I’ve read very little French literature, mostly just a little Maupassant. So imagine my surprise to find myself not only having read two Balzacs in a row, but now just finished Les Liaisons dangereuses, by Pierre-Ambroise-Francois Choderlos de Laclos. How can you not love that name? I know I have a copy stashed somewhere, but I just picked up a pristine used copy for a few cents, which got me going.
I already knew the story from the two movies (Frears and Forman), but it was fun to enjoy the elegant dance of deception in the correspondence, and follow the reactions as the seductions progress. I became sorry that my 1990s translation was a little too modern for my tastes, but it had great endnotes, which identified the references, explained a bit of the culture, and commented on the action.
Taking all three of these books together, wow, was 18th-19th century France really such a hotbed of licentiousness, compared to the rest of Europe? Pulling back to my contemporary mindset, I couldn’t help thinking, geez, these people have too much time on their hands. At one point, Cecile’s oblivious mother says of her supposedly pining daughter, having taken her out of Paris, “I hoped that absence and other interests would quickly destroy her love.” Other interests? How can this 18th century teenager have other interests? She’s not going to school, she has no friends there, she can’t work, she can’t play sports—what other interests could anyone reasonably expect?
I was interested that it was such a huge bestseller, despite the scandal, that Marie Antoinette obtained a copy, but ensured that neither the title or author’s name was visible.