The Belly of Paris by Emile Zola (English) Paperback Book

Description: The Belly of Paris by Emile Zola, Mark Kurlansky "New York Times" bestselling author Mark Kurlanskys deft translation brings new life to Emile Zolas rich characters and stunning depiction of Les Halles, the food markets of 1850s Paris "The Belly of Paris" is the dramatic story of Florent Quenu, a convict who has miraculously escaped imprisonment on Devils Island after being falsely accused of a killing during a political demonstration. Back in Paris after his long confinement, Florent moves in with his brothers family in the newly rebuilt Les Halles market and is soon caught in a dangerous maelstrom of food and politics as the dramatic difference between "fat and thin" (the rich and the poor) becomes too obvious to ignore. Mark Kurlanskys introduction celebrates Emile Zolas role as a "naturalist," describing his twenty-volume series of Rougon-Macquart novels, and the culinary delights of "The Belly of Paris." FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description For literary foodies and fans of French literature, bestselling author Mark Kurlansky translates and introduces one of his favorite novels about an escaped convict and his dramatic adventures in the food markets of Paris.Part of Emile Zolas multigenerational Rougon-Macquart saga, The Belly of Paris is the story of Florent Quenu, a wrongly accused man who escapes imprisonment on Devils Island. Returning to his native Paris, Florent finds a city he barely recognizes, with its working classes displaced to make way for broad boulevards and bourgeois flats. Living with his brothers family in the newly rebuilt Les Halles market, Florent is soon caught up in a dangerous maelstrom of food and politics. Amid intrigue among the markets sellers-the fishmonger, the charcuti re, the fruit girl, and the cheese vendor-and the glorious culinary bounty of their labors, we see the dramatic difference between "fat and thin" (the rich and the poor) and how the widening gulf between them strains a city to the breaking point.Translated and with an Introduction by the celebrated historian and food writer Mark Kurlansky, The Belly of Paris offers fascinating perspectives on the French capital during the Second Empire-and, of course, tantalizing descriptions of its sumptuous repasts. Author Biography Emile Zola (1840-1902) was born in Paris and worked as a journalist before turning to fiction. With the publication of LAssommoir, he became the most famous writer in France. His work has influenced authors from August Strindberg to Theodore Dreiser to Tom Wolfe.Mark Kurlanksy is the New York Times bestselling and James A. Beard Award-winning author of The Last Fish Tale, The Big Oyster, Cod, and Salt, among other books. He has translated numerous pieces from French, Spanish, and Italian for his anthology of food writing Choice Cuts. He lived in Paris for ten years but now resides in New York City. Review "In an age when gastronomic fiction has become fashionable, Emile Zolas 1873 novel The Belly of Paris... seems ahead of its time, writes food historian Mark Kurlansky in the introduction to his new translation of the book. Set amid the bustling Les Halles market, the novel revolves around the graphically illustrated conceit that the bourgeoisie not only eats too much but has an unhealthy obsession with food. Its descriptions of cuisine, too, are notable for their length, detail and humor."—Washington Post"Its totally appropriate that food-writer Mark Kurlansky should helm Modern Library Classics new translation of Émile Zolas The Belly of Paris. Not only does he have a keen ear for Zolas revolutionary naturalism, he also captures the passion at the heart (or gut) of The Belly of Paris–a passion for food." —Biblioklept Review Quote "In an age when gastronomic fiction has become fashionable, Emile Zolas 1873 novelThe Belly of Paris... seems ahead of its time, writes food historian Mark Kurlansky in the introduction to his new translation of the book. Set amid the bustling Les Halles market, the novel revolves around the graphically illustrated conceit that the bourgeoisie not only eats too much but has an unhealthy obsession with food. Its descriptions of cuisine, too, are notable for their length, detail and humor."-Washington Post "Its totally appropriate that food-writer Mark Kurlansky should helm Modern Library Classics new translation of Excerpt from Book Chapter One In the silence of a deserted avenue, wagons stuffed with produce made their way toward Paris, their thudding wheels rhythmically echoing off the houses sleeping behind the rows of elm trees meandering on either side of the road. At the pont de Neuilly, a cart full of cabbages and another full of peas met up with eight carts of turnips and carrots coming in from Nanterre. The horses, their heads bent low, led themselves with their lazy, steady pace, a bit slowed by the slight uphill climb. Up on the carts, lying on their stomachs in the vegetables, wrapped in their black-and-gray-striped wool coats, the drivers slept with the reins in their fists. Occasionally the light from a gas lamp would grope its way through the shadows and brighten the hobnail of a boot, the blue sleeve of a blouse, or the tip of a hat poking from the bright bloom of vegetables--red bouquets of carrots, white bouquets of turnips, or the bursting greenery of peas and cabbages. All along the road and all the nearby routes, up ahead and farther back, the distant rumbling of carts told of other huge wagons, all pushing on through the darkness and slumber of two in the morning, the sound of passing food lulling the darkened town to stay asleep. Madame Franoiss horse, Balthazar, an overweight beast, led the column. He dawdled on, half asleep, flicking his ears until, at rue de Longchamp, his legs were suddenly frozen by fear. The other animals bumped their heads into the stalled carts in front of them, and the column halted with the clanking of metal and the cursing of drivers who had been yanked from their sleep. Seated up top, Madame Franois, with her back against a plank that held the vegetables in place, peered out but saw nothing by the faint light of the little square lantern to her left, which barely lit one of Balthazars glistening flanks. "Come on, lady, lets keep moving," shouted one of the men who was kneeling in turnips. "Its just some drunken idiot." But as she leaned over she thought she made out a dark patch of something blocking the road, about to be stepped on by the horse. "You cant just run people over," she said, jumping down from her wagon. It was a man sprawled across the road, his arms stretched out, facedown in the dust. He seemed extraordinarily long and as thin as a dry branch. It was a miracle that Balthazar had not stepped on him and snapped him in two. Madame Franois thought he was dead, but when she crouched over him and took his hand, she found it was still warm. "Hey, mister," she called softly. But the drivers were growing impatient. The one kneeling in the vegetables shouted in a gruff voice, "Give it up, lady. The son of a bitch is plastered. Shove him in the gutter." In the meantime, the man had opened his eyes. He stared, motionless, at Madame Franois, with a look of bewilderment. She too thought that he must be drunk. "You cant stay there, youre going to get yourself run over," she told him. "Where were you going?" "I dont know," the man replied in a feeble voice. Then, with great effort and a worried face, "I was going to Paris, and I fell. I dont know . . ." Now she could see him better, and he was pathetic with his black pants and black overcoat, so threadbare that they showed the contour of his bare bones. Underneath a hat of coarse black cloth that he had pulled down as though afraid of being recognized, two large brown eyes of a rare gentleness could be seen on a hard and tormented face. Madame Franois thought that this man was much too feeble to have been drinking. "Where in Paris were you going?" she asked. He didnt answer right away. This cross-examination was worrying him. After a moments reflection, he cautiously replied, "Over there, by Les Halles." With great difficulty he had almost stood up again and seemed anxious to be on his way. But Madame Franois noticed him trying to steady himself against one of the wagon shafts. "Youre tired?" "Very tired," he mumbled. Adopting a gruff tone, as though annoyed, and giving him a shove, she shouted, "Go on, move it! Get up in my wagon! Youre wasting my time. Im going to Les Halles, and I can drop you off with my vegetables." When he refused, she practically threw him onto the turnips and carrots in the back with her thick arms and shouted impatiently, "Thats enough! No more trouble from you. Youre beginning to annoy me, my friend. Didnt I tell you that Im headed to the market anyway? Go to sleep up there. Ill wake you when we get there." She climbed back up, sat sideways with her back against the plank again, and took Balthazars reins. He started up sleepily, twitching his ears. The other carts followed. The column resumed its slow march in the dark, the sound of wheels on the paving stones again thudding against the sleeping housefronts. The wagoneers, wrapped in their coats, returned to their snoozing. The one who had called out to Madame Franois grumbled as he lay down, "Damn, does she have to take care of every bum? You are something, lady." The carts rolled on, the horses, with their heads bowed, leading themselves. The man Madame Franois had picked up was lying on his stomach, his long legs lost in the turnips, which filled the back of the cart, while his head was buried in the spreading carrot bunches. With weary outstretched arms he seemed to hug his bed of vegetables for fear a jolt of the cart would send him sprawling in the road. He watched the two endless columns of gaslights ahead of him, which vanished in the distance into a confusion of other lights. A large white cloud nuzzled the horizon, so that Paris appeared to be sleeping in a glowing mist illuminated by all the lamps. "Im from Nanterre. My name is Madame Franois," the woman said after a moments silence. "Ever since I lost my poor husband, I go to Les Halles every morning. Its a hard life, but what can you do. And you?" "My name is Florent, I come from far away," the stranger replied awkwardly. "Im really sorry, but Im so exhausted that its hard to talk." He did not want to say any more, so Madame Franois became silent too, letting the reins fall loosely on the back of Balthazar, who seemed to know every paving stone along the route. In the meantime, Florent, staring at the broadening sparkle of Paris in the distance, contemplated the story that he had decided not to tell the woman. Sentenced to Cayenne1 for his involvement in the events of December,2 he had escaped to Dutch Guiana, where he had drifted for two years, filled with a passion to return to France but also afraid of the imperial police. He was about to enter the great city that he had so deeply missed and longed for. He told himself that he would hide there, returning to the peaceful existence he had once lived. The police knew nothing. Everyone would assume that he had died over there. He thought about his arrival at Le Havre, where he had landed with only fifteen francs hidden in the corner of a handkerchief. It had been enough for a coach to Rouen, but from there he had had to make his way on foot, having only thirty sous left. At Vernon he had spent his last two sous on bread. After that he couldnt remember anything. He thought he had slept in a ditch for several hours, and he might have shown a policeman the papers with which he had supplied himself. But these images danced vaguely in his head. He had come all the way from Vernon with nothing to eat, accompanied by fits of anger and sudden despondency that had made him chew the leaves on the hedges he passed along the way. He had kept walking despite stomach cramps, his belly knotted, his vision blurred, his feet advancing, unconsciously drawn by the image of Paris, so far away, beyond the horizon, calling to him, waiting for him. On a very dark night, he finally reached Courbevoie. Paris looked like a patch of starry sky that had fallen onto a blackened corner of the earth. It had a stern look, as though angered by Florents return. Then he felt faint, his wobbly legs almost collapsing as he walked down the hill. While crossing the pont de Neuilly, he supported himself, clinging to the stone railings, and leaned over to look at the inky waves of the rolling Seine between the thickly grown banks. A red signal lantern on the water followed him with its bloodshot eye. Now he had to pull himself up to climb to Paris at the top of the hill. But the boulevard seemed endless. The hundreds of leagues he had already traveled seemed as nothing compared to this. In this last stretch he was losing faith that he would ever reach the top of the hill with its crown of lights. The flat boulevard stretched before him with its lines of tall trees and squat houses. Its wide grayish sidewalks were blotchy with the shadows of branches. The darkened gaps where the boulevard met the side streets were all in silence and shade. Only the stumpy little yellow flames of the gas lamps standing straight at regular intervals gave some life to this desolate wasteland. And Florent seemed to be making no progress, the boulevard growing longer and longer and carrying Paris away into the depths of the night. In time he began hallucinating that the gas lamps on both sides of him were running away, carrying the road off with them, until, completely losing his bearings, he fell on a pile of paving stones. And now he was gently tossing and turning on his bed of vegetables, which felt more like a soft feather bed. He raised his head a little to watch the incandescent mist spread Details ISBN0812974220 Author Mark Kurlansky Short Title BELLY OF PARIS-ML Language English ISBN-10 0812974220 ISBN-13 9780812974225 Media Book Format Paperback Year 2009 Translator Mark Kurlansky Residence FR Birth 1840 Death 1902 UK Release Date 2009-05-12 Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2009-05-12 NZ Release Date 2009-05-12 US Release Date 2009-05-12 Translated from French Pages 368 Publisher Random House USA Inc Series Modern Library Classics Publication Date 2009-05-12 Imprint Modern Library Inc DEWEY 843.8 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. 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