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Set between the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the novel recounts the life of Hassan al-Wazzan, known as Leo Africanus. Forced to leave Granada following the Castilian conquest, the protagonist leads an adventurous life: first in Fez in North Africa, then in Cairo, and subsequently in Rome; he also undertakes numerous journeys, encountering widely disparate figures and milieus. As with all the author’s novels, the unfolding narrative and the depiction of Mediterranean civilizations serve as an occasion to address the themes of religious and cultural diversity, and to envision a society where coexistence and exchange among different peoples and traditions are possible. What also emerges is a portrait of Muslim society that is markedly more tolerant and open than that typical of Christian nations. A prevailing sense of nostalgia pervades the work for a historical and social context—such as that of Mediterranean societies prior to the sixteenth century—that was destroyed by the fanaticism of the Christian kingdoms, particularly the nascent power of Spain, as well as by the drive for dominance of the Turkish Empire, which was likewise in an emergent phase. From a narrative standpoint, the novel is compelling in its first part (life in Granada and Fez), only to lose its way in an acceleration of events that precipitates a decline in pacing and style. In particular, the fourth part, set in Rome and Italy more broadly, feels rushed: the protagonist's conduct is insufficiently explored, coming across as peculiar and superficial; his embrace of Roman life and of Catholicism itself ought to have been far more thoroughly examined and analyzed.

A teacher who has always led a quiet, monotonous life is thrown into turmoil by the murder of a young woman who had been staying with him for several months. One evening, in fact, the protagonist finds himself home alone, as his wife has gone out to play cards with friends. The girl returns home, gives an absent-minded greeting, and goes straight to her room. In the morning, she is found dead. The suspicions of the police, as well as those of the neighborhood, turn immediately toward the man. The protagonist sees his world collapse; he feels ostracized by the community, whose members felt bolstered listening to the pastor's words, writes Simenon: > they felt they were the law, they were justice, every new sentence uttered over their heads made them stronger, while Ashby, in their midst, grew weaker and more isolated . The police also delve into the protagonist’s past, discovering that his father was a drunkard who squandered the family fortune before committing suicide. This inquiry casts the protagonist back to the anguish of his youth—to the prospect, that is, of becoming like his father: > what struck him was not so much this or that particular vice, a definite danger; what drew him was something vague, belonging to certain quarters of big cities, to certain streets, certain lights, even certain smells . The fear of being inexorably drawn toward vice and depravity had driven him to seek security, peace, and order, to the point of marrying a woman for whom friendship prevailed over passion. Feeling unjustly accused, abandoned by friends and community alike, along with the resurfacing of his past, are elements that bring this fatal attraction back into the open, shattering the shell the protagonist had fashioned for himself. Inexorably, as if driven by a fateful force, the protagonist murders a young woman, committing the very crime of which he had been falsely accused. This is only ostensibly a detective story. In truth, Simenon masterfully outlines the falsehood of life within a hypocritical community that ambiguously casts out one of its members merely because he is suspected of a crime. To everyone, it seems only natural that Ashby had become infatuated with the girl and killed her in a fit of murderous passion. Yet Simenon’s skill also lies in crafting a protagonist torn between two opposing forces: social order and the lure of lust and violence. When the rules of social coexistence—in which the protagonist believed and which had served as a bulwark against his own impulses—dissolve and reveal their utter vacuity, he gives free rein to his true inclinations. A profoundly relevant theme is thus explored: the relationship between communal ties and the complexity of individual feelings and dispositions. The crime is nothing more than the catalyst for a polarity rooted both within society (solidarity versus hypocrisy and confinement) and within the individual (the pursuit of peace and stability versus the urge toward transgression).

The novel opens with the events of Tiananmen Square and the flight of one of the revolt’s instigators (the protagonist, Ayamei): the young woman takes refuge with a fishing family in an isolated area, where she is hunted by the Chinese army under the command of a young officer, Zhao. To evade capture, Ayamei flees into the woods and immerses herself in a new life, in close contact with nature, and “in the mountains she breathes only for the light, the wind, and the forest.” The novel concludes mysteriously: Ayamei climbs to the highest peak of the mountains, and Zhao, having deduced where she is hiding, looks through his binoculars toward the mountain and sees the figure of a woman who falls into the void, gazes at him, and > eyes locked in eyes, he forgot all of his past life. The gaze was dark, intense. The lips red . The Tiananmen Square uprising is merely an occasion to unfold a narrative that is a blend of romanticism, an awakening to the limits and hypocrisies of a rule-bound society, and, ultimately, a “magical” tale characteristic of the Chinese world. Ayamei’s love for Min, a rebellious and nonconformist schoolmate, is the classic Western story of a relationship thwarted by society and parents, culminating in the young man’s suicide, precisely as the predictable plot of love stories in our own literature dictates. The burgeoning awareness of Ayamei and Zhao traces a distinct yet parallel path, leading them to grasp the vacuity and cruelty of a society that assigns each individual a role and a responsibility within the overarching dominance of collective demands over personal ones. Finally, there is the more distinctly Chinese theme: the rediscovery of nature and its mythological and magical dimensions, losing oneself in a pre-rational realm where the values of beauty and balance are ends in themselves rather than instruments. As the protagonist asks, > is it possible to forget that all beauty is ephemeral, is it possible to live the unreal? or Zhao’s questioning whether it is right to kill the eagle, which > magnificent, perches upon a rock. Its muscles are hard as steel: its eyes gleam like the sharp blade of a dagger; its black plumage resembles a suit of armor . The answer can only be affirmative in a society where everyone is assigned a function, and thus the hunter’s is to kill the prey (“it is our trade, hunters have no mercy”). This medley of inspirations proves to be the novel’s limitation: it fails to strike a narrative equilibrium, suffering from numerous lapses in pacing and thematic development (take, for instance, the excerpts from Ayamei’s diary, often tedious and predictable). The style suffers as well: a very effective opening (short, sparse sentences) gradually gives way to an increasingly lyrical tone, which—while enhancing the perception of an encroaching unreality—nonetheless strips the prose of that dry, taut quality which constitutes one of the novel’s greatest strengths.

The novel chronicles the fortunes of Julien Sorel: the son of a carpenter, he manages through his own drive and intellect to climb the social ladder, first within the provincial bourgeoisie and subsequently among the Parisian aristocracy. He is engaged as a tutor to the Mayor’s children, and soon embarks on an affair with the Mayor’s wife. He then pursues his studies in a seminary and, through a series of fortuitous circumstances, becomes secretary to a powerful nobleman, with whose daughter he enters into another love affair. The young noblewoman, haughty and proud, falls madly in love with Julien, by whom she is soon expecting a child. The Mayor’s wife, persuaded by her confessor, sends the girl’s father a letter that slanders Julien’s character. Consumed by rage at his injured honor and by the betrayal of his former lover, he attempts to kill her; he is subsequently imprisoned, tried, and sentenced to death. During his imprisonment he realizes that he is truly in love with his first mistress, but by then it is too late. The plot of the book appears to correspond to an actual real-life incident; yet beyond mere verisimilitude, the narrative may be interpreted from three distinct perspectives. From the standpoint of historical context, the novel depicts the social ascent of a representative of the common people, rising through the bourgeoisie and up to the aristocracy. In Julien there is neither submissiveness nor the slightest humility: he is convinced that he is equal to, if not worthier than, the members of the bourgeoisie and aristocracy he encounters along his path. As he comes to know them better, an initial phase of admiration gives way to disillusionment with the narrow-mindedness of the provincial bourgeoisie and the vacuity of the aristocracy. In this sense, Stendhal’s novel resembles Proust’s, even if it totally lacks the philosophical underpinnings that characterize *In Search of Lost Time*. The portrait that emerges of the clergy is likewise profoundly negative. In this light, the title *The Red and the Black* would seem to signify the conflict between the progressive, democratic spirit and the reactionary conservatism of the ruling classes in the first half of the nineteenth century. The title, however, appears to mirror deeper and, to some extent, universal peculiarities and contrasts. The novel’s characters all operate within an atmosphere of falsehood and hypocrisy, which equally marks Julien’s behavior. One need only consider the subterfuges he employs to conquer and dominate the beautiful Mathilde, or the fact that until the very last moment he maintains an ambiguous posture toward her, showing her affection at the very moment he is in love with his former mistress, the Mayor's wife. Underlying these sentiments, a pervasive superficiality and a logic dictated by mere expediency hold sway. This ambiguity dissolves only in Julien’s revolutionary act—at this point a "true hero"—as he seeks to avenge the false accusations leveled against him and accepts death with courage and dignity. Confronted with injustice and death, Julien casts aside hypocrisy and expediency to act with integrity, even if in a manner baffling to his contemporaries. The third perspective is embodied by the two women, the Mayor’s wife and Mathilde, who constitute the novel’s true heroines. From the outset, their feelings are profoundly genuine: the Mayor’s wife endures an unhappy marriage and confronts her new lover with astonishment yet immense courage; Mathilde, so haughty and aristocratic, is nonetheless willing to forfeit everything, with passionate abandon, for the man she loves. One need only recall the pages describing the rapprochement between Mathilde and Julien. On the young woman’s part, a profound struggle unfolds between her aristocratic pride and her burgeoning love; on Julien’s, what predominates is merely the fear of being "made a fool of" and the drive to dominate, even through deceit. Julien fails to grasp the true stature of these two women; he suspects ulterior motives and snares, only to later indulge in fantasies of their devotion after his demise. In truth, the end of both women will be tragic and profoundly genuine, just like their love: the Mayor’s wife will die of a broken heart, while Mathilde, seized by madness, will bear away her lover’s severed head.