The tragedy of Madame Bovary

Let’s look at this passage, after Rodolphe dumps Emma: 

“As for memories of Rodolphe, she stored them away in the depths of her heart, and there they stayed, more stately, more motionless than a mummy in its crypt. From this great embalmed love came a fragrance that, touching everything, scented the world of purity where she wanted to live with tenderness. When she knelt at her Gothic prie-dieu she spoke the same honeyed words to the Lord that she had once whispered in her lover’s ear during their adulterous outpourings. She did it to instil faith, but no delight descended on her from heaven, and she would get up aching, with the obscure feeling that she was the victim of an enormous hoax. Yet this quest, so she believed, was just one more good deed, and in her proud devotions Emma likened herself to the great ladies of the past, whose glory had once inspired her in a painting of la Vallière, and who, trailing the rickly bedecked trains of their long dresses with such splendour, withdrew into seclusion to wash Christ’s feet with the tears of a heart wounded by life.” (P.2, ch.4) 

Such a magnificent passage. 
Now look at this one, when Emma’s getting bored with Léon:

“They knew each other too well to marvel at the sense of possession that makes pleasure all the more intense. She was as repelled by him as he was weary of her. In adultery Emma was confronted with the mediocrity of marriage. 
[…] She didn’t write him any fewer love letters, on the principal that a woman should always write to her lover. 
Yet in writing she discovered another man, a shadow born of her most impassioned memories, the most beautiful books she had read, her fiercest desires, and eventually he became so real, so attainable, that her heart raced in wonder, despite being unable to picture him clearly—because like a god he was almost invisible beneath his manly attributes. He lived in that blue-tinted land where silken ladders hang from balconies in the sweetly scented breath of flowers in the moonlight. She felt him nearby, he would come and sweep her away body and soul with a kiss. But then she came crashing down again; for these obscures transports of love exhausted her more than the wildest debauchery.” (P.3, ch.6) 

Emma’s tragedy is her yearning for something grand, exciting, and romantic. Her tragedy is her inability to reconcile with the fact that life isn’t like the books she reads. Her tragedy is her delusions and thwarted dreams. Emma moves from religion (during the time at the convent), to marriage, to affair with Rodolphe, back to religion, then to affair with Léon, forever chasing something unattainable, forever dissatisfied and disappointed.  
Emma is stupid, deceitful, reckless, and self-centred. She is shallow and has no depth of feeling, and doesn’t care about anyone, including her own child. She is self-destructive and hard to like. But as I reread Madame Bovary, I sometimes felt for Emma. Her marriage with Charles is an awful mismatch, and the answer to anyone who is against (the right to) divorce or against premarital sex. Compatibility, including sexual compatibility, is important. 
Emma, in addition, doesn’t have a profession or hobby to keep herself from daydreaming and acting out her fantasies. She doesn’t seem to understand finances.
This time, I’ve also realised something I didn’t notice before: Charles too shares his part in Emma’s tragedy. They lack communication—Emma doesn’t express her feelings, he doesn’t understand her and even foolishly believes she’s happy; on his turn, he doesn’t tell her about money problems either, so it is partly his fault that she becomes spoilt and careless with spending.  
Look at this passage: 

“… Lheureux redoubled his efforts and, first threatening then whining, he so contrived things that Charles ended up by singing a promissory note that fell due in 6 months. But no sooner had he signed the agreement than he had a bold idea: to borrow 1000 francs from Monsieur Lheureux. So looking slightly embarrassed, he asked if there was a chance of getting it, adding that it would be for a year and at whatever rate of interest he liked.” (P.2, ch.14) 

Note that: “at whatever rate of interest he liked”. Isn’t that rather dumb?