The literary setting of the agricultural fair is the stuff of cinema. The scenography is a linear panoramic perspective of images and events, which is given unity through the magic of editing. Flaubert, as the cameraman, moves in and out of focus, craning his neck to capture an important sequence of dialogue and panning to capture the entire surrounding spectacle. As in the case of cinema, context arises from the intelligent sequence of disparate images and actions, which are then made into a convergent whole by the connections the reader draws between the images. The descriptive power and cut-and-paste movement of Flaubert's Agricultural Fair glues all the disparate characters and dialogue into a single super-organism of provincial hypocrisy and seduction. The scene is an exercise in the grotesque; meaning that what appears funny on our first reading, seems tragic on our re-reading, and then, on a deeper third reading, is quite horrific. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an original essay Flaubert's description of the Fair manages to compress all the characters of Yonville-l'Abbaye into the manifest character of a single political body. The dense description of the assembled citizens (and their livestock) gels to create a congruous density of scent, sense and color. The crowd's mass of "flabby, well-tanned faces" is presented with no more distinction or detail than are the rumps of the cattle. At each corner of the courthouse is a flag commemorating "Agriculture," "Commerce," "Industry," and "Fine Arts," in a conspicuous presentation of civic dignity, what today would be called "Rotarian." image of the four corners of each courthouse embodies the idea of ​​an agrarian utopia, reminiscent of 19th century woodcuts in which the farmer leans on his ox plow and reads a copy of Harper's Industry barely fits into the Yonville's specter, and the Fine Arts are an absolute joke, pushed to the absurd extreme with "Commerce" and "Agriculture." The Fair represents an alien and desperate effort: an attempt to celebrate a city that is in every way insignificant and even horrible. It is a naked image of the province, which would essentially presume to make Emma and Rodolphe almost sinless for trying to escape it through an affair. Yonville itself is a model of self-limiting provincial meanness and imposed conformity. In an attempt to present itself at its best, the city reveals its worst side. The pomp, ceremony and patriotism celebrated have a subtle shadow over the sense of conscious inadequacy that permeates the event. Binet trains his local firefighters against the National Guard brigade, out of competition and spite. Later, Tuvache, the mayor, recoils as if stung when a prefect councilor appears in place of the prefect himself. The crowd listens with amazement to the words of the councilor, who goes so far as to define a particular type of rural "intelligence" that is difficult to distinguish from blind patriotism and good ignorance. In its sharpest form, the provincial intelligence is a crude type, like that of Homais, who longs to scientifically increase the yield of crops through the detailed study of manure. The case in the province is that there are stupid people who pretend to be intelligent (which is acceptable, because everyone knows that Homais is boring, anyway) and, on the contrary, intelligent people, like Rodolphe, who are despised because they put on airs and don't be stupid. With this declination, the ideas of rustic virtue and modesty celebrated at the fair are self-limiting restrictions placed forprotect the insecure confidences of citizens from the fearful potential of individuals who may be notable and may one day stand out. beautiful are a spiral torus through which the primary action, Rodolphe's seduction of Emma, ​​launches through the center like a shuttle through the plot. Together, they cross the bedlam, supported by a sense of pristine inviolability. Strengthened by their sophistication, Charles and Rodolphe are allowed to walk through the fair, dissociated, at least in their minds, from the provincial fecundity that surrounds them. They skillfully avoid the annoying Lhereux's attempts to intrude on their conversation. As they go through the show they complain to each other about the "mediocrity of provincial life" and the painful lack of people who can't recognize the cut of a good coat. They observe the councilor's speech from the high and private vantage point of the council chamber on the second floor, observing the proceedings with the watchful gaze of the dreamers in play. While the bourgeoisie and peasants listen to the speech below with their mouths open as if to devour the words, Emma is equally absorbed in Rodolphe's intimate diatribe on love, freedom and passion. It is puzzling to establish the extent to which traditional ideas of "goodness" or "evil" could be attributed to characters existing in the relative confusion of Flaubert's naturalistic world. Madame Bovary confronts the fragility of the best and most sincere human intentions. The theme is established early in the book when young Charles Bovary tries in vain to pronounce his name: "Charovari! Charovari!" to ridicule and punishment from his classmates and teacher. What's wrong with this case? Is it because Charles can't say his name, or is it because the class laughs at him for not being able to? Likewise, in the plot of Emma and Rodolphe's mutual seduction in the ridiculous setting of the Agricultural Fair, one does not know whether to criticize Emma's weak integrity or pity her for the hopelessness of her situation. Rodolphe's speech cuts through the political chatter of the councilors. The intertwined juxtaposition creates a strange synchronicity between the two discourses, and both are seductions in their own way. For Emma, ​​the speeches are representative of the two lives she can choose for herself: a country wife or a lover. Commerce and the arts thrive everywhere; everywhere new channels of communication, like many new arteries of the political body, multiply contacts between its various parts; our large production centers have resumed their activity; religion, strengthened in its foundations, appeals to every heart; shipping fills our ports; returns of trust; France is finally breathing again! The councilor's words promise a "great day" that has already arrived, in which one will be able to find maximum satisfaction in offering oneself to the public good. His promises, ridiculous and absurd, represent the bland comfort that exists in the structures of rural life. An example of the end of that life is when Catherine Leroux, wrinkled; with hands gnarled from fatigue and with the look of a farm animal, he is called upon to receive 25 francs and a medal as a sign of obedience and duty towards provincial life. By becoming Rodolphe's lover, Emma indiscreetly breaks her pact with the town, ultimately exposing her reputation to the vicious cycle of tongue-clicks and whispered judgments meant to destroy those who seek to rise above their station. In contrast, Rodolphe's speech, being a refutation of those notions of duty and an endorsement of the individual, makes a similar promise of an approaching 'great day'. We feel the need to open our hearts on a date.