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The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard Classic Reprint Anatole France 9781331324096 Books

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Group of writers. He is essentially of Paris, indeed; - his literary training could have been acquired in no other atmosphere his light grace of emotional.

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This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.

The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard Classic Reprint Anatole France 9781331324096 Books

Way better than expected - funny and kind of heart-warming. It was written in 1880s though and translated from the French. Anatole France did not win the Nobel for this one. lol

Product details Paperback 324 pages Publisher Forgotten Books (October 11, 2017) Language English ISBN-10 1331324092

Tags : The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard (Classic Reprint) [Anatole France] on Amazon.com. *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Excerpt from The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard Group of writers. He is essentially of Paris, indeed; - his literary training could have been acquired in no other atmosphere: his light grace of emotional. About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work,Anatole France,The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard (Classic Reprint),Forgotten Books,1331324092,FICTION General,Fiction - General,General,Juvenile Fiction General
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The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard Classic Reprint Anatole France 9781331324096 Books Reviews

Brilliant.
After reading France's Thais and especially his Penguin Island, I had highest hopes for more of his gentle satire and piercing wit. Although a few examples of them appeared, generally in the narrator's self-deprecating moments, Bonnard never really engaged me. Too many premises about society and social niceties have changed, and not much actually happens - it added up to very little for me to hold onto, and no easy connection to that little.

I'll come back to other works by France, but might not be so persistent in reading each one to the end.

-- wiredweird
Anatole France, The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard

In his time Anatole France (1844-1924) was regarded as a great man of letters. He was a poet, journalist and novelist, the son of a bookstore owner who became a member of the Académie Française and was ultimately awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Although he must have appeared to his contemporaries to be a revolutionary writer, a scourge of the Church and a witty satirist, The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard is a somewhat plodding read today. True, I have only read a translation of the work of this so-called master-stylist, a first person narrative of the eponymous hero that frequently dragged.

The main trouble for me is that Bonnard, a fusty old scholar with an enquiring mind and wide sympathies, doesn't actually do anything until the end of the story when he adopts a young girl, Jeanne, rescuing her from an oppressive scholastic regime. Not that our hero (or anti-hero) is unsympathetic. He is earnest and meticulous in his pursuit of ancient texts, having devoted his life to recovering works that nobody but he is ever likely to read. He sees life, as Johnson said of Milton, `through the spectacles of books.' To Bonnard's credit, he is only too aware of being buried in the past "Bonnard," I said to myself, "Thou knowest how to decipher old texts; but thou dost not know how to read the Book of Life." The archaic language is maintained throughout, serving to underline the narrator's distance from what we might call `the real world.'

The out-of-touch bibliophile is constantly being orientated to practical issues by his dominatrix of a housekeeper, Therese. `On re-entering my lodgings I had to endure the sharpest remonstrances from Therese, who said she had given up trying to understand my new way of living.' His new way of living (his Crime in fact) entails living with `the child', Jeanne, who becomes his ward and indeed spiritual inamorata, although he ultimately but reluctantly cedes her to Gelis, a younger man - shades of Esther Summerson, perhaps?

But even the old man's happy relationship with the rescued Jeanne is seen by the scholar a re-enactment of the Antigone situation. Thus when Bonnard reads the Chorus of Antigone to Jeanne, the tragic heroine's face appears before him `in all its passionless purity.' He tells his ward `I am reading, Mademoiselle - I am reading that Antigone, having buried the blind old man, wove a fair tapestry embroidered with images in the likeness of laughing faces.' The realistic Gelis who overhears this protests that this ending is not in the text. No, Bonnard agrees, `It is a scholium' - a marginal note, but adds Gelis `Unpublished.' Thus does the wish-fulfilment of life in the end triumph over the reality of textual scholarship.
This particular edition is wonderful in that it renders the reader a feeling of what it must have been like to read an original thinker's novel when the publisher first printed it. It has a gorgeous red cover and a red ribbon that serves as an antique and practical bookmark. The pages are thick and shiny, gold-edged at the top, and the font is easily and beautifully readable.

This novel is also particularly wonderful in that it's so well suited to a feminine sensibility and/or a literate senior citizen. There are very few novels worth reading that are about the old as the main protagonist who elicits both empathy and respect, despite the flaws.

One critic here failed to see the cleverness in this novel as compared to, say, "Penguin Island." But the cleverness is very much there. The trouble is Anatole France, the author, has placed traps for the so-called litterateur as he reads the story, and in order not to fall prey to the traps, you have to be smarter than the main character who comes off at times as very smart and literate and at other times just so full of useless knowledge and tastes. Beware! Anatole France is smarter than the character he writes about, and he's portraying a certain type of bibliophile or "philologist" as he sometimes calls himself who isn't a Class A intellect and whose tastes, although based on 18th century Enlightenment values, isn't altogether justified in his discriminations about literature, history, or archaeology. The reader shouldn't fall prey to any of the many academic references employed within the story. They are merely window-dressing to display Monsieur Bonnard's B-average, sometimes apt, sometimes-fallible intellect.

What's special about the novel is that the narrative takes on the flow of the old man's inner cogitations and reveals as much about his relationship to others as they do about his relationship to himself, and it is through Anatole France's use of the diary form that we perceive that Monsieur Bonnard is indeed wise, but his wisdom is not of the head but of the heart and of the spirit.

The novel splits into two parts. The first part stands alone as a marvelous fairy tale. What the Marquis de Sade was capable of capturing through the magic of evil, Anatole France is capable of capturing through the magic of good works done to one's fellow man. Just when you think you're sure Monsieur Bonnard is going to come to a bad end, the author turns the table and provides the reader with the unexpected, and it's fantastic how he does this. It thrills the spirit.

The second part is longer than the first, and while it too can stand-alone for the most part, there are references in it, which still tie it to the earlier work. Thus the second part has no whole separateness and the reader must have some acquaintance with the first part to properly appreciate it. This second section also seems to portray the magic found in fairy tales like the first, but soon the wider scope of the second part allows the natural world in more deftly and more complicatedly, while losing none of the charm to be found at the start. Old people act like old people, so the reader feeling impatience has to sacrifice it and bear just a little frustration. Anatole France is revealing human nature, flaws and warts, yes, but as well is revealing lots of love for both human nature and the natural world. The tedium is temporary and passes quickly, like listening to a bee humming in the garden.

The crime of Sylvestre Bonnard shows up only in the last third of the entire novel, and while the title says it was just one crime, there's another one, a hidden one, which Anatole France allows his protagonist to reveal the crime of self-preservation (as against the malignant sanctimony of self-sacrifice). Both crimes prove to be those of a justified sinner, if a sinner he be at all.

The title of the novel is at once ironic and a double-entendre. Very clever for an author known for his sarcasm and wit, an author who can also show off his intellect to reveal his softer, gentler side.

Some claim not to like this novel because the main character doesn't DO anything much, except at the end. He doesn't? He sees, he feels, he thinks, he adopts a sardonic view about his own character. He makes discernments; he recognizes his own limitations. He also performs acts of charity and kindness. And then he does something heroic, though most people in the novel regard his deed as dangerous and foolish. Sylvestre Bonnard does plenty; all of his activity comes from his character.

Only someone who is much older in years, at least the age of Monsieur Bonnard who lives through his sixties and seventies -- can have the kind of calm indifference, the wisest of all the virtues, necessary to appreciate the art that Anatole France displays here through Monsieur Bonnard. There is a wisdom in this old fellow despite his intellect being not of first-rate order. He possesses self-knowledge and an understanding of human nature, both of which are greater a survival tool than knowledge of any changeable science or fusty interpretations of literature and history.

Reading this lovely novel, written and published before TV, automobiles, or telephones, is like walking into a painting from the 19th century, a different world from today. It's even like watching a movie but as though the French painter Fragonard painted every scene. In general, it's about an old man, who is in this late 60s, retired, bookish, single and never married, dependent on his old maid for cooking and cleaning, nonetheless stays involved with life by keeping up his curiosity about books, his love of nature, and taking an active interest in the child of a former love who had married someone else, grew old and then died. It's also about fulfilling your own humble dreams and cultivating your own spiritual garden.

The novel is so charming that while reading it it really takes the edge off all the noise and stridency of living in the 21st century, which resembles nothing more than a loutish, science fiction story written by the Marquis de Sade.

If you are in your sixties or older, retired, bookish, dependent upon a maid or housekeeper, and are subject to nostalgia and collecting obsessions, you'll definitely enjoy this book.
This particular edition is unreadable due to the miniscule font size used to save money so the book could be squeezed into 79 pages. And my vision is 20/20. Truly obnoxious. Not to mention the sloppy copy editing with a typo every few lines!!! should never inflict such a travesty on loyal customers.
this book i think should be a best seller - it just made you want to read on and on - i think that i would read it again - i am going to keep it on my kindle for keep sake - it was enjoyable and intriguing - what a nice book - everyone should read it
Way better than expected - funny and kind of heart-warming. It was written in 1880s though and translated from the French. Anatole France did not win the Nobel for this one. lol