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A review by _marco_
Manon Lescaut by Abbé Prévost
3.5
I picked up this book because so often I have seen it mentioned in French literature (Stendhal, Dumas Fils) and heard it in opera (Puccini, Massenet) that I just had to read it for myself.
This is also my first ‘rococo’ era read, and while I’m heavily drawn to the apparent, almost hedonistic sensuality of the period’s culture, I found Manon Lescaut to lack that charm, that feathery decadence that sweetens the music and visual art of Prévost’s France.
It could have been the strangeness of the romance that disinterested me - I am already not a big fan of the romantic genre - that led me to dislike most of the novel; The incessant back and forth and frivolity of Des Grieux and Manon was more tiresome than exciting. (In my opinion, of course!)
Something that all my favourite stories have in common is their emotional depth and rawness, and the rich prose that shapes the scenery around the characters. There was neither of these in Manon Lescaut, or at least they remained undetectable to my understanding. Every action was described in strictly sequential terms, emotions were placidly listed, and most of the story was carried out with such taciturnity and single-dimensionality that it was very hard — impossible — to identify in any way with either Des Grieux or Manon. At the same time, the lack of any external descriptors forced me, the reader, to focus only on the chronology of events, most of which have left me with my face in my palm.
Perhaps, however, this was the point of the book. Could it be satire? A commentary on foolishness? A treatise, almost, on the folly of love? The insuperability of desire? Or maybe it's meant to be a character study on Des Grieux? The nebulous image of Manon? How well can we trust his story, told and acted by an idiot prostrate before the opaque idol of a woman, who tells us nothing of her except her infidelity, her beauty (without describing it), and the fact that he is so completely obsessed with her? Personally I like the idea of Des Grieux and Manon as the embodiments of worldly lust and transcendent love can represent the other. Of course, I haven’t done any research on Prévost nor on this book, and perhaps there is something written between the lines that I could not grasp, at least not in translation. What is clear, however, is that the book is rapt with ambiguity on all fronts, which can be exciting to think about and discuss in a book club setting.
I did enjoy it as a foray into early 18th century Paris and contemporary attitudes, and it was fun imagining everyone and everything as if painted in the pastels of Fragonard or Boucher. There were some scenes, particularly closer to and at the end of the book, that offer a certain beauty in their sensuous, almost sweet portrayal of grief.
This is also my first ‘rococo’ era read, and while I’m heavily drawn to the apparent, almost hedonistic sensuality of the period’s culture, I found Manon Lescaut to lack that charm, that feathery decadence that sweetens the music and visual art of Prévost’s France.
It could have been the strangeness of the romance that disinterested me - I am already not a big fan of the romantic genre - that led me to dislike most of the novel; The incessant back and forth and frivolity of Des Grieux and Manon was more tiresome than exciting. (In my opinion, of course!)
Something that all my favourite stories have in common is their emotional depth and rawness, and the rich prose that shapes the scenery around the characters. There was neither of these in Manon Lescaut, or at least they remained undetectable to my understanding. Every action was described in strictly sequential terms, emotions were placidly listed, and most of the story was carried out with such taciturnity and single-dimensionality that it was very hard — impossible — to identify in any way with either Des Grieux or Manon. At the same time, the lack of any external descriptors forced me, the reader, to focus only on the chronology of events, most of which have left me with my face in my palm.
Perhaps, however, this was the point of the book. Could it be satire? A commentary on foolishness? A treatise, almost, on the folly of love? The insuperability of desire? Or maybe it's meant to be a character study on Des Grieux? The nebulous image of Manon? How well can we trust his story, told and acted by an idiot prostrate before the opaque idol of a woman, who tells us nothing of her except her infidelity, her beauty (without describing it), and the fact that he is so completely obsessed with her? Personally I like the idea of Des Grieux and Manon as the embodiments of worldly lust and transcendent love can represent the other. Of course, I haven’t done any research on Prévost nor on this book, and perhaps there is something written between the lines that I could not grasp, at least not in translation. What is clear, however, is that the book is rapt with ambiguity on all fronts, which can be exciting to think about and discuss in a book club setting.
I did enjoy it as a foray into early 18th century Paris and contemporary attitudes, and it was fun imagining everyone and everything as if painted in the pastels of Fragonard or Boucher. There were some scenes, particularly closer to and at the end of the book, that offer a certain beauty in their sensuous, almost sweet portrayal of grief.
“I laid forever in the bosom of the Earth the most perfect and lovely thing she ever bore“
Content Warnings
Graphic: Infidelity
Minor: Colonisation and Racism