Émile Zola’s novel Thérèse Raquin examines the misery that befalls two lovers who prioritize passion and pleasure above all else—including morality. The novel spotlights the fact that Thérèse and Laurent allow their desires to guide them through life. Laurent, for instance, is described as someone who has “full-blooded appetites and a pronounced desire for easy and long-lasting pleasures.” Thérèse, on the other hand, is desperate for pleasure because she’s led an unsatisfying life alongside her sickly cousin, Camille, whom she eventually has no choice but to marry. At first, Thérèse and Laurent’s secret love affair is full of passion and tense anticipation, as they revel in their budding romance—a romance based on little more than physical satisfaction. Their desire is so strong that they have no remorse about deceiving Camille, who is not only Thérèse’s husband but also Laurent’s loyal friend. Soon enough, though, their passion becomes so all-consuming that they murder Camille, thinking this will enable them to lead a happy life of shameless pleasure. However, what they soon discover is that the weight of their crime is too much for their feeble relationship to bear. After all, their bond isn’t actually that strong, since it’s mostly built on their feverish longing to satiate their sexual appetites. Whenever they try to become intimate in the aftermath of Camille’s murder, it’s impossible for them to derive any kind of pleasure; instead they’re haunted by what they’ve done and no longer able to find satisfaction. And it’s not just sex or romance that they come to find dissatisfying—slowly but surely, everything in life becomes unbearable. By closely following Thérèse and Laurent’s transition from giddy romance to extreme unhappiness, then, the novel implies that satisfying selfish pleasures doesn’t necessarily lead to lasting contentment, especially when chasing those pleasures means committing heinous, unjustifiable acts.
Throughout the novel, pleasure and passion take precedent over all other considerations. Both Thérèse and Laurent know that sleeping with each other is unfair to Camille, but they let their desires override this consideration. Because Thérèse has led a mundane, miserable life and has never been attracted to Camille (who is, to be fair, her cousin), her connection with Laurent feels like a sudden rush of thrilling pleasure, as if she’s “emerging from a dream and awakening to passion”—a passion that completely overtakes her. Laurent, for his part, is simply the kind of person who wants to satisfy his desires no matter what. His first thought is always about how to maximize enjoyment, so he naturally gravitates toward Thérèse and isn’t terribly bothered by the fact that she’s married. Still, he does weigh the possible consequences of having an affair, deciding that he should only go through with it if he’s confident that he has “something to gain” from sleeping with Thérèse. Eventually, though, he decides he has nothing to lose. He realizes that he doesn’t care if Camille finds out, since Camille is weak and could never hurt him. His decision is therefore based on his own wellbeing, not whether or not it’s fair or moral to sleep with Camille’s wife. Accordingly, it’s quite clear that he really only thinks about himself, allowing his cravings to guide him even when he’s thinking rationally and not currently experiencing the throes of passion.
Indulging their desires doesn’t make it easier for Thérèse and Laurent to think clearly, nor does it allow them to go back to their normal lives—to the contrary, chasing pleasure just makes them spin even more out of control. Whereas Laurent at least tried to levelheadedly consider the pros and cons of having an affair with Thérèse, he now throws himself with reckless abandon into their relationship. Soon enough, his desires become much more than mere cravings—they become actual needs that he feels obligated to fulfill. In turn, it’s agonizing when his employer tells him he can’t leave work anymore, making it impossible for him and Thérèse to continue their romantic visitations. Suddenly, Laurent realizes the depths of his desire: “He needed this woman to live, as one needs food and drink.” If desire took precedent over rationality before Laurent and Thérèse began their affair, it now completely overshadows their ability to make good—and moral—decisions, which is what leads them to murder Camille. They’re no longer merely looking for an enjoyable experience to satisfy their sexual cravings. Rather, they’re compelled to preserve their relationship at all costs because they’ve come to see passion as an absolute necessity for survival.
But the novel illustrates that fixating so much on pleasure can have adverse effects on a person’s ability to even feel pleasure in the first place. Both Laurent and Thérèse are often referred to as “animals,” suggesting that they chase satisfaction without possessing any kind of foresight. For instance, when they talk about murdering Camille, they don’t consider that committing such an atrocious crime might leave them emotionally scarred—which, of course, is exactly what happens. Their relationship suffers as a result of their crime, since they can’t even touch each other without thinking about Camille’s drowned corpse. In fact, they can hardly do anything they used to enjoy. Laurent seeks refuge in painting, only to discover with horror that he’s only capable of painting Camille’s face. In terms of their relationship, their passion ultimately transforms into something bitter and ugly, since they take out their unhappiness on each other by constantly fighting. In a way, then, they do maintain the passion in their relationship, but now there’s a crucial difference: it’s torturous instead of pleasurable. The novel therefore demonstrates that there really can be too much of a good thing, highlighting just how destructive it can be to impulsively pursue pleasure without taking anything else into account.
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Passion and Pleasure Quotes in Thérèse Raquin
This life of enforced convalescence made her turn in on herself; she developed a habit of speaking in an undertone, walking about the house without making any noise, and sitting silent and motionless on a chair with a vacant look in her eyes. Yet whenever she lifted an arm or moved a foot forward, it was apparent that she had all the litheness of a cat, with taut, powerful muscles and a store of passion and energy which lay dormant in her inert body.
Camille was irritated by his mother’s constant fussing; he had rebellious moments when he wanted to rush about and make himself ill, just to escape from her cloying attentions which were starting to make him feel sick. Then he would drag Thérèse off and challenge her to wrestle with him in the grass. One day he gave his cousin a push and she fell over; she leapt up at once like a wild animal, with her cheeks red and eyes blazing with anger, and threw herself on him with both fists raised. Camille slid to the ground. He was scared.
The truth was that only stupid ambition had driven Camille to think of leaving. He wanted to be an employee in some large administration, and would go pink with pleasure at the thought of himself sitting in the middle of a huge office, wearing shiny artificial cuffs and with a quill pen tucked behind his ear.
Thérèse, who had not yet said a word, looked at the newcomer. She had never seen a real man before. Laurent, tall, strong, and fresh-faced, filled her with astonishment. She stared with a kind of wonder at the low forehead, from which sprung black bushy hair, the full cheeks, red lips, and regular features which made up his handsome, full-blooded face. Her gaze lingered for a while on his neck, which was broad and short, thick and powerful. Then she became lost in contemplation of the huge hands, which he kept spread across his knees as he sat there; their fingers were square and his clenched fist must be enormous, capable of felling an ox.
Laurent spoke quite unemotionally. In a few words, he had just told a story which summed him up perfectly. He was basically lazy by temperament, with full-blooded appetites and a pronounced desire for easy and long-lasting pleasures.
It is true that he found Thérèse plain and did not love her, but then she would not cost him anything; the women he usually picked up cheaply were certainly no prettier, nor any better loved. On grounds of economy alone, it was a good idea to take his friend’s wife. […] Then again, when he came to think about it, an affair like this could hardly lead to any trouble: it would be in Thérèse’s interests to cover it up, and he could easily jilt her when he felt like it; even if Camille did find out and get annoyed, he would just thump him if he started to throw his weight around. Whichever way he looked at it, the prospect seemed an easy and alluring one to Laurent.
When he left her he was tottering like a drunkard. The next day, once he had regained his caution and his rather forced composure, he asked himself whether or not to go back to this lover whose kisses so inflamed his passions. At first he firmly resolved to stay at home. Then he began to weaken. He wanted to forget Thérèse, the sight of her naked body and her sweet but brutal caresses, yet there she still was, implacable, holding her arms out to him. The physical pain which this vision caused him soon became unbearable.
I don’t know how I can have loved you; actually, it was more like hate. The sight of you irritated me, I couldn’t stand it; when you were there, my nerves were stretched to breaking-point, my mind went blank, and I saw red. Oh, how I suffered! Yet I wanted my suffering and longed for you to come; […]
But, unbeknown to him, desire had worked away deep inside him until it had finally delivered him, bound hand and foot, into the wild embrace of Thérèse. Now he was afraid he would cast prudence aside altogether, and did not dare go to the Passage du Pont-Neuf of an evening for fear of committing some act of folly. He was no longer in control of his actions; his mistress, with her cat-like suppleness and nervous sensitivity, had slowly insinuated herself into every fibre of his body. He needed this woman to live, as one needs food and drink.
Before Thérèse had come he had not had any thought of murdering Camille; then, under the pressure of events and in exasperation at the thought that he would not see his lover ever again, he had talked of his death. Thus a new corner of his unconscious nature had revealed itself: carried away by his adultery, he had started dreaming of murder.
He was relieved to have committed his crime at last. He had killed Camille and now the whole thing was over and done with; nothing more would ever be said. From now on he was going to live in peace and quiet, until it was time to take possession of Thérèse. The thought of committing a murder had choked him at times with panic; now that he had succeeded, a weight had been lifted from his chest, he could breathe easily again, and he was free of the anxiety which fear and hesitation had inflicted.
His visits to the Morgue gave him nightmares and fits of shuddering which left him panting for breath. He shook off his fears and told himself not to act like a child; he wanted to be strong, but, despite himself, his body refused, and his whole being was overcome by revulsion and horror as soon as he found himself in the damp, sickly-smelling atmosphere of the mortuary.
The two lovers no longer made any attempt to see each other on their own. They never sought a rendez-vous or exchanged a furtive kiss. For the moment, the murder had as it were smothered the sensual fire in their flesh; by killing Camille, they had managed to assuage those fierce and insatiable desires which had remained unsatisfied while they had lain locked in each other’s arms. The crime had given them a feeling of acute pleasure which made their embraces seem insipid and loathsome in comparison.
Whenever he reflected that he might have been found out and guillotined, all his caution and cowardice rushed back, making him shudder and bringing a cold sweat to his brow as he felt the icy kiss of the blade on the back of his neck. While he had been busily occupied he had gone straight ahead, with the blind tenacity of a dumb beast. Now, when he looked back at the chasm which he had just crossed, he was overcome by terror and faintness of heart.
‘I must really have been drunk,’ he thought; ‘that woman must have intoxicated me with her caresses. Good God, what a crazy fool I’ve been! To risk the guillotine for something like that…It went off all right in the end, but if I had my time again I wouldn’t even consider it.’
If they were in a hurry to get marriage over with, it was because they could no longer stand being apart and on their own. Every night they were visited by the drowned man, and insomnia laid them on a bed of burning coals, turning them over with red-hot irons. The state of nervous irritation in which they were living still kindled new desires in them each evening, setting atrocious hallucinations before their eyes.
His remorse was purely physical. Only his body, with its over-stretched nerves and trembling flesh, was afraid of the drowned man. His conscience had nothing to do with the terror he felt, and he did not in the least regret having killed Camille; in periods of calm when the ghost was not there, he would have committed the murder all over again if he had thought it was in his interests to do so. […] His body was suffering terribly but his soul remained absent; the wretched fellow did not feel in the least repentant. Thérèse’s passion had infected him with a terrible sickness, and that was all.
Thérèse remained tight-lipped, for she had no intention of letting Laurent fritter away the small fortune on which her freedom depended. When her husband pressed her with questions in an attempt to gain her assent, she replied drily, pointing out that, if he left his office, he would no longer be bringing in any money, so he would have to depend entirely on her. While she was speaking, Laurent looked at her sharply in a disconcerting way that made the rejection she was about to pronounce stick in her throat; she thought she could read in her accomplice’s eyes the menacing threat: ‘If you don’t agree, I’ll spill the beans.’
Suddenly, Thérèse and Laurent burst into tears. An overwhelming crisis broke them and flung them into each other’s arms, as weak as children. They both felt something gentle and tender awakening in their bosom. They cried, unable to speak, thinking of the sordid life they had led and would go on leading, if they were cowardly enough to go on at all. Then, as they thought back over the past, they felt so weary and disgusted with themselves that they were filled with an immense need for rest, oblivion. They exchanged a final glance, a glance of gratitude, before the knife and the glass of poison. Then Thérèse took the glass, drank half of it, and handed it to Laurent, who swallowed the rest straight down.
