was asleep, shook her head in protest. She knew another way, and this one really was infallible. You had to eat a hard-boiled egg every two hours and put spinach leaves on the small of the back. The four other women looked serious. But Augustine, the one with the squint, who would start to giggle all on her own, and no one ever knew why, emitted the chicken’s cackle that was her own peculiar laugh.
Some good English jokes:
Spoiler
They laughed and cracked outrageous jokes. Virginie said that she hadn’t eaten for two days, to leave room for the feast, so that dirty-minded Clémence capped it by saying that she had made room that morning by having an enema, as the English do. At this, Boche offered his own recipe for immediate digestion, which was to squeeze oneself in a door, after every course; this was another thing that the English did, which allowed them to go on eating for twelve hours on end, without causing a stomach upset.Contemporary audiences liked the book for its use of the vernacular:
Spoiler
Now there was absolute silence. Every neck was craned, all eyes followed the knife. Poisson had got a surprise for them. Suddenly, he gave one last stab and the hind part of the animal broke away and stood upright, rump in the air: it was the bishop’s mitre. At this, they broke into spontaneous applause. Really, it took an old soldier to do things in style! Meanwhile, the goose had discharged a stream of gravy from the gaping hole in its rear end. Boche laughed.‘Sign me up,’ he muttered, ‘if she’ll pee in my mouth like that.’
‘Oh, the dirty devil!’ the ladies exclaimed. ‘How disgusting can you get!’
No one likes Clemence because she dresses indecently and vomits:
Spoiler
The one thing that everyone agreed was indecent was the behaviour of Clémence, who was definitely not someone to ask out again: she had got to the point where she exhibited everything she had, before being overcome by a need to throw up, so that she completely ruined one of the net curtains. At least, he men had gone out into the street for that.One thing about living before near universal literacy is that you could gain social capital by reading to people:
Spoiler
‘So, what have they got to say for themselves, in that paper?’ Bibi-la-Grillade asked Lantier.He didn’t answer straight away. Then, without looking up:
‘I’m at the parliamentary page. Here are some ten-a-penny Republicans, those damned lazy beggars on the Left. Do the people elect them so that they can dribble this sugar-water? Here’s one who believes in God and is getting all lovey-dovey with those bastards in the government. Now, if I was elected, I’d go up on the rostrum and say: Shit! Yes, not another word. That’s my opinion!’
Coupeau gets cucked because he vomits all over the place, so Gervaise has no choice but to sleep with her ex-husband. Also they invite him into their house and form a weird menage-a-trois built on denial:
Spoiler
‘Damn it!’ Lantier muttered when they went in. ‘What’s happened here? It’s disgusting!’It did indeed smell very strongly. Gervaise, who was looking for matches, walked on something damp. When she managed to light a candle, they were greeted by a pretty sight. Coupeau had thrown up all over the place. The room was full of vomit, the bed was covered in it, as was the carpet; even the chest of drawers was splattered. Moreover, Coupeau had fallen off the bed where Poisson must have thrown him, and was snoring away in the midst of his filth. He was spread out in it, sprawling like a pig, one cheek spattered with vomit and exhaling his foul breath through an open mouth, his already grey hair lying in the wide pool around his head.
‘Oh, the swine! The swine!’ Gervaise said, over and over, in exasperation. ‘He’s fouled everything… No, no, not even a dog would have done that. A dead dog is cleaner.’
Neither of them dared to move, uncertain where to step. The roofer had never come home so drunk or made such a repulsive mess in the room. Hence the sight of him was a severe blow to whatever feelings his wife still had for him. Previously, when he had come back slightly tipsy or with one too many under his belt, she had been indulgent, and not repelled by it. But this was too much; she felt nauseous. She wouldn’t have picked him up with a pair of tongs. The very idea of this slob’s skin coming into contact with her own repelled her, as if she had been asked to lie down beside the corpse of someone who had died of a frightful disease.
‘I must sleep somewhere, though,’ she muttered.
(Oh and then toddler Nana sees this happening and that's what confirms her whore destiny somehow.)
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
Complicated
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
(Read in French)
How eternally depressing this novel is - unsurprisingly. I actually needed a break from it because it was just too dark. Even though I knew that there was no hope for Gervaise, the protagonist, I naively hoped she'd be able to pull herself together.
How eternally depressing this novel is - unsurprisingly. I actually needed a break from it because it was just too dark. Even though I knew that there was no hope for Gervaise, the protagonist, I naively hoped she'd be able to pull herself together.
Ouf, c'était pas joyeux cette histoire (ce n'est pas une grande surprise). Heureusement, le ton de la narration est plutôt léger, vu le sujet. J'ai vraiment aimé le vocabulaire utilisé et la caractérisation des personnages. J'ai hâte d'explorer le reste de l'oeuvre de Zola... mais là j'en besoin d'une pause!!!