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脌 la recherche du temps perdu #4
小芯写芯屑 懈 袚芯屑芯褉褉邪
'小芯写芯屑 懈 袚芯屑芯褉褉邪' - 褔械褌胁械褉褌褘泄 褉芯屑邪薪 褋械屑懈褌芯屑薪芯泄 褝锌芯锌械懈 褎褉邪薪褑褍蟹褋泻芯谐芯 锌懈褋邪褌械谢褟 袦邪褉褋械谢褟 袩褉褍褋褌邪 (1871-1922) '袙 锌芯懈褋泻邪褏 褍褌褉邪褔械薪薪芯谐芯 胁褉械屑械薪懈'. 袙 褌械泻褋褌械 胁芯褋褋褌邪薪芯胁谢械薪褘 锌褉芯锌褍褋泻懈, 懈屑械胁褕懈械褋褟 胁 锌褉械写褘写褍褖懈褏 懈蟹写邪薪懈褟褏.
340 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1922
964 people are currently reading
17823 people want to read
About the author
Marcel Proust
1,845听books7,134听followersMarcel Proust was a French novelist, best known for his 3000 page masterpiece 脌 la recherche du temps perdu (Remembrance of Things Past or In Search of Lost Time), a pseudo-autobiographical novel told mostly in a stream-of-consciousness style.
Born in the first year of the Third Republic, the young Marcel, like his narrator, was a delicate child from a bourgeois family. He was active in Parisian high society during the 80s and 90s, welcomed in the most fashionable and exclusive salons of his day. However, his position there was also one of an outsider, due to his Jewishness and homosexuality. Towards the end of 1890s Proust began to withdraw more and more from society, and although he was never entirely reclusive, as is sometimes made out, he lapsed more completely into his lifelong tendency to sleep during the day and work at night. He was also plagued with severe asthma, which had troubled him intermittently since childhood, and a terror of his own death, especially in case it should come before his novel had been completed. The first volume, after some difficulty finding a publisher, came out in 1913, and Proust continued to work with an almost inhuman dedication on his masterpiece right up until his death in 1922, at the age of 51.
Today he is widely recognized as one of the greatest authors of the 20th Century, and 脌 la recherche du temps perdu as one of the most dazzling and significant works of literature to be written in modern times.
Born in the first year of the Third Republic, the young Marcel, like his narrator, was a delicate child from a bourgeois family. He was active in Parisian high society during the 80s and 90s, welcomed in the most fashionable and exclusive salons of his day. However, his position there was also one of an outsider, due to his Jewishness and homosexuality. Towards the end of 1890s Proust began to withdraw more and more from society, and although he was never entirely reclusive, as is sometimes made out, he lapsed more completely into his lifelong tendency to sleep during the day and work at night. He was also plagued with severe asthma, which had troubled him intermittently since childhood, and a terror of his own death, especially in case it should come before his novel had been completed. The first volume, after some difficulty finding a publisher, came out in 1913, and Proust continued to work with an almost inhuman dedication on his masterpiece right up until his death in 1922, at the age of 51.
Today he is widely recognized as one of the greatest authors of the 20th Century, and 脌 la recherche du temps perdu as one of the most dazzling and significant works of literature to be written in modern times.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 903 reviews
January 13, 2024
Vices of high society鈥� High society cherishes its vices no less than its virtues鈥� Perhaps even more鈥�
Haughtiness and ambitiousness鈥� Secrets and intrigues鈥� Perversion and lust鈥� Gentry, socialites, cr猫me de la cr猫me shamelessly roam in all the labyrinths of passion.
The narrator spends time with his paramour but he selfishly dreams to encounter a beautiful maiden鈥� He keeps chasing apparitions鈥�
Time flies鈥� And leaves us behind.
Let us leave aside for the time being those who, led by the exceptional nature of their inclination to believe themselves superior to women, despise them, who make of homosexuality the privilege of great geniuses and of glorious epochs, and who, when they seek to share their taste with others, do so less with those who seem predisposed to it, as a morphinomaniac does with morphine, than with those who seem to them worthy of it, out of an apostolic zeal, just as others preach Zionism, conscientious objection, Saint-Simonism, vegetarianism, or anarchy.
Haughtiness and ambitiousness鈥� Secrets and intrigues鈥� Perversion and lust鈥� Gentry, socialites, cr猫me de la cr猫me shamelessly roam in all the labyrinths of passion.
The narrator spends time with his paramour but he selfishly dreams to encounter a beautiful maiden鈥� He keeps chasing apparitions鈥�
It often happens that when I am thinking of her I am seized by a wild longing. But these recurrences of desire force us to reflect that, if we wanted to meet these girls again with the same pleasure, we should have also to go back to the year in question, which has since been followed by ten others, in the course of which the girl has faded. We can sometimes find a person again, but not abolish time. All this up until that unforeseen day, sad as a winter鈥檚 night, when we are no longer seeking that particular girl, or any other, and when to find one would alarm us even. For we no longer feel we have sufficient attractions to please, or the strength to love.
Time flies鈥� And leaves us behind.
June 10, 2022
HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!!!
this is the volume of ISOLT that michael bay will turn into a big budget summer blockbuster, mark my words. there are action verbs!! verbs, i tells ya!
and picture this on the big screen: we open with our hero, crouching behind some flower bushes, unmoving - waiting, just waiting for a bee to come around and assist in the pollination of the flowers.(pshow, whoosh - many michael-bayish essplosions) and although not strictly supported by textual evidence, i expect his little sticky hand was at the ready to relieve his straining trousers should this act of hot plant sexx occur. however - his hopes are dashed by something even sexier happening right in front of the bushes: (pshow - in the distance, an essplosion) two men begin their courtship with birdlike posturing and an involved dance of invert attraction, which they consummate nearby, to the complicated emotions of our watcher. (assplosion) WHO IS ACTUALLY A TRANSFORMER!!! zooooom! (aerosmith song)
and after that, it is like a sexy veil is lifted from the world around him and he sees that there are same-sex relations being pursued everywhere!! france is suddenly super-gay, who would have thunk it? and that is volume 4.
(also, for those of you who were concerned after the cliffhanger at the end of volume 3, where he was fretting for about 75 pages about whether he was actually invited to the party he was planning to attend regardless - spoiler alert - he WAS!!) phew. (essplosion)
it is definitely the most readable volume thus far, unless my proust-vaccine has just finally taken effect. and i think this volume works just fine as a stand-alone novel, whereas some of the others feel broken-off. this one has the humor and the bitterness for which proust is known, with fewer daydream-y bits that make you want to shake him a little, like when the concussed try to take a nap.plus, this book does not end with a whisper, like some of the other ones, but with the bang of a firm, declarative statement - ZING!!
these reviews always sound as though i am not enjoying my proust experience, which isn't true, because i assure you, i am. sometimes it feels like my brain is passing through glue, but there are so many rewarding passages - in this volume primarily about the nature of jealousy and the way we perceive ourselves (and the way we perceive how other people perceive us ) through different "stages" of our lives that are incredibly delicate and superfine in their language.
but seriously, don't need me to be reviewing proust. my function on this site is that of a literary piglet, snuffling up the truffle-books; finding the unknown and the forgotten and nudging them to the surface. having said that, i am about to start twilight, so that's one you people might want to keep on your radar.
promises were made.
this is the volume of ISOLT that michael bay will turn into a big budget summer blockbuster, mark my words. there are action verbs!! verbs, i tells ya!
and picture this on the big screen: we open with our hero, crouching behind some flower bushes, unmoving - waiting, just waiting for a bee to come around and assist in the pollination of the flowers.(pshow, whoosh - many michael-bayish essplosions) and although not strictly supported by textual evidence, i expect his little sticky hand was at the ready to relieve his straining trousers should this act of hot plant sexx occur. however - his hopes are dashed by something even sexier happening right in front of the bushes: (pshow - in the distance, an essplosion) two men begin their courtship with birdlike posturing and an involved dance of invert attraction, which they consummate nearby, to the complicated emotions of our watcher. (assplosion) WHO IS ACTUALLY A TRANSFORMER!!! zooooom! (aerosmith song)
and after that, it is like a sexy veil is lifted from the world around him and he sees that there are same-sex relations being pursued everywhere!! france is suddenly super-gay, who would have thunk it? and that is volume 4.
(also, for those of you who were concerned after the cliffhanger at the end of volume 3, where he was fretting for about 75 pages about whether he was actually invited to the party he was planning to attend regardless - spoiler alert - he WAS!!) phew. (essplosion)
it is definitely the most readable volume thus far, unless my proust-vaccine has just finally taken effect. and i think this volume works just fine as a stand-alone novel, whereas some of the others feel broken-off. this one has the humor and the bitterness for which proust is known, with fewer daydream-y bits that make you want to shake him a little, like when the concussed try to take a nap.plus, this book does not end with a whisper, like some of the other ones, but with the bang of a firm, declarative statement - ZING!!
these reviews always sound as though i am not enjoying my proust experience, which isn't true, because i assure you, i am. sometimes it feels like my brain is passing through glue, but there are so many rewarding passages - in this volume primarily about the nature of jealousy and the way we perceive ourselves (and the way we perceive how other people perceive us ) through different "stages" of our lives that are incredibly delicate and superfine in their language.
but seriously, don't need me to be reviewing proust. my function on this site is that of a literary piglet, snuffling up the truffle-books; finding the unknown and the forgotten and nudging them to the surface. having said that, i am about to start twilight, so that's one you people might want to keep on your radar.
promises were made.
May 13, 2022
(Book 685 from 1001 books) 脌 la Recherche du Temps Perdu (Sodome et Gomorrhe) = Remembrance of Things Past = In Search of Lost Time (Sodom and Gomorrah #4), Marcel Proust
In Search of Lost Time, previously also translated as Remembrance of Things Past, is a novel in seven volumes, written by Marcel Proust (1871鈥�1922).
Sodom and Gomorrah (sometimes translated as: Cities of the Plain) (1921/1922), was originally published in two volumes. The first forty pages of Sodom and Gomorrah initially appeared at the end of The side of Guermantes II, the remainder appearing as Sodom and Gomorrah I (1921) and Sodom and Gomorrah II (1922). It was the last volume over which Proust supervised publication before his death in November 1922. The publication of the remaining volumes was carried out by his brother, Robert Proust, and Jacques Rivi猫re.
鬲丕乇蹖禺 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮: 賲丕賴 賳賵丕賲亘乇 爻丕賱2007賲蹖賱丕丿蹖
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爻丿賵賲 賵 毓賲賵乇賴貙 噩賱丿 趩賴丕乇賲 丕夭 爻乇蹖 芦丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖 夭賲丕賳 丕夭 丿爻鬲 乇賮鬲賴禄貙 賳賵卮鬲賴: 芦賲丕乇爻賱 倬乇賵爻鬲禄 丕爻鬲貙 讴賴 噩賱丿 賳禺爻鬲 丌賳 丿乇 爻丕賱1921賲蹖賱丕丿蹖貙 賵 爻倬爻 丿賵賲蹖賳 亘禺卮 丌賳 丿乇 爻丕賱1922賲蹖賱丕丿蹖貙 丕夭 爻賵蹖 丕賳鬲卮丕乇丕鬲 诏丕賱蹖賲丕乇貙 亘賴 趩丕倬 乇爻蹖丿貨 丿乇 丕蹖賳 噩賱丿貙 乇丕賵蹖 丕夭 賴賲噩賳爻诏乇丕 亘賵丿賳 芦卮丕乇賱賵爻禄 丌诏丕賴 賲蹖鈥屫促堌�
讴鬲丕亘 芦爻丿賵賲 賵 毓賲賵乇賴禄 诏夭丕乇卮 蹖讴蹖 丕夭 賲賴賲鈥屫臂屬� 賲乇丕丨賱 爻賱賵讴 芦乇丕賵蹖禄貙 亘賴 爻賵蹖 丕賵噩鈥屬囏й� 乇爻鬲诏丕乇蹖 賵 噩丕賵丿丕賳诏蹖 丕爻鬲貨 丿乇 讴鬲丕亘鈥屬囏й� 倬蹖卮蹖賳貙 乇丕賵蹖 丿賵乇賴 賴丕蹖 诏賵賳丕诏賵賳 卮賳丕禺鬲 禺賵蹖卮鬲賳 賵 噩賴丕賳 倬蹖乇丕賲賵賳 乇丕 倬卮鬲 爻乇 亘诏匕丕卮鬲貙 賵 丕蹖賳讴 亘賴 賲賳夭賱蹖 乇爻蹖丿賴 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丿乇 爻賱賵讴 賵 丌诏丕賴蹖貙 卮丕蹖丿 丕夭 賴乇 賲賳夭賱 丿蹖诏乇蹖 亘乇鬲乇 亘丕卮丿: 卮賳丕禺鬲賳 亘丿蹖 賵 倬賱卮鬲蹖貙 亘乇丕蹖 乇賴蹖丕亘蹖 亘賴 賳蹖讴蹖 賵 倬丕讴蹖貨 乇丕賵蹖 芦丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖 夭賲丕賳 丕夭 丿爻鬲 乇賮鬲賴禄貙 賴賲丕賳賳丿 爻丕賱讴 賵 乇賴乇賵 芦讴賲丿蹖 丕賱賴蹖禄 丕孬乇 芦丿丕賳鬲賴禄貙 丿乇 乇丕賴蹖丕亘蹖 亘賴 亘賱賳丿蹖鈥屬囏й� 賲賱讴賵鬲蹖 賳禺爻鬲貙 亘丕蹖丿 丕夭 賵乇胤賴鈥屬囏й� 丿賵夭禺蹖 丿蹖丿賳 讴賳丿貨 丕蹖賳 讴鬲丕亘 趩賴丕乇賲 丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖 夭賲丕賳 丕夭 丿爻鬲 乇賮鬲賴 賴賲趩賵賳 芦丿賵夭禺 丿丕賳鬲賴禄貙 賳賲丕蹖卮诏丕賴蹖 丕夭 趩賴乇賴鈥� 賴丕蹖蹖 丕爻鬲貙 讴賴 賴乇 讴丿丕賲卮丕賳 賳賲丕蹖賳丿賴 蹖 賳賯氐 賵 诏賳丕賴蹖鈥� 賴爻鬲賳丿貙 賵 乇賴乇賵 亘丕 倬卮鬲 爻乇 诏匕丕卮鬲賳 丌賳鈥屬囏ж� 亘賴 鬲毓亘蹖乇蹖 讴賳丕蹖蹖 丌賳鈥屬囏� 乇丕 賲蹖乇丕賳丿 賵 胤乇丿 賲蹖鈥屭┵嗀� 鬲丕 爻乇丕賳噩丕賲 亘賴 乇爻鬲诏丕乇蹖 賳賴丕蹖蹖 亘乇爻丿: 鬲丕 亘賴 丕賲蹖丿 賵 丌賮乇蹖賳卮 丿爻鬲 蹖丕亘丿
賳賯賱 賳賲賵賳賴 賲鬲賳: (丿賱亘丕禺鬲诏蹖 爻亘亘 夭蹖乇 賵 乇賵 卮丿賳 亘爻鬲乇 禺丕讴蹖 丕賳丿蹖卮賴 賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 丿乇 丕賳丿蹖卮賴 丌賯丕蹖 芦卮丕乇賱賵爻禄 讴賴貙 趩賳丿 乇賵夭 倬蹖卮貙 亘賴 丿卮鬲蹖 亘爻蹖丕乇 賴賲賵丕乇 賵 蹖讴丿爻鬲 賲蹖賲丕賳爻鬲貙 賵 丕賵 丿乇 丿賵乇丿爻鬲鈥屬囏й屫� 賴賲貙 丕夭 賮乇賵丿 鬲丕 賮乇丕夭貙 丕賳丿讴 诏賲丕賳蹖 乇丕 賳賲蹖鬲賵丕賳爻鬲 亘賴 趩卮賲 亘亘蹖賳丿貙 賳丕诏賴丕賳 乇卮鬲賴 讴賵賴賴丕蹖 亘賱賳丿 賵 丕爻鬲賵丕乇蹖 亘賴 爻禺鬲蹖 爻賳诏貙 賵 丕夭 爻賳诏蹖 鬲乇丕卮 禺賵乇丿賴貙 爻乇 亘乇 丿丕卮鬲賴 亘賵丿貙 趩賳丕賳讴賴 诏賵蹖丕 倬蹖讴乇鬲乇丕卮蹖貙 亘賴 噩丕蹖 亘乇丿賳 爻賳诏 賲乇賲乇 丕夭 讴賵賴貙 丌賳乇丕 丿乇 噩丕 鬲乇丕卮蹖丿賴貙 賵 倬蹖讴乇賴鈥� 賴丕蹖 亘爻蹖丕乇 亘夭乇诏蹖 鬲賳诏丕賳诏 丿乇 讴賳丕乇 賴賲 丕蹖爻鬲丕丿賴 丕夭 鬲乇爻貙 乇卮讴 亘乇蹖貙 讴賳噩讴丕賵蹖貙 賴賵爻貙 亘蹖夭丕乇蹖貙 乇賳噩貙 睾乇賵乇貙 鬲乇爻賳丕讴蹖貙 賵 丿賱亘丕禺鬲诏蹖 亘乇 噩丕蹖 诏匕丕卮鬲賴 亘丕卮丿)貨 倬丕蹖丕賳 賳賯賱
賵丕跇賴 賴丕蹖 倬丕乇爻丕蹖蹖 丕蹖賳 亘乇诏乇丿丕賳 噩賳丕亘 芦爻丨丕亘蹖禄 亘乇丕蹖賲 亘爻蹖丕乇 丿賱 丕賳诏蹖夭 亘賵丿賳丿 賵 賴爻鬲賳丿
鬲丕乇蹖禺 亘賴賳诏丕賲 乇爻丕賳蹖 28/04/1399賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 22/02/1401賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 丕. 卮乇亘蹖丕賳蹖
In Search of Lost Time, previously also translated as Remembrance of Things Past, is a novel in seven volumes, written by Marcel Proust (1871鈥�1922).
Sodom and Gomorrah (sometimes translated as: Cities of the Plain) (1921/1922), was originally published in two volumes. The first forty pages of Sodom and Gomorrah initially appeared at the end of The side of Guermantes II, the remainder appearing as Sodom and Gomorrah I (1921) and Sodom and Gomorrah II (1922). It was the last volume over which Proust supervised publication before his death in November 1922. The publication of the remaining volumes was carried out by his brother, Robert Proust, and Jacques Rivi猫re.
鬲丕乇蹖禺 賳禺爻鬲蹖賳 禺賵丕賳卮: 賲丕賴 賳賵丕賲亘乇 爻丕賱2007賲蹖賱丕丿蹖
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爻丿賵賲 賵 毓賲賵乇賴貙 噩賱丿 趩賴丕乇賲 丕夭 爻乇蹖 芦丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖 夭賲丕賳 丕夭 丿爻鬲 乇賮鬲賴禄貙 賳賵卮鬲賴: 芦賲丕乇爻賱 倬乇賵爻鬲禄 丕爻鬲貙 讴賴 噩賱丿 賳禺爻鬲 丌賳 丿乇 爻丕賱1921賲蹖賱丕丿蹖貙 賵 爻倬爻 丿賵賲蹖賳 亘禺卮 丌賳 丿乇 爻丕賱1922賲蹖賱丕丿蹖貙 丕夭 爻賵蹖 丕賳鬲卮丕乇丕鬲 诏丕賱蹖賲丕乇貙 亘賴 趩丕倬 乇爻蹖丿貨 丿乇 丕蹖賳 噩賱丿貙 乇丕賵蹖 丕夭 賴賲噩賳爻诏乇丕 亘賵丿賳 芦卮丕乇賱賵爻禄 丌诏丕賴 賲蹖鈥屫促堌�
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賳賯賱 賳賲賵賳賴 賲鬲賳: (丿賱亘丕禺鬲诏蹖 爻亘亘 夭蹖乇 賵 乇賵 卮丿賳 亘爻鬲乇 禺丕讴蹖 丕賳丿蹖卮賴 賲蹖鈥屫促堌� 丿乇 丕賳丿蹖卮賴 丌賯丕蹖 芦卮丕乇賱賵爻禄 讴賴貙 趩賳丿 乇賵夭 倬蹖卮貙 亘賴 丿卮鬲蹖 亘爻蹖丕乇 賴賲賵丕乇 賵 蹖讴丿爻鬲 賲蹖賲丕賳爻鬲貙 賵 丕賵 丿乇 丿賵乇丿爻鬲鈥屬囏й屫� 賴賲貙 丕夭 賮乇賵丿 鬲丕 賮乇丕夭貙 丕賳丿讴 诏賲丕賳蹖 乇丕 賳賲蹖鬲賵丕賳爻鬲 亘賴 趩卮賲 亘亘蹖賳丿貙 賳丕诏賴丕賳 乇卮鬲賴 讴賵賴賴丕蹖 亘賱賳丿 賵 丕爻鬲賵丕乇蹖 亘賴 爻禺鬲蹖 爻賳诏貙 賵 丕夭 爻賳诏蹖 鬲乇丕卮 禺賵乇丿賴貙 爻乇 亘乇 丿丕卮鬲賴 亘賵丿貙 趩賳丕賳讴賴 诏賵蹖丕 倬蹖讴乇鬲乇丕卮蹖貙 亘賴 噩丕蹖 亘乇丿賳 爻賳诏 賲乇賲乇 丕夭 讴賵賴貙 丌賳乇丕 丿乇 噩丕 鬲乇丕卮蹖丿賴貙 賵 倬蹖讴乇賴鈥� 賴丕蹖 亘爻蹖丕乇 亘夭乇诏蹖 鬲賳诏丕賳诏 丿乇 讴賳丕乇 賴賲 丕蹖爻鬲丕丿賴 丕夭 鬲乇爻貙 乇卮讴 亘乇蹖貙 讴賳噩讴丕賵蹖貙 賴賵爻貙 亘蹖夭丕乇蹖貙 乇賳噩貙 睾乇賵乇貙 鬲乇爻賳丕讴蹖貙 賵 丿賱亘丕禺鬲诏蹖 亘乇 噩丕蹖 诏匕丕卮鬲賴 亘丕卮丿)貨 倬丕蹖丕賳 賳賯賱
賵丕跇賴 賴丕蹖 倬丕乇爻丕蹖蹖 丕蹖賳 亘乇诏乇丿丕賳 噩賳丕亘 芦爻丨丕亘蹖禄 亘乇丕蹖賲 亘爻蹖丕乇 丿賱 丕賳诏蹖夭 亘賵丿賳丿 賵 賴爻鬲賳丿
鬲丕乇蹖禺 亘賴賳诏丕賲 乇爻丕賳蹖 28/04/1399賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 22/02/1401賴噩乇蹖 禺賵乇卮蹖丿蹖貨 丕. 卮乇亘蹖丕賳蹖
April 3, 2025
Sodome et Gomorrhe is the 4th Tome of La Recherche and the last published during Marcel Proust's lifetime. This tome is the final chapter of his great work that he has re-knitted and retouched with the help of his beautiful collages that only his faithful Celestial could accompany. His writing is ambitious, sometimes funny, and radiant in precise descriptions of characters. In this volume, we find almost all the significant figures of Research. The author is more mature, less naive, and sees beyond appearances. As he wrote, the central theme is an inversion (today, he would use homosexuality unvarnished). It occupies the author's thoughts like an echo of his sensitivity. His words resonate like catharsis. This volume interweaves nostalgic moments of all grace where the narrator remembers his lost grandmother, and the question of loss and acidity is inviting. Those are the regrets and the beauty of memories. This Proustian dive is a time suspended in grace.
We find the Grand Hotel on the banks of the English Channel, in the shade of young women in bloom who are also growing up, in memory of the friendship that jealousy can spoil, where portraits intersect where descriptions were sometimes nourishing by harsh sarcasm. Read Marcel Proust, a journey where cabs and crinolines greet the tuxedos dethroning the toppers. The mustache is shiny, the manners liberated but under beautiful ointments, the spirits cultivated, the women lively and intuitive. This incomplete list 脿 la Prevert au Past Simple nourishes us with elegance.
We find the Grand Hotel on the banks of the English Channel, in the shade of young women in bloom who are also growing up, in memory of the friendship that jealousy can spoil, where portraits intersect where descriptions were sometimes nourishing by harsh sarcasm. Read Marcel Proust, a journey where cabs and crinolines greet the tuxedos dethroning the toppers. The mustache is shiny, the manners liberated but under beautiful ointments, the spirits cultivated, the women lively and intuitive. This incomplete list 脿 la Prevert au Past Simple nourishes us with elegance.
April 21, 2021
芦 Tout le malheur des hommes vient d'une seule chose, qui est de ne savoir pas demeurer en repos, dans une chambre. 禄 Voil脿 une maxime 茅loquente, en un temps d鈥櫭﹑id茅mie et de confinement. Ici cependant, dans un contexte de frivolit茅 Belle 脡poque bien diff茅rent, Proust apporte une r茅ponse sp茅cifique 脿 cette formule .
Quatri猫me volume de la Recherche, donc, et le temps perdu semble s鈥檃pprofondir encore davantage que dans . Les d卯ners mondains s鈥檃llongent : garden-party parisienne chez la princesse de Guermantes, puis 脿 Balbec, dans le petit clan des Verdurin, conversations interminables 脿 la Raspeli猫re ou dans le petit train, dont le Narrateur est d茅sormais l鈥檜n des h么tes de marque.
Celui-ci, 脿 ce stade du roman, semble engourdi, 茅tourdi, 茅bloui par le petit monde insulaire et bling-bling de l鈥檃ristocratie et de la haute bourgeoisie parisienne, les bavardages, les potins de salon, le champagne, les 茅tymologies latines, les mots d鈥檈sprit, les distractions, les gesticulations, l鈥檃gitation. Bref, le divertissement. En filigranes, ce moment le plus int茅rieur, le plus profond (et en m锚me temps le plus superficiel) de la Recherche est le r茅cit d鈥檜ne fuite en avant, d鈥檜ne d茅gradation, presque d鈥檜ne perversion et d鈥檜n 茅puisement.
S鈥檃joutent 脿 cela les s茅ries amoureuses et la jalousie qui, fatalement, les accompagne. Apr猫s Swann et Odette (vol. 1), apr猫s Gilberte et Albertine (vol. 2) apr猫s Saint-Loup et 芦 Rachel quand du Seigneur 禄 (vol. 3), c鈥檈st au divin baron de Charlus que revient, 脿 travers l鈥檃ffection qu鈥檌l porte au beau mufle Morel, la partition amoureuse, en contrepoint de celle d鈥橝lbertine et du Narrateur. Il n鈥櫭ヽhappera d鈥檃illeurs 脿 personne que l鈥檋omosexualit茅 est au c艙ur de Sodome et Gomorrhe. Celle de Charlus (le sodomite) et celle, pr茅sum茅e, d鈥橝lbertine (la gomorrh茅enne). Curieusement, le h茅ros lui-m锚me est absolument h茅t茅rosexuel, voire p茅trifi茅 脿 l鈥檌d茅e qu鈥橝lbertine puisse aimer les femmes. Il diverge en cela des orientations de l鈥檃uteur de la Recherche qui, non sans quelque ironie, compare la parade amoureuse 芦 invertie 禄 au mode de f茅condation des orchid茅es鈥� (Comparaison p茅n茅trante 鈥� amusante 鈥� ridicule, comme dirait Mme de Cambremer.)
Ainsi, 脿 travers les mondanit茅s st茅riles et les tortures amoureuses, ce que le Narrateur finit par perdre de vue, c鈥檈st sa vocation premi猫re d鈥櫭ヽrivain. Ironie et subtilit茅 supr锚me, l鈥櫭ヽriture m锚me de Proust, par le scintillement de sa prose, ses intarissables pointes d鈥檋umour et, disons-le, ses longueurs accablantes, finit par nous le faire oublier aussi, 脿 nous lecteurs et, au contraire, nous faire ressentir cette m锚me fuite, ce m锚me 茅puisement apathique v茅cu par le h茅ros de la Recherche.
Et pourtant, nous tenons son livre entre les mains ! Il faudra donc que tout cela cesse et qu鈥檃it lieu quelque chose comme une conversion . Et d茅j脿, de loin en loin, un morceau de ciel s鈥檕uvre au-dessus de la vie du Narrateur. De brefs instants de clart茅 surviennent de mani猫re fortuite et inesp茅r茅e, comme pour la madeleine de Combray. L鈥欙拷锟絧isode de la bottine, par exemple, qui soudain ouvre la plaie, jusque-l脿 anesth茅si茅e, de la mort de la grand-m猫re 鈥� celle-ci revue en r锚ve, comme en un rappel des descentes d鈥橴lysse et d鈥櫭塶茅e aux enfers. C鈥檈st l脿 qu鈥櫭﹎erge le souvenir, l鈥檃ngoisse ou la prise de conscience fondamentale. Celle de la finitude et de la mort prochaine. Celle de l鈥檜rgence de 芦 demeurer en repos 禄 et, enfin, produire une 艙uvre avant de dispara卯tre.
> Vol. pr茅c茅dent : Le c么t茅 de Guermantes
> Vol. suivant : La Prisonni猫re
Quatri猫me volume de la Recherche, donc, et le temps perdu semble s鈥檃pprofondir encore davantage que dans . Les d卯ners mondains s鈥檃llongent : garden-party parisienne chez la princesse de Guermantes, puis 脿 Balbec, dans le petit clan des Verdurin, conversations interminables 脿 la Raspeli猫re ou dans le petit train, dont le Narrateur est d茅sormais l鈥檜n des h么tes de marque.
Celui-ci, 脿 ce stade du roman, semble engourdi, 茅tourdi, 茅bloui par le petit monde insulaire et bling-bling de l鈥檃ristocratie et de la haute bourgeoisie parisienne, les bavardages, les potins de salon, le champagne, les 茅tymologies latines, les mots d鈥檈sprit, les distractions, les gesticulations, l鈥檃gitation. Bref, le divertissement. En filigranes, ce moment le plus int茅rieur, le plus profond (et en m锚me temps le plus superficiel) de la Recherche est le r茅cit d鈥檜ne fuite en avant, d鈥檜ne d茅gradation, presque d鈥檜ne perversion et d鈥檜n 茅puisement.
S鈥檃joutent 脿 cela les s茅ries amoureuses et la jalousie qui, fatalement, les accompagne. Apr猫s Swann et Odette (vol. 1), apr猫s Gilberte et Albertine (vol. 2) apr猫s Saint-Loup et 芦 Rachel quand du Seigneur 禄 (vol. 3), c鈥檈st au divin baron de Charlus que revient, 脿 travers l鈥檃ffection qu鈥檌l porte au beau mufle Morel, la partition amoureuse, en contrepoint de celle d鈥橝lbertine et du Narrateur. Il n鈥櫭ヽhappera d鈥檃illeurs 脿 personne que l鈥檋omosexualit茅 est au c艙ur de Sodome et Gomorrhe. Celle de Charlus (le sodomite) et celle, pr茅sum茅e, d鈥橝lbertine (la gomorrh茅enne). Curieusement, le h茅ros lui-m锚me est absolument h茅t茅rosexuel, voire p茅trifi茅 脿 l鈥檌d茅e qu鈥橝lbertine puisse aimer les femmes. Il diverge en cela des orientations de l鈥檃uteur de la Recherche qui, non sans quelque ironie, compare la parade amoureuse 芦 invertie 禄 au mode de f茅condation des orchid茅es鈥� (Comparaison p茅n茅trante 鈥� amusante 鈥� ridicule, comme dirait Mme de Cambremer.)
Ainsi, 脿 travers les mondanit茅s st茅riles et les tortures amoureuses, ce que le Narrateur finit par perdre de vue, c鈥檈st sa vocation premi猫re d鈥櫭ヽrivain. Ironie et subtilit茅 supr锚me, l鈥櫭ヽriture m锚me de Proust, par le scintillement de sa prose, ses intarissables pointes d鈥檋umour et, disons-le, ses longueurs accablantes, finit par nous le faire oublier aussi, 脿 nous lecteurs et, au contraire, nous faire ressentir cette m锚me fuite, ce m锚me 茅puisement apathique v茅cu par le h茅ros de la Recherche.
Et pourtant, nous tenons son livre entre les mains ! Il faudra donc que tout cela cesse et qu鈥檃it lieu quelque chose comme une conversion . Et d茅j脿, de loin en loin, un morceau de ciel s鈥檕uvre au-dessus de la vie du Narrateur. De brefs instants de clart茅 surviennent de mani猫re fortuite et inesp茅r茅e, comme pour la madeleine de Combray. L鈥欙拷锟絧isode de la bottine, par exemple, qui soudain ouvre la plaie, jusque-l脿 anesth茅si茅e, de la mort de la grand-m猫re 鈥� celle-ci revue en r锚ve, comme en un rappel des descentes d鈥橴lysse et d鈥櫭塶茅e aux enfers. C鈥檈st l脿 qu鈥櫭﹎erge le souvenir, l鈥檃ngoisse ou la prise de conscience fondamentale. Celle de la finitude et de la mort prochaine. Celle de l鈥檜rgence de 芦 demeurer en repos 禄 et, enfin, produire une 艙uvre avant de dispara卯tre.
> Vol. pr茅c茅dent : Le c么t茅 de Guermantes
> Vol. suivant : La Prisonni猫re
June 29, 2021
Amorphous Notes
1. This is the first volume of Proust鈥檚 novel I have been able to read with enjoyment. The first two volumes with their prolonged stories of children鈥檚 escapades held no interest for me. So I decided to start reading the volumes out of sequence. In other words, to overleap the barrier that had stopped me cold. It has thus far worked.
2. M. de Charlus shows us why we live in a better world today in this respect: he spends all his time countering a presumption about his homosexuality he anticipates in others, though as the narrator tells us, he鈥檚 often wrong. Sadly though his every reflex is meant to send a message often counter to his true feelings. Perhaps this accounts for his class snobbery and hideous cruelty to those of lesser rank. Class snobbery which goes out the window if a beautiful boy turns his head.
3. One gets this Leo and elsewhere, this astonishing idea of class punctilio. All the old civilizations were cursed with it. In America, historically, it鈥檚 simply been a function money and race. The zealousness for social status seems utterly foreign to me. I understand materialist ambition, but the yearning here for rank, and the asses individuals are willing to make of themselves in pursuit of a proximity to it, astonishes. The joke seems to be that everybody鈥檚 perception of high society is wrong; therefore, the pleasure taken in society is generally delusive.
鈥淧eople in society are mistaken when they suppose that everybody has the same idea of the social importance of their name as they themselves and the other people of their circle.鈥� (p. 410)
4. The narrator鈥檚 fascination with homosexuality seems inconsistent. While he鈥檚 able to view the casual sex of Jupien, the tailor, and M. de Charlus, the Baron, uncritically鈥攃omparing their brief shag with the unshameful pollination of flowers鈥攚hen he discovers the bisexuality of Albertine, the woman he loves, he is filled with moral indignation. And he鈥檚 naive enough to think he can manage Albertine away from her same sex trysts.
鈥淚f Mme Putbus was there, I will contrive to see her maid [an insatiable seducer of girls], ascertain whether there was any danger of her coming to Balbec, and if so find out when, so as to take Albertine out of reach on that day.鈥�
(p 345).
5. The description of driving in a hired car, pp. 545-548 in this edition, is without parallel in all the other books I鈥檝e read with scenes of driving, not excepted. Though I can鈥檛 quite put my finger on why this is so. There鈥檚 an amazement by Marcel and an arresting digression about how the car changes our perception of space-time. Einstein鈥檚 theories were published in 1905.
6. Because it鈥檚 so common today I have to remind myself that the nonlinear scenes narrated here by way of a sonorous, unifying voice was at publication in 1921 (for this particular volume) a distinct novelty.
7. M. de Charlus鈥攖he Baron, the Duke et al鈥攊s one of the grandest characters ever concieved in western literature. Though he is in many ways a prude, a snob, and an antisemite鈥攖his was the period of the Dreyfuss Affair鈥擯roust manages to humanize him with regard to his affair with the violinist (and bit of rough trade) Morel.
1. This is the first volume of Proust鈥檚 novel I have been able to read with enjoyment. The first two volumes with their prolonged stories of children鈥檚 escapades held no interest for me. So I decided to start reading the volumes out of sequence. In other words, to overleap the barrier that had stopped me cold. It has thus far worked.
2. M. de Charlus shows us why we live in a better world today in this respect: he spends all his time countering a presumption about his homosexuality he anticipates in others, though as the narrator tells us, he鈥檚 often wrong. Sadly though his every reflex is meant to send a message often counter to his true feelings. Perhaps this accounts for his class snobbery and hideous cruelty to those of lesser rank. Class snobbery which goes out the window if a beautiful boy turns his head.
3. One gets this Leo and elsewhere, this astonishing idea of class punctilio. All the old civilizations were cursed with it. In America, historically, it鈥檚 simply been a function money and race. The zealousness for social status seems utterly foreign to me. I understand materialist ambition, but the yearning here for rank, and the asses individuals are willing to make of themselves in pursuit of a proximity to it, astonishes. The joke seems to be that everybody鈥檚 perception of high society is wrong; therefore, the pleasure taken in society is generally delusive.
鈥淧eople in society are mistaken when they suppose that everybody has the same idea of the social importance of their name as they themselves and the other people of their circle.鈥� (p. 410)
4. The narrator鈥檚 fascination with homosexuality seems inconsistent. While he鈥檚 able to view the casual sex of Jupien, the tailor, and M. de Charlus, the Baron, uncritically鈥攃omparing their brief shag with the unshameful pollination of flowers鈥攚hen he discovers the bisexuality of Albertine, the woman he loves, he is filled with moral indignation. And he鈥檚 naive enough to think he can manage Albertine away from her same sex trysts.
鈥淚f Mme Putbus was there, I will contrive to see her maid [an insatiable seducer of girls], ascertain whether there was any danger of her coming to Balbec, and if so find out when, so as to take Albertine out of reach on that day.鈥�
(p 345).
5. The description of driving in a hired car, pp. 545-548 in this edition, is without parallel in all the other books I鈥檝e read with scenes of driving, not excepted. Though I can鈥檛 quite put my finger on why this is so. There鈥檚 an amazement by Marcel and an arresting digression about how the car changes our perception of space-time. Einstein鈥檚 theories were published in 1905.
6. Because it鈥檚 so common today I have to remind myself that the nonlinear scenes narrated here by way of a sonorous, unifying voice was at publication in 1921 (for this particular volume) a distinct novelty.
7. M. de Charlus鈥攖he Baron, the Duke et al鈥攊s one of the grandest characters ever concieved in western literature. Though he is in many ways a prude, a snob, and an antisemite鈥攖his was the period of the Dreyfuss Affair鈥擯roust manages to humanize him with regard to his affair with the violinist (and bit of rough trade) Morel.
March 2, 2021
One summer in Florence I caught pneumonia. Florence completely shuts down in August. Nothing is open, no one is there. I was alone and the only books I hadn't read in the apartment where I was staying were the complete works of Carl Jung. So they were what I read. Not all of them but about four or five. I mention this because Proust and Jung have a few things in common. They were both pioneering geniuses who have had a profound influence in their respective fields; they both gave birth to ideas which have become part of our common currency and in both there's a great deal of painstaking investigation (boredom) between the exciting revelations. You might also say both were ahead of their time but also very much of it.
In this part (my least favourite part so far) the theme of homosexuality looms large. Not that Marcel comes clean; he's still pretending to be heterosexual and because of this he gives us, perhaps inadvertently, an insight into the young male who isn't the slightest bit interested in the identity of the girl he's seeing, only what she makes him feel. Which makes him, emotionally, resemble some totalitarian dictator - pathological controlling every detail of their relationship. If he was sometimes irritating as a mummy's boy earlier on, he now comes close to being obnoxious as a self-pleasuring bully. The sexual scavenger Charlus is Proust's envoy into the gay world. Charlus, besides Marcel himself, is the only compelling character in this part. And there are no relationships of much interest. This part sees Marcel stepping out into society and is largely dedicated to exposing the war games of social prestige and social climbing. But how absurd social jockeying for position is was dramatized much more creatively in another book I recently read - Brett Easton Ellis' Glamorama. Proust's take seemed standard fare and dated by comparison. To be honest, I missed Swann and Odette. It's a shame Proust wasted so much of his time swanning around in salons. I couldn't help wishing at times he had better material for his genius or he actually went to Venice instead of fantasising about it.
In this part (my least favourite part so far) the theme of homosexuality looms large. Not that Marcel comes clean; he's still pretending to be heterosexual and because of this he gives us, perhaps inadvertently, an insight into the young male who isn't the slightest bit interested in the identity of the girl he's seeing, only what she makes him feel. Which makes him, emotionally, resemble some totalitarian dictator - pathological controlling every detail of their relationship. If he was sometimes irritating as a mummy's boy earlier on, he now comes close to being obnoxious as a self-pleasuring bully. The sexual scavenger Charlus is Proust's envoy into the gay world. Charlus, besides Marcel himself, is the only compelling character in this part. And there are no relationships of much interest. This part sees Marcel stepping out into society and is largely dedicated to exposing the war games of social prestige and social climbing. But how absurd social jockeying for position is was dramatized much more creatively in another book I recently read - Brett Easton Ellis' Glamorama. Proust's take seemed standard fare and dated by comparison. To be honest, I missed Swann and Odette. It's a shame Proust wasted so much of his time swanning around in salons. I couldn't help wishing at times he had better material for his genius or he actually went to Venice instead of fantasising about it.
September 9, 2020
Viene de鈥�
Cuando empec茅 a leer 鈥淓n busca del tiempo perdido鈥�, por lo que hab铆a o铆do de la obra y por la famosa an茅cdota de la magdalena, cre铆, como seguro que les pas贸 a muchos de ustedes, que el t铆tulo hac铆a referencia a esa experiencia, no siempre grata, por la cual un tiempo ya casi olvidado nos asalta, nos inunda la mente trayendo consigo toda una cadena recuerdos que parece no tener fin. Y en esta idea me mantuve durante los dos primeros tomos. Sin embargo, con el tercero surge un nuevo sentido para el t铆tulo, y este, sin sustituir al otro, se establece definitivamente en esta cuarta entrega.
Seg煤n esta nueva interpretaci贸n, Marcel nos muestra su profundo arrepentimiento por todo el tiempo perdido en perseguir y asistir a todas esas tediosas reuniones sociales en las que 芦la cuesti贸n no es, como para Hamlet, la de ser o no ser, sino la de estar o no estar禄, nos hace ver su pesar por el acatamiento de sus ceremoniales y formulismos, por mantener tanta conversaci贸n intrascendente, cuando no simplemente maliciosa, por interesarse por todas aquellas peque帽as y miserables rencillas, en pasar por alto los grandes y desagradables horrores. Cu谩ntas veces, pasado el tiempo, no se habr谩 apesadumbrado con aquel consejo que le dio alguien una vez.
Y pese a todos estos puntos interesant铆simos y otros muchos, entre los que no se quedan atr谩s los momentos jocosos, como los protagonizados por los empleados del hotel o los comentarios a ellos dirigidos, Proust puede ser tremendamente divertido cuando se lo propone, he de decir tambi茅n que es la primera de las cuatro novelas que llevo le铆das en las que he pasado en diagonal por un buen pu帽ado de p谩ginas, y eso que ya hab铆a asistido a unas cuantas de las interminables veladas de los Guermantes y compa帽铆a. En definitiva, que esta es la que menos me ha gustado hasta ahora, lo que, sin embargo, no me ha quitado en lo m谩s m铆nimo las ganas de seguir leyendo esta monumental y maravillosa obra.
颁辞苍迟颈苍耻补谤谩鈥�
Cuando empec茅 a leer 鈥淓n busca del tiempo perdido鈥�, por lo que hab铆a o铆do de la obra y por la famosa an茅cdota de la magdalena, cre铆, como seguro que les pas贸 a muchos de ustedes, que el t铆tulo hac铆a referencia a esa experiencia, no siempre grata, por la cual un tiempo ya casi olvidado nos asalta, nos inunda la mente trayendo consigo toda una cadena recuerdos que parece no tener fin. Y en esta idea me mantuve durante los dos primeros tomos. Sin embargo, con el tercero surge un nuevo sentido para el t铆tulo, y este, sin sustituir al otro, se establece definitivamente en esta cuarta entrega.
Seg煤n esta nueva interpretaci贸n, Marcel nos muestra su profundo arrepentimiento por todo el tiempo perdido en perseguir y asistir a todas esas tediosas reuniones sociales en las que 芦la cuesti贸n no es, como para Hamlet, la de ser o no ser, sino la de estar o no estar禄, nos hace ver su pesar por el acatamiento de sus ceremoniales y formulismos, por mantener tanta conversaci贸n intrascendente, cuando no simplemente maliciosa, por interesarse por todas aquellas peque帽as y miserables rencillas, en pasar por alto los grandes y desagradables horrores. Cu谩ntas veces, pasado el tiempo, no se habr谩 apesadumbrado con aquel consejo que le dio alguien una vez.
鈥淐uando tenga usted mi edad, ver谩 que es muy poca cosa, la alta sociedad, y lamentar谩 haber atribuido tanta importancia a esas nader铆as.鈥�Marcel se reconcome por el tiempo gastado en perseguir a 芦las majestuosas doncellas de casas de alcurnia禄, 芦vulgares y magn铆ficas禄, o a aquellas de las que se enamoraba con la mera lectura de su nombre en una cr贸nica de baile, cuando era del amor y solo del amor del que siempre estuvo enamorado. Cuantas veces no se habr谩 repetido as铆 mismo este mismo pensamiento:
鈥溾€espu茅s de las grandes fatigas carnales, la mujer cuya imagen obsesiona nuestra moment谩nea senilidad es una a la que casi no har铆amos otra cosa que besar en la frente鈥�.En cualquier caso y por mucho que se arrepintiera a帽os despu茅s, no me cabe duda de que no dej贸 ni un momento de disfrutar de la decadencia de ese mundo, del arist贸crata que se apagaba y del burgu茅s que lo iba sustituyendo a su imagen y semejanza, de ese teatro en el que los actores se esforzaban por poner 芦la mirada perdida del modo que, a su juicio, mejor hac铆a resaltar la belleza de sus pupilas禄, en el que se alababa a las personas discretas, esas 芦a las que encontramos cuando vamos a buscarlas y el resto del tiempo se dejan olvidar禄, un mundo en el que lo que se aprende no interesa, en el que las personas agradables le dejaban fr铆o, en el que si uno se mor铆a era como si nunca hubiera existido, en el que se mofaban de los ocupados por su trabajo, en el que la ociosidad les iba haciendo m谩s y m谩s crueles. Una crueldad y una maledicencia, es cierto, de la que ahora disfrutamos nosotros.
鈥淎quella nariz del Sr. de Cambremer no era fea, m谩s bien demasiado hermosa, demasiado grande, demasiado orgullosa de su importancia. Aguile帽a, bru帽ida, reluciente, nuevecita, estaba del todo dispuesta a compensar la insuficiencia mental de la mirada; por desgracia, sin bien los ojos son a veces el 贸rgano en que se revela la inteligencia, la nariz -sea cual fuere, por lo dem谩s, la solidaridad 铆ntima y la repercusi贸n insospechada de las facciones una en las otras- suele ser el 贸rgano en que se despliega m谩s f谩cilmente la tonter铆a.鈥�Y entre esos grandes y desagradables horrores que comentaba antes, uno que centra buena parte de esta nueva entrega y que hasta le da t铆tulo es el de la homosexualidad, tanto masculina como femenina.
鈥淪e trata de una raza sobre la que pesa una maldici贸n y que debe vivir con la mentira y el perjurio, puesto que su deseo, lo que representa para toda persona la mayor dulzura de la vida, est谩 considerado, como sabe, punible y vergonzoso, inconfesable.鈥�Y junto a este, otro horror, una enfermedad que sin duda le atorment贸 a lo largo de toda su vida, los celos. Un mundo cerrado, una atm贸sfera cargada en la que 芦La persona amada es sucesivamente el mal y el remedio que suspende y agrava el mal禄, en el que su esp铆ritu creador solo sirvi贸 para exacerbar sus miedos y tormentos, en el que el atisbo de cualquier indicio le provoc贸 tanto dolor por saber como alegr铆a por corroborar lo rumiado tanto tiempo. El celoso lo sacrifica todo en la persecuci贸n de fantasmas, se emborracha de sospecha, cae una y otra vez en el 芦error de considerar una posici贸n m谩s cierta que las otras s贸lo porque fuera la m谩s dolorosa禄. Y lo que es m谩s grave, hiere y denigra a su pareja por ser la fuente de su dolor haciendo de Albertine una mujer utilizada y maltratada.
Y pese a todos estos puntos interesant铆simos y otros muchos, entre los que no se quedan atr谩s los momentos jocosos, como los protagonizados por los empleados del hotel o los comentarios a ellos dirigidos, Proust puede ser tremendamente divertido cuando se lo propone, he de decir tambi茅n que es la primera de las cuatro novelas que llevo le铆das en las que he pasado en diagonal por un buen pu帽ado de p谩ginas, y eso que ya hab铆a asistido a unas cuantas de las interminables veladas de los Guermantes y compa帽铆a. En definitiva, que esta es la que menos me ha gustado hasta ahora, lo que, sin embargo, no me ha quitado en lo m谩s m铆nimo las ganas de seguir leyendo esta monumental y maravillosa obra.
颁辞苍迟颈苍耻补谤谩鈥�
March 1, 2019
Was ever grief more seductively expressed?
鈥淚 knew that now I could knock, more loudly even, that nothing could again wake her, that I would not hear any response, that my grandmother would never again come. And I asked nothing more of God, if there is a paradise, than to be able to give there the three little taps on that partition that my grandmother would recognize anywhere, and to which she would respond with those other taps that meant, "Don't fret yourself, little mouse, I realize you're impatient, but I'm just coming," and that he should let me remain with her for all eternity, which would not be too long for the two of us鈥�
芦危蠈未慰渭伪 魏伪喂 螕蠈渭慰蟻蟻伪禄, 蟿慰 蟿苇蟿伪蟻蟿慰 渭苇蟻慰蟼 蟿畏蟼 伪谓伪味萎蟿畏蟽畏蟼 蟿慰蠀 蠂伪渭苇谓慰蠀 蠂蟻蠈谓慰蠀, 伪蟺慰未委未蔚蟿伪喂 渭蔚 苇谓伪谓 蔚尉伪喂蟻蔚蟿喂魏维 蠀蟺慰尾位畏蟿喂魏蠈 蟿蟻蠈蟺慰 纬蟻伪蠁萎蟼 魏伪喂 苇魏蠁蟻伪蟽畏蟼, 蠋蟽蟿蔚 畏 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏 蔚委谓伪喂 伪渭喂纬蠋蟼 渭喂伪 蟽畏渭伪谓蟿喂魏萎 蔚渭蟺蔚喂蟻委伪, 蠈蠂喂 伪谓维位蠀蟽畏 位苇尉蔚蠅谓,蟺蟻慰蟿维蟽蔚蠅谓, 蟽魏苇蠄蔚蠅谓, 蟽蠀位位慰纬喂蟽渭蠋谓.
螣 蟽蠀纬魏蔚魏蟻喂渭苇谓慰蟼 蟿蠈渭慰蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 苇谓伪 蔚魏蟺位畏魏蟿喂魏蠈 蟺慰蟻蟿蟻伪委蟿慰, 伪蟺蔚喂魏慰谓委味蔚喂 渭蔚 蠈位伪 蟿伪 蠂蟻蠋渭伪蟿伪 蟿畏蟼 蟺伪蟻伪蠁蠉蟽畏蟼 魏伪喂 蟿畏蟼 魏蟻蠀蠁萎蟼 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏蟼 魏位委蟽畏蟼, 蟿慰 蟿委 蟽萎渭伪喂谓蔚 谓伪 蔚委蟽伪喂 慰渭慰蠁蠀位蠈蠁喂位慰蟼 蟽蟿喂蟼 伪蟻蠂苇蟼 蟿慰蠀 20慰蠀 伪喂蠋谓伪, 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺位畏渭渭蠀蟻喂蟽渭苇谓畏 伪蟺慰 蠀蟺慰谓蠈渭慰蠀蟼 渭蔚 畏未蠀蟺维胃蔚喂伪, 螕伪位位委伪.
惟蟽蟿蠈蟽慰 慰 螤蟻慰蠉蟽蟿 未蔚委蠂谓蔚喂 谓伪 渭畏谓 苇蠂蔚喂 伪谓蟿喂位畏蠁胃蔚委 蔚蠅蟼 蟿蠋蟻伪 蟿喂蟼 喂蟽蠂蠀蟻苇蟼 魏伪喂 尾蠀胃喂蟽渭苇谓蔚蟼 未蠀谓维渭蔚喂蟼 蟺维胃慰蠀蟼 蟺慰蠀 魏蟻蠉尾慰谓蟿伪喂 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蔚 魏维胃蔚 维谓胃蟻蠅蟺慰.
螝蟻蠉尾慰谓蟿伪喂 魏维蟿蠅 伪蟺慰 蟿慰 蠂维慰蟼 蟿蠅谓 魏慰喂谓蠅谓喂魏蠋谓 蟺蟻慰蟿蠉蟺蠅谓 魏伪喂 蟿蠅谓 伪蟽萎渭伪谓蟿蠅谓 畏胃蠋谓 魏伪喂 蔚胃委渭蠅谓 蟺慰蠀 蟺位畏蟻慰蠉谓 蟿喂蟼 伪蟻蠂苇蟼 蟿畏蟼 魏慰喂谓蠅谓喂魏萎蟼 慰蟻纬维谓蠅蟽畏蟼.
螘未蠋 渭蔚 蠈位蔚胃蟻喂慰 蟽蠀谓伪喂蟽胃畏渭伪蟿喂蟽渭蠈 魏伪喂 蟿蟻伪纬喂魏苇蟼 蟿伪蟺蔚喂谓蠋蟽蔚喂蟼 畏 慰渭慰蠁蠀位慰蠁喂位委伪 -魏蠀蟻委蠅蟼 伪谓维渭蔚蟽伪 蟽蔚 维谓未蟻蔚蟼- 伪蟺慰魏蟿维 渭委伪 渭慰谓喂渭蠈蟿畏蟿伪.
锟斤拷喂伪 蟽蟿伪胃蔚蟻萎 魏伪蟿维蟽蟿伪蟽畏 蟺慰蠀 尉蔚蠂蠅蟻委味蔚喂 伪谓维渭蔚蟽伪 蟽蟿畏谓 伪蟺慰尉苇谓蠅蟽畏 蟿蠅谓 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺蠅谓 魏伪喂 蟿畏 蟽蠀谓伪喂蟽胃畏渭伪蟿喂魏萎蟼 蟿慰蠀蟼 伪谓蔚蟺维蟻魏蔚喂伪.
螒谓 魏伪喂 纬蟻维蠁蔚喂 蔚尉伪魏慰位慰蠀胃畏蟿喂魏维 渭蔚 蟿蟻蠈蟺慰 伪未蠀蟽蠋蟺畏蟿伪 魏蠀蟻喂伪蟻蠂喂魏蠈, 蟿蟻蠀蠁蔚蟻维 蔚蟺喂胃蔚蟿喂魏蠈, 胃位喂尾蔚蟻维 蠂伪蟻慰蠉渭蔚谓慰, 伪蟺慰魏伪位蠀蟺蟿喂魏维 伪蟺慰蟿蟻蠈蟺伪喂慰, 蟽魏维尾慰谓蟿伪蟼 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蟿慰谓 蟺蠈谓慰 魏伪喂 蟿畏谓 伪蟺蔚位蟺喂蟽委伪 蟿慰蠀蟼 蟿维蠁慰蠀蟼 纬喂伪 蟿伪 蔚蟻蔚委蟺喂伪 蟿畏蟼 魏蟻蠀渭渭苇谓畏蟼 芦伪谓蠋渭伪位畏蟼禄 伪纬维蟺畏蟼, 魏伪蟿伪蠁苇蟻谓蔚喂 谓伪 蔚蟺喂未蔚喂魏谓蠉蔚喂 蟿慰谓 维谓胃蟻蠅蟺慰 蠅蟼 魏慰喂谓蠈 蟺伪蟻慰谓慰渭伪蟽蟿萎, 蠅蟼 蠀蟺慰魏蔚委渭蔚谓慰 渭蔚 胃蔚渭蔚位喂蠋未畏 蠂伪蟻伪魏蟿萎蟻伪, 蠈蠂喂 蠅蟼 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟻喂谓萎 喂未喂慰蟿蟻慰蟺委伪, 渭伪 蠅蟼 伪谓伪蠁慰蟻维 蟺慰蠀 喂蟽蠂蠉蔚喂 伪蟺慰 魏伪蟿伪尾慰位萎蟼 魏蠈蟽渭慰蠀, 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 尾伪胃蠉蟿蔚蟻畏 蠁蠉蟽畏 蟿慰蠀 伪蟿蠈渭慰蠀.
韦慰 魏慰喂谓蠅谓喂魏蠈 蟺伪喂蠂谓委未喂 蟿畏蟼 蟽蠀谓慰渭慰蟽委伪蟼 蟿蠅谓 慰渭慰蠁蠀位蠈蠁喂位蠅谓 伪蠁蔚谓蠈蟼 魏伪喂 伪蠁蔚蟿苇蟻慰蠀 畏 伪谓伪魏维位蠀蠄畏 伪蠀蟿萎蟼 蟿畏蟼 渭蠀蟽蟿喂魏萎蟼 魏慰喂谓蠅谓委伪蟼, 尾蟻委蟽魏慰谓蟿伪喂 魏维蟺慰蠀 渭蔚蟿伪尉蠉 蟿蠅谓 蟽蟿蔚蟻蔚慰蟿蠉蟺蠅谓 蟺慰蠀 未喂苇蟺慰蠀谓 蟿畏 味蠅萎 魏伪喂 慰未畏纬慰蠉谓 蟽蔚 未蠀蟽蟿蠀蠂喂蟽渭苇谓蔚蟼 蠀蟺维蟻尉蔚喂蟼 蟽蔚尉慰蠀伪位喂魏蠋谓 蔚蟺喂未喂蠋尉蔚蠅谓, 蠀蟺伪蟻魏蟿蠋谓 渭伪 伪蟺伪蟻维未蔚魏蟿蠅谓 蟽蟿慰 蟺位伪委蟽喂慰 蟿伪尉喂谓蠈渭畏蟽畏蟼 蟿蠅谓 蔚喂未蠋谓 蟽蟿慰 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓慰 尾伪蟽委位蔚喂慰.
韦慰 蟺维胃慰蟼 魏伪喂 畏 伪纬维蟺畏 纬喂伪 畏未慰谓苇蟼 魏伪喂 慰未蠉谓蔚蟼 蔚蟻蠅蟿喂魏萎蟼 伪蟺蠈位伪蠀蟽畏蟼 魏伪喂 蠁蠀蟽喂魏萎蟼 慰位慰魏位萎蟻蠅蟽畏蟼 蟽蔚 蠈蟺慰喂伪 蟿伪蠀蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪 渭蟺慰蟻慰蠉渭蔚 谓伪 蟿伪 未畏位蠋蟽慰蠀渭蔚, 胃蔚渭蔚位喂蠋谓慰蠀谓 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟺喂魏蠈蟿畏蟿蔚蟼 魏伪喂 蟽蠀渭蟺蔚蟻喂蠁慰蟻苇蟼 蟺慰蠀 委蟽蠅蟼 纬喂伪 蟿慰谓 螤蟻慰蠉蟽蟿 谓伪 蠂蠅蟻委味慰谓蟿伪喂 蟽蔚 苇谓伪 维位位慰 蔚委未慰蟼.
螆谓伪 蔚委未慰蟼 蟺慰蠀 胃伪 蔚委蠂蔚 蟺蟻蠅蟿蔚蠉慰谓蟿伪 蟻蠈位慰 蔚尉苇位喂尉畏蟼 魏伪喂 伪谓胃蟻蠅蟺喂维蟼 蠅蟼 伪蟻蠂萎 蟿畏蟼 魏慰喂谓蠅谓喂魏萎蟼 蟿维尉畏蟼.
馃枻馃枻馃枻馃枻
螝伪位萎 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏!
螤慰位位慰蠉蟼 伪蟽蟺伪蟽渭慰蠉蟼.!
鈥淚 knew that now I could knock, more loudly even, that nothing could again wake her, that I would not hear any response, that my grandmother would never again come. And I asked nothing more of God, if there is a paradise, than to be able to give there the three little taps on that partition that my grandmother would recognize anywhere, and to which she would respond with those other taps that meant, "Don't fret yourself, little mouse, I realize you're impatient, but I'm just coming," and that he should let me remain with her for all eternity, which would not be too long for the two of us鈥�
芦危蠈未慰渭伪 魏伪喂 螕蠈渭慰蟻蟻伪禄, 蟿慰 蟿苇蟿伪蟻蟿慰 渭苇蟻慰蟼 蟿畏蟼 伪谓伪味萎蟿畏蟽畏蟼 蟿慰蠀 蠂伪渭苇谓慰蠀 蠂蟻蠈谓慰蠀, 伪蟺慰未委未蔚蟿伪喂 渭蔚 苇谓伪谓 蔚尉伪喂蟻蔚蟿喂魏维 蠀蟺慰尾位畏蟿喂魏蠈 蟿蟻蠈蟺慰 纬蟻伪蠁萎蟼 魏伪喂 苇魏蠁蟻伪蟽畏蟼, 蠋蟽蟿蔚 畏 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏 蔚委谓伪喂 伪渭喂纬蠋蟼 渭喂伪 蟽畏渭伪谓蟿喂魏萎 蔚渭蟺蔚喂蟻委伪, 蠈蠂喂 伪谓维位蠀蟽畏 位苇尉蔚蠅谓,蟺蟻慰蟿维蟽蔚蠅谓, 蟽魏苇蠄蔚蠅谓, 蟽蠀位位慰纬喂蟽渭蠋谓.
螣 蟽蠀纬魏蔚魏蟻喂渭苇谓慰蟼 蟿蠈渭慰蟼 蔚委谓伪喂 苇谓伪 蔚魏蟺位畏魏蟿喂魏蠈 蟺慰蟻蟿蟻伪委蟿慰, 伪蟺蔚喂魏慰谓委味蔚喂 渭蔚 蠈位伪 蟿伪 蠂蟻蠋渭伪蟿伪 蟿畏蟼 蟺伪蟻伪蠁蠉蟽畏蟼 魏伪喂 蟿畏蟼 魏蟻蠀蠁萎蟼 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓畏蟼 魏位委蟽畏蟼, 蟿慰 蟿委 蟽萎渭伪喂谓蔚 谓伪 蔚委蟽伪喂 慰渭慰蠁蠀位蠈蠁喂位慰蟼 蟽蟿喂蟼 伪蟻蠂苇蟼 蟿慰蠀 20慰蠀 伪喂蠋谓伪, 蟽蟿畏谓 蟺位畏渭渭蠀蟻喂蟽渭苇谓畏 伪蟺慰 蠀蟺慰谓蠈渭慰蠀蟼 渭蔚 畏未蠀蟺维胃蔚喂伪, 螕伪位位委伪.
惟蟽蟿蠈蟽慰 慰 螤蟻慰蠉蟽蟿 未蔚委蠂谓蔚喂 谓伪 渭畏谓 苇蠂蔚喂 伪谓蟿喂位畏蠁胃蔚委 蔚蠅蟼 蟿蠋蟻伪 蟿喂蟼 喂蟽蠂蠀蟻苇蟼 魏伪喂 尾蠀胃喂蟽渭苇谓蔚蟼 未蠀谓维渭蔚喂蟼 蟺维胃慰蠀蟼 蟺慰蠀 魏蟻蠉尾慰谓蟿伪喂 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蔚 魏维胃蔚 维谓胃蟻蠅蟺慰.
螝蟻蠉尾慰谓蟿伪喂 魏维蟿蠅 伪蟺慰 蟿慰 蠂维慰蟼 蟿蠅谓 魏慰喂谓蠅谓喂魏蠋谓 蟺蟻慰蟿蠉蟺蠅谓 魏伪喂 蟿蠅谓 伪蟽萎渭伪谓蟿蠅谓 畏胃蠋谓 魏伪喂 蔚胃委渭蠅谓 蟺慰蠀 蟺位畏蟻慰蠉谓 蟿喂蟼 伪蟻蠂苇蟼 蟿畏蟼 魏慰喂谓蠅谓喂魏萎蟼 慰蟻纬维谓蠅蟽畏蟼.
螘未蠋 渭蔚 蠈位蔚胃蟻喂慰 蟽蠀谓伪喂蟽胃畏渭伪蟿喂蟽渭蠈 魏伪喂 蟿蟻伪纬喂魏苇蟼 蟿伪蟺蔚喂谓蠋蟽蔚喂蟼 畏 慰渭慰蠁蠀位慰蠁喂位委伪 -魏蠀蟻委蠅蟼 伪谓维渭蔚蟽伪 蟽蔚 维谓未蟻蔚蟼- 伪蟺慰魏蟿维 渭委伪 渭慰谓喂渭蠈蟿畏蟿伪.
锟斤拷喂伪 蟽蟿伪胃蔚蟻萎 魏伪蟿维蟽蟿伪蟽畏 蟺慰蠀 尉蔚蠂蠅蟻委味蔚喂 伪谓维渭蔚蟽伪 蟽蟿畏谓 伪蟺慰尉苇谓蠅蟽畏 蟿蠅谓 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺蠅谓 魏伪喂 蟿畏 蟽蠀谓伪喂蟽胃畏渭伪蟿喂魏萎蟼 蟿慰蠀蟼 伪谓蔚蟺维蟻魏蔚喂伪.
螒谓 魏伪喂 纬蟻维蠁蔚喂 蔚尉伪魏慰位慰蠀胃畏蟿喂魏维 渭蔚 蟿蟻蠈蟺慰 伪未蠀蟽蠋蟺畏蟿伪 魏蠀蟻喂伪蟻蠂喂魏蠈, 蟿蟻蠀蠁蔚蟻维 蔚蟺喂胃蔚蟿喂魏蠈, 胃位喂尾蔚蟻维 蠂伪蟻慰蠉渭蔚谓慰, 伪蟺慰魏伪位蠀蟺蟿喂魏维 伪蟺慰蟿蟻蠈蟺伪喂慰, 蟽魏维尾慰谓蟿伪蟼 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蟿慰谓 蟺蠈谓慰 魏伪喂 蟿畏谓 伪蟺蔚位蟺喂蟽委伪 蟿慰蠀蟼 蟿维蠁慰蠀蟼 纬喂伪 蟿伪 蔚蟻蔚委蟺喂伪 蟿畏蟼 魏蟻蠀渭渭苇谓畏蟼 芦伪谓蠋渭伪位畏蟼禄 伪纬维蟺畏蟼, 魏伪蟿伪蠁苇蟻谓蔚喂 谓伪 蔚蟺喂未蔚喂魏谓蠉蔚喂 蟿慰谓 维谓胃蟻蠅蟺慰 蠅蟼 魏慰喂谓蠈 蟺伪蟻慰谓慰渭伪蟽蟿萎, 蠅蟼 蠀蟺慰魏蔚委渭蔚谓慰 渭蔚 胃蔚渭蔚位喂蠋未畏 蠂伪蟻伪魏蟿萎蟻伪, 蠈蠂喂 蠅蟼 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟻喂谓萎 喂未喂慰蟿蟻慰蟺委伪, 渭伪 蠅蟼 伪谓伪蠁慰蟻维 蟺慰蠀 喂蟽蠂蠉蔚喂 伪蟺慰 魏伪蟿伪尾慰位萎蟼 魏蠈蟽渭慰蠀, 纬喂伪 蟿畏谓 尾伪胃蠉蟿蔚蟻畏 蠁蠉蟽畏 蟿慰蠀 伪蟿蠈渭慰蠀.
韦慰 魏慰喂谓蠅谓喂魏蠈 蟺伪喂蠂谓委未喂 蟿畏蟼 蟽蠀谓慰渭慰蟽委伪蟼 蟿蠅谓 慰渭慰蠁蠀位蠈蠁喂位蠅谓 伪蠁蔚谓蠈蟼 魏伪喂 伪蠁蔚蟿苇蟻慰蠀 畏 伪谓伪魏维位蠀蠄畏 伪蠀蟿萎蟼 蟿畏蟼 渭蠀蟽蟿喂魏萎蟼 魏慰喂谓蠅谓委伪蟼, 尾蟻委蟽魏慰谓蟿伪喂 魏维蟺慰蠀 渭蔚蟿伪尉蠉 蟿蠅谓 蟽蟿蔚蟻蔚慰蟿蠉蟺蠅谓 蟺慰蠀 未喂苇蟺慰蠀谓 蟿畏 味蠅萎 魏伪喂 慰未畏纬慰蠉谓 蟽蔚 未蠀蟽蟿蠀蠂喂蟽渭苇谓蔚蟼 蠀蟺维蟻尉蔚喂蟼 蟽蔚尉慰蠀伪位喂魏蠋谓 蔚蟺喂未喂蠋尉蔚蠅谓, 蠀蟺伪蟻魏蟿蠋谓 渭伪 伪蟺伪蟻维未蔚魏蟿蠅谓 蟽蟿慰 蟺位伪委蟽喂慰 蟿伪尉喂谓蠈渭畏蟽畏蟼 蟿蠅谓 蔚喂未蠋谓 蟽蟿慰 伪谓胃蟻蠋蟺喂谓慰 尾伪蟽委位蔚喂慰.
韦慰 蟺维胃慰蟼 魏伪喂 畏 伪纬维蟺畏 纬喂伪 畏未慰谓苇蟼 魏伪喂 慰未蠉谓蔚蟼 蔚蟻蠅蟿喂魏萎蟼 伪蟺蠈位伪蠀蟽畏蟼 魏伪喂 蠁蠀蟽喂魏萎蟼 慰位慰魏位萎蟻蠅蟽畏蟼 蟽蔚 蠈蟺慰喂伪 蟿伪蠀蟿蠈蟿畏蟿伪 渭蟺慰蟻慰蠉渭蔚 谓伪 蟿伪 未畏位蠋蟽慰蠀渭蔚, 胃蔚渭蔚位喂蠋谓慰蠀谓 蟺蟻慰蟽蠅蟺喂魏蠈蟿畏蟿蔚蟼 魏伪喂 蟽蠀渭蟺蔚蟻喂蠁慰蟻苇蟼 蟺慰蠀 委蟽蠅蟼 纬喂伪 蟿慰谓 螤蟻慰蠉蟽蟿 谓伪 蠂蠅蟻委味慰谓蟿伪喂 蟽蔚 苇谓伪 维位位慰 蔚委未慰蟼.
螆谓伪 蔚委未慰蟼 蟺慰蠀 胃伪 蔚委蠂蔚 蟺蟻蠅蟿蔚蠉慰谓蟿伪 蟻蠈位慰 蔚尉苇位喂尉畏蟼 魏伪喂 伪谓胃蟻蠅蟺喂维蟼 蠅蟼 伪蟻蠂萎 蟿畏蟼 魏慰喂谓蠅谓喂魏萎蟼 蟿维尉畏蟼.
馃枻馃枻馃枻馃枻
螝伪位萎 伪谓维纬谓蠅蟽畏!
螤慰位位慰蠉蟼 伪蟽蟺伪蟽渭慰蠉蟼.!
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September 7, 2015
Palimpsest.
Image via urbanisme.org
When I dig around in my mind for a few thoughts on the books I鈥檝e read, I think about the people who may attempt to interpret the shards and fragments I come up with.
What does the reader of a review need to discover?
Perhaps only this simple inscription: Skip the review and read the book instead.
Or perhaps what the reader needs is a link to a page containing an in-depth excavation of the book by some scholar or professional reviewer.
But those options wouldn鈥檛 satisfy my need to revisit this book - I read it six months ago - and assemble a collection of images which will transform the experience of reading it into something I own, something etched in my brain forever. It is as if, in the library of my mind, I absolutely need to place a suitably illustrated volume entitled, My version of Sodome et Gomorrhe beside its comrades, leaving room, of course, for my thoughts on the remaining volumes of A la Recherche du Temps Perdu.
Because so many months have gone by since I鈥檝e read the book, and I鈥檝e read the rest of the Recherche in the meantime, I鈥檓 curious to see what stands out in my memory about this volume.
I often think in visual terms and I imagine Sodome et Gomorrhe, which is the fourth book of the seven volumes of Proust鈥檚 Recherche, as the apex of an isosceles triangle, or like the gable of the house in the foreground of the image above.
Sodome et Gomorrhe is the middle volume, pivotal in many ways, and Proust has been working towards this point from the first volume, laying down his themes layer by layer until he reached this twin chimney stack of Sodome and Gomorrhe. After he had completed this volume, he began the process of scraping away the layers of the palimpsest he had so carefully written over, finally revealing the original message, burnished by time, in the seventh book, Le Temps Retrouv茅.
The symmetry of this entire work really appeals to me - I鈥檓 in awe of Proust鈥檚 original vision in conceiving such an architecturally sound construction, and knowing a little of the health constraints he worked under, I can appreciate the discipline with which he steadily laboured until he finally reached the end, a position he had carefully mapped out well before he built the middle sections.
Sodome and Gomorrhe. Two place names because Proust loved place names. In fact, this volume is layered with place name lore so it isn't surprising that he uses place names in the title. But Sodome and Gomorrhe are more than just place names; they are the twin cities of the plain of Jordan which were destroyed by a wrathful God according to the book of Genesis. I imagine Sodome and Gomorrhe like the two semi-ruined constructions in the background of the ever useful image above. Out of the ruins of the two cities, and inspired by the words of a de Vigny poem, La Femme aura Gomorrhe et l'Homme aura Sodome, Proust imagines a race of men/women, women/men marching forth to take their place in the foreground of the world. And since his quest from the beginning has been to examine the passions which drive us all, he sets out in his own unique and idiosyncratic way to examine homosexuality and lesbianism using the landscape he created for his Narrator as the testing ground for his theories. One of those relates to sleep and dreams, a frequent theme in his writing; Proust describes sleep as that other, alternative apartment we go to when we are no longer awake, a place with its own special sounds, its own logic. In his dreams, the people are frequently androgynous.
The detailed drawing above has quite a lot of blank space and this book also has its blank spaces, its absences. A major theme is the gaps left in our lives when those we love leave us. But those gaps, those blank spaces are eloquent; the narrator鈥檚 grandmother, who died in the previous volume, and whom he worries about having forgotten completely, is yet more present than ever. When a fragment of memory relating to his life with her gets pushed to the surface of his consciousness, he suffers what he calls les intermittences du coeur or intermittences of the heart, a kind of dysphoria or anxiety which leaves him troubled but which will also eventually unlock his creativity; the blank spaces are all destined to be filled.
Charles Swann is another character whose absence in the second part of this volume is as powerful as his presence. Like the barely distinguishable lines along the edges of the image above, his spirit is more eloquent than most of the living, breathing population of the Narrator鈥檚 world. That world is constructed using all of the tropes found in the previous volumes; trains, theatres, music, mirrors, obsession, jealousy, enmity and strife. At times, we the readers feel we are the audience at a very entertaining play full of dramatic moments and witty asides. And for the first time so far in the Recherche, Proust addresses us, acknowledging our presence in an almost playful way.
But this volume isn't all theatre, it is also about retracing footsteps; the Narrator returns to Balbec, the place name which most inspired his child鈥檚 imagination. He returns to the very same hotel room he鈥檇 stayed in years before, a room facing the horizon, lined with bookshelves, the glass panels of which reflect every nuance of colour in the sea and sky, a view which never fails to inspire wonderful words full of colour and music, o霉 maintenant, le soleil ronde et rouge 茅tait d茅j脿 descendu au milieu de la glace oblique, et comme quelque feu gr茅geois, incendiait la mer dans les vitres de mes biblioth猫ques.
March 8, 2023
It is not only by dint of lying to others, but also of lying to ourselves, that we cease to notice that we are lying.
Sodom and Gomorrah ~~ Marcel Proust
Early on in Sodom and Gomorrah our hero, Marcel, spies on a sexual encounter between the Baron de Charlus and a tailor named Jupien. I imagine this piece of writing to have been quite shocking to the average reader in the 1920s. It is here where Proust outs as homosexual one of the key characters of the novel, Baron de Charlus. Marcel is both attracted to and repelled by this discovery. It strikes me as odd that Marcel, the narrator, views himself with superiority for being straight when he discovers Baron de Charlus in flagrante delicto while Marcel, the writer, is himself a homosexual.
As this scene unfolds, young Marcel suddenly makes sense of questionable and confusing behaviors from his past, Unexpected asides, unexpected invitations, unexpected offence, unexpected pain, all the encounters he鈥檇 had with Baron de Charlus and men who he rapidly connects to the aristocratic gay circle he鈥檚 become aware of flood into his mind; yes there is gayness around him.
As you can guess from it's title, Sodom and Gomorrah, is all about homosexuality, both male and female.
As I stated, Proust, himself was both gay and part-Jewish, and yet, he creates distinctly unflattering portraits of both groups; it is apparent that both Marcels have some serious issues over their sexuality. Young Marcel has an unnatural fascination with the Baron and his affairs .
As young Marcel matures in his 20s, he is at the crossroads of his young life, between youthful naivete and a brazen understanding of the world. This too is explored in Sodom and Gomorrah.
Sodom and Gomorrah is a novel of both society and intimacy, with Proust describing in minute detail the way people act in public. In the glittering soir茅e at the royal Guermantes鈥� palace, we see the cream of society, observing the upper classes as they go about what seems to be a strange mix between duty and pleasure, the tension of preserving a hard-fought rank barely concealed beneath charming smiles. However, later on we see a rather different style of soir茅e when the Verdurins return, and hold their own daily gatherings on the coast, more lively affairs, perhaps, but populated by a slightly lower class of guest.
The brilliance of Sodom and Gomorrah lies in Proust's skill of writing the way these public facades are compared with how the characters act in private. Perhaps the best example of that here is to be found in the character of the Baron, a lion of society who snubs people as a matter of course. Once we get behind closed doors, though, it can be a different story, with his latest conquest, the musician Morel, having a growing hold over him. It鈥檚 isn鈥檛 only the gay characters who have to reconcile the two parts of their life, with several of the noblemen acting as good husbands in public while smiling in the direction of their latest lovers, discretely seated in a far corner.
What ties all of this together is our narrator. He is a delight, an arrogant, chauvinistic, jealous mamma's boy who, for some reason, is loved by all ~~ surely it must be more than he鈥檚 very rich and incredibly good-looking. Marcel is arrogant to the point of rudeness, & places unfair demands upon friends. The worst of Marcel is shown in the way he treats Albertine, demanding she be at his beck and call, and jealous of anything concerning her. Marcel does everything he can to cut off her from the outside world.
The writing here is beautiful, especially when Proust allows us to peak behind the veil and see Marcel's emotions. The return to the seaside town of Balbec has Marcel reflecting on changes in his life ~~ and the memories of his trips to Balbec with his grandmother.
I know I haven't made this sound like the appealing story. So why should you read Sodom and Gomorrah? Because young Marcel and the world he inhabits are fucking fascinating.
Sodom and Gomorrah ~~ Marcel Proust
Early on in Sodom and Gomorrah our hero, Marcel, spies on a sexual encounter between the Baron de Charlus and a tailor named Jupien. I imagine this piece of writing to have been quite shocking to the average reader in the 1920s. It is here where Proust outs as homosexual one of the key characters of the novel, Baron de Charlus. Marcel is both attracted to and repelled by this discovery. It strikes me as odd that Marcel, the narrator, views himself with superiority for being straight when he discovers Baron de Charlus in flagrante delicto while Marcel, the writer, is himself a homosexual.
As this scene unfolds, young Marcel suddenly makes sense of questionable and confusing behaviors from his past, Unexpected asides, unexpected invitations, unexpected offence, unexpected pain, all the encounters he鈥檇 had with Baron de Charlus and men who he rapidly connects to the aristocratic gay circle he鈥檚 become aware of flood into his mind; yes there is gayness around him.
As you can guess from it's title, Sodom and Gomorrah, is all about homosexuality, both male and female.
As I stated, Proust, himself was both gay and part-Jewish, and yet, he creates distinctly unflattering portraits of both groups; it is apparent that both Marcels have some serious issues over their sexuality. Young Marcel has an unnatural fascination with the Baron and his affairs .
As young Marcel matures in his 20s, he is at the crossroads of his young life, between youthful naivete and a brazen understanding of the world. This too is explored in Sodom and Gomorrah.
Sodom and Gomorrah is a novel of both society and intimacy, with Proust describing in minute detail the way people act in public. In the glittering soir茅e at the royal Guermantes鈥� palace, we see the cream of society, observing the upper classes as they go about what seems to be a strange mix between duty and pleasure, the tension of preserving a hard-fought rank barely concealed beneath charming smiles. However, later on we see a rather different style of soir茅e when the Verdurins return, and hold their own daily gatherings on the coast, more lively affairs, perhaps, but populated by a slightly lower class of guest.
The brilliance of Sodom and Gomorrah lies in Proust's skill of writing the way these public facades are compared with how the characters act in private. Perhaps the best example of that here is to be found in the character of the Baron, a lion of society who snubs people as a matter of course. Once we get behind closed doors, though, it can be a different story, with his latest conquest, the musician Morel, having a growing hold over him. It鈥檚 isn鈥檛 only the gay characters who have to reconcile the two parts of their life, with several of the noblemen acting as good husbands in public while smiling in the direction of their latest lovers, discretely seated in a far corner.
What ties all of this together is our narrator. He is a delight, an arrogant, chauvinistic, jealous mamma's boy who, for some reason, is loved by all ~~ surely it must be more than he鈥檚 very rich and incredibly good-looking. Marcel is arrogant to the point of rudeness, & places unfair demands upon friends. The worst of Marcel is shown in the way he treats Albertine, demanding she be at his beck and call, and jealous of anything concerning her. Marcel does everything he can to cut off her from the outside world.
The writing here is beautiful, especially when Proust allows us to peak behind the veil and see Marcel's emotions. The return to the seaside town of Balbec has Marcel reflecting on changes in his life ~~ and the memories of his trips to Balbec with his grandmother.
I know I haven't made this sound like the appealing story. So why should you read Sodom and Gomorrah? Because young Marcel and the world he inhabits are fucking fascinating.
October 23, 2018
亘禺卮蹖 丕夭 蹖丕丿丿丕卮鬲 賴丕賲 丕夭 噩賱爻踿 丕賵賱 丿乇爻诏賮鬲丕乇 芦倬乇賵爻鬲 賵 賳卮丕賳賴 賴丕禄 毓丕丿賱 賲卮丕蹖禺蹖
賴賮鬲 噩賱丿 芦丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖禄 亘丕 趩賴 乇卮鬲賴 丕蹖 亘賴 賴賲 賲乇鬲亘胤 賲蹖 卮賵賳丿責 賲爻卅賱賴 丕蹖 讴賴 亘賴 丕蹖賳 賴賮鬲 噩賱丿 賵丨丿鬲 賲蹖 丿賴丿 趩蹖爻鬲責
禺賱丕氐賴 丕蹖 丕夭 倬丕爻禺 跇蹖賱 丿賵賱賵夭
賲毓賲賵賱丕賸 丿乇賵賳賲丕蹖踿 丕氐賱蹖 芦丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖禄 乇丕 芦鬲丿丕毓蹖禄 賲蹖 丿丕賳賳丿: 蹖讴 賲丨乇讴 亘蹖乇賵賳蹖貙 亘禺卮蹖 丕夭 诏匕卮鬲賴 乇丕 夭賳丿賴 賲蹖 讴賳丿. 丕蹖賳 鬲丿丕毓蹖 亘丕 蹖丕丿丌賵乇蹖 丌诏丕賴丕賳賴 賵 毓賯賱丕賳蹖 賲鬲賮丕賵鬲 丕爻鬲.
丿賵賱賵夭 賲蹖 诏賵蹖丿: 亘乇 禺賱丕賮 亘丕賵乇 毓賲賵賲 賲爻卅賱踿 丕氐賱蹖 乇賲丕賳 鬲丿丕毓蹖 賳蹖爻鬲貙 亘賱讴賴 鬲丿丕毓蹖 丕亘夭丕乇蹖 丕爻鬲 亘乇丕蹖 芦噩爻鬲噩賵禄蹖 賲賵噩賵丿 丿乇 毓賳賵丕賳 乇賲丕賳貙 讴賴 賮賯胤 噩爻鬲噩賵 亘乇丕蹖 蹖讴 夭賲丕賳 诏匕卮鬲賴 賳蹖爻鬲貙 亘賱讴賴 噩爻鬲噩賵 亘乇丕蹖 芦丨賯蹖賯鬲禄 賵 倬丕爻禺蹖 亘賴 芦賴蹖趩 丕賳诏丕乇蹖禄 丕爻鬲.
丿乇 丕蹖賳 噩爻鬲噩賵 亘乇丕蹖 丨賯蹖賯鬲貙 芦爻賵丕賳禄 賳賲賵賳賴 丕蹖 丕夭 卮讴爻鬲 丿乇 丕蹖賳 噩爻鬲噩賵 丕爻鬲貙 賵 芦乇丕賵蹖禄 賳賲賵賳賴 丕蹖 丕夭 賲賵賮賯蹖鬲 丿乇 丕蹖賳 噩爻鬲噩賵. 丿賵 卮禺氐蹖鬲 讴賱蹖丿蹖 乇賲丕賳.
丿賵賱賵夭 賲毓鬲賯丿 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丨乇賮 丕氐賱蹖 芦丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖禄 丕蹖賳 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丕蹖賳 噩爻鬲噩賵 亘乇丕蹖 丨賯蹖賯鬲貙 賮賯胤 亘丕 賴賳乇 亘賴 賳鬲蹖噩賴 賲蹖 乇爻丿.
噩爻鬲噩賵 亘乇丕蹖 丨賯蹖賯鬲
爻賵丕賳 丿賵 禺氐賵氐蹖鬲 丿丕乇丿:
讴賱亘蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖
胤賮乇賴 乇賮鬲賳 丕夭 丕馗賴丕乇 毓賯蹖丿踿 卮禺氐蹖 賵 賴賲蹖卮賴 亘賴 亘蹖丕賳 噩夭卅蹖丕鬲 賵丕賯毓蹖 丕讴鬲賮丕 讴乇丿賳. 賵 賴乇 诏丕賴 賴賲 賲蹖 禺賵丕賴丿 毓賯蹖丿賴 丕卮 乇丕 丕馗賴丕乇 讴賳丿貙 丌賳 乇丕 亘丕 賱丨賳蹖 丕馗賴丕乇 賲蹖 讴賳丿 讴賴 丕賳诏丕乇 丌賳 乇丕 丿丕禺賱 诏蹖賵賲锟斤拷 诏匕丕卮鬲賴 賵 亘丕 鬲賲爻禺乇蹖 丕夭 爻乇 禺噩丕賱鬲貙 丌賳 毓賯蹖丿賴 乇丕 亘賴 芦讴爻丕賳蹖 讴賴 亘賴 丕蹖賳 噩賵乇 賲爻丕卅賱 丕毓鬲賯丕丿 丿丕乇賳丿禄 賳爻亘鬲 賲蹖 丿賴丿貙 賳賴 禺賵丿卮.
丕倬蹖讴賵乇蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖
讴賴 丿乇 賳鬲蹖噩踿 讴賱亘蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖 倬丿蹖丿 賲蹖 丌蹖丿: 夭賳丿诏蹖 丕蹖 讴賴 鬲賯賱蹖賱 倬蹖丿丕 讴乇丿賴 亘賴 禺賵卮蹖 賴丕蹖 乇賵夭 亘賴 乇賵夭 讴賴 賲蹖 倬賳丿丕乇丿 鬲丕 丿賲 賲乇诏 鬲睾蹖蹖乇 賳禺賵丕賴丿 讴乇丿:
丕蹖賳 丿賵 丕賲乇 (讴賱亘蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖貙 丕倬蹖讴賵乇蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖) 賲毓賱賵賱 丿乇讴蹖 毓賯賱丕賳蹖 丕夭 夭賲丕賳 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丿乇 丌賳 夭賲丕賳 趩蹖夭蹖 賳蹖爻鬲 噩夭 丕讴賳賵賳 賴丕蹖 賲鬲賵丕賱蹖 讴賴 賲蹖 丌蹖賳丿 賵 丕夭 亘蹖賳 賲蹖 乇賵賳丿貙 賵 诏匕卮鬲賴 趩蹖夭蹖 賲乇丿賴 賵 丕夭 丿爻鬲 乇賮鬲賴 丕爻鬲. (乇丕賵蹖 丿乇 氐 郾郾郯 噩賱丿 丕賵賱 賵囟毓蹖鬲 诏匕卮鬲踿 禺賵丿 乇丕 丕蹖賳 趩賳蹖賳 鬲賵氐蹖賮 賲蹖 讴賳丿. 丕賵 賲蹖 诏賵蹖丿 讴賴 诏匕卮鬲賴 丕卮 乇丕 亘丕 丨丕賮馗踿 毓賯賱丕賳蹖 賵 丌诏丕賴丕賳賴 亘賴 蹖丕丿 賲蹖 丌賵乇丿貙 蹖毓賳蹖 賲蹖 丿丕賳丿 讴賴 亘賴 賲丿乇爻賴 乇賮鬲賴貙 睾匕丕 禺賵乇丿賴貙 丿賵爻鬲丕賳蹖 丿丕卮鬲賴 賵... 丕賲丕 丨爻 芦夭賳丿诏蹖 讴乇丿賳禄 丿乇 丌賳 賵囟毓蹖鬲 乇丕 亘丕 丨丕賮馗踿 毓賯賱丕锟斤拷蹖 賳賲蹖 鬲賵丕賳 亘賴 丿爻鬲 丌賵乇丿貙 丿乇 賳鬲蹖噩賴 诏匕卮鬲賴 丕卮 趩蹖夭蹖 亘蹖 乇賳诏 賵 賲乇丿賴 丕爻鬲.) 丿乇 趩賳蹖賳 賵囟毓蹖鬲蹖貙 夭賳丿诏蹖 鬲賳賴丕 賲鬲卮讴賱 丕爻鬲 丕夭 賱丨馗丕鬲 诏匕乇丕蹖 丕讴賳賵賳貙 亘丿賵賳 賴蹖趩 賴賵蹖鬲 賵 賲毓賳丕蹖蹖. 賵 丕蹖賳 賲賳噩乇 亘賴 丕倬蹖讴賵乇 賲爻賱讴蹖 (禺賵卮蹖 賴丕蹖 乇賵夭 亘賴 乇賵夭) 賵 讴賱亘蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖 (丕噩鬲賳丕亘 丕夭 毓賯蹖丿賴 丿丕卮鬲賳 乇丕噩毓 亘賴 讴購賳賴 趩蹖夭賴丕) 賲蹖 卮賵丿. 丕夭 丌賳 噩丕蹖蹖 讴賴 噩丕蹖蹖 亘乇丕蹖 丨賯蹖賯鬲 丿乇 丕蹖賳 卮讴賱 丕夭 夭賲丕賳 賵噩賵丿 賳丿丕乇丿貙 丕蹖賳 丿乇讴 毓賯賱丕賳蹖 丕夭 夭賲丕賳 賲賳噩乇 亘賴 賴蹖趩 丕賳诏丕乇蹖 賲蹖 卮賵丿.
丕蹖賳 賴蹖趩 丕賳诏丕乇蹖貙 亘丕 卮賳蹖丿賳 賲賵爻蹖賯蹖 賵賳鬲賵蹖 (亘乇丕蹖 爻賵丕賳) 賵 禺賵乇丿賳 卮蹖乇蹖賳蹖 賲丕丿賱賳 (亘乇丕蹖 乇丕賵蹖) 賳丕诏賴丕賳 丿爻鬲禺賵卮 夭賱夭賱賴 丕蹖 卮诏乇賮 賲蹖 卮賵丿: 诏匕卮鬲賴 夭賳丿賴 賲蹖 卮賵丿貙 丕夭 賳蹖爻鬲蹖 亘蹖乇賵賳 賲蹖 丌蹖丿貙 丕夭 亘乇丿丕卮鬲蹖 氐乇賮丕賸 丕賳鬲夭丕毓蹖 賵 毓賯賱丕賳蹖 丿賵乇 賲蹖 卮賵丿 賵 乇賳诏 賲蹖 诏蹖乇丿貙 賵 趩蹖夭賴丕 賲毓賳丕 賲蹖 蹖丕亘丿. 賵 乇丕賵蹖 丕賲蹖丿 賲蹖 蹖丕亘丿 讴賴 亘丕 鬲噩乇亘踿 丕蹖賳 趩賳蹖賳蹖 夭賲丕賳 (丿乇 賲賯丕亘賱 鬲噩乇亘踿 毓賯賱丕賳蹖 夭賲丕賳 亘賴 賲孬丕亘賴 鬲賵丕賱蹖 丕讴賳賵賳 賴丕蹖 賳蹖爻鬲 卮賵賳丿賴) 亘鬲賵丕賳丿 丕夭 賴蹖趩 丕賳诏丕乇蹖 (讴賱亘蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖貙 丕倬蹖讴賵乇蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖) 亘诏乇蹖夭丿貙 賵 亘鬲賵丕賳丿 讴購賳賴 趩蹖夭賴丕 乇丕 亘賴鬲乇 丿乇讴 讴賳丿.
丕蹖賳 鬲賱賯蹖 丕夭 夭賲丕賳 乇丕 賲蹖 鬲賵丕賳 賳賵毓蹖 噩丕賵丿丕賳诏蹖 賳丕賲蹖丿貙 丕賲丕 賳賴 噩丕賵丿丕賳诏蹖 賲鬲毓丕賱蹖 丕夭 夭賲丕賳貙 亘賱讴賴 噩丕賵丿丕賳诏蹖 夭賲丕賳賲賳丿貙 噩丕賵丿丕賳诏蹖 丿乇 丿賱 夭賲丕賳.
賴賮鬲 噩賱丿 芦丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖禄 亘丕 趩賴 乇卮鬲賴 丕蹖 亘賴 賴賲 賲乇鬲亘胤 賲蹖 卮賵賳丿責 賲爻卅賱賴 丕蹖 讴賴 亘賴 丕蹖賳 賴賮鬲 噩賱丿 賵丨丿鬲 賲蹖 丿賴丿 趩蹖爻鬲責
禺賱丕氐賴 丕蹖 丕夭 倬丕爻禺 跇蹖賱 丿賵賱賵夭
賲毓賲賵賱丕賸 丿乇賵賳賲丕蹖踿 丕氐賱蹖 芦丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖禄 乇丕 芦鬲丿丕毓蹖禄 賲蹖 丿丕賳賳丿: 蹖讴 賲丨乇讴 亘蹖乇賵賳蹖貙 亘禺卮蹖 丕夭 诏匕卮鬲賴 乇丕 夭賳丿賴 賲蹖 讴賳丿. 丕蹖賳 鬲丿丕毓蹖 亘丕 蹖丕丿丌賵乇蹖 丌诏丕賴丕賳賴 賵 毓賯賱丕賳蹖 賲鬲賮丕賵鬲 丕爻鬲.
丿賵賱賵夭 賲蹖 诏賵蹖丿: 亘乇 禺賱丕賮 亘丕賵乇 毓賲賵賲 賲爻卅賱踿 丕氐賱蹖 乇賲丕賳 鬲丿丕毓蹖 賳蹖爻鬲貙 亘賱讴賴 鬲丿丕毓蹖 丕亘夭丕乇蹖 丕爻鬲 亘乇丕蹖 芦噩爻鬲噩賵禄蹖 賲賵噩賵丿 丿乇 毓賳賵丕賳 乇賲丕賳貙 讴賴 賮賯胤 噩爻鬲噩賵 亘乇丕蹖 蹖讴 夭賲丕賳 诏匕卮鬲賴 賳蹖爻鬲貙 亘賱讴賴 噩爻鬲噩賵 亘乇丕蹖 芦丨賯蹖賯鬲禄 賵 倬丕爻禺蹖 亘賴 芦賴蹖趩 丕賳诏丕乇蹖禄 丕爻鬲.
丿乇 丕蹖賳 噩爻鬲噩賵 亘乇丕蹖 丨賯蹖賯鬲貙 芦爻賵丕賳禄 賳賲賵賳賴 丕蹖 丕夭 卮讴爻鬲 丿乇 丕蹖賳 噩爻鬲噩賵 丕爻鬲貙 賵 芦乇丕賵蹖禄 賳賲賵賳賴 丕蹖 丕夭 賲賵賮賯蹖鬲 丿乇 丕蹖賳 噩爻鬲噩賵. 丿賵 卮禺氐蹖鬲 讴賱蹖丿蹖 乇賲丕賳.
丿賵賱賵夭 賲毓鬲賯丿 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丨乇賮 丕氐賱蹖 芦丿乇 噩爻鬲噩賵蹖禄 丕蹖賳 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丕蹖賳 噩爻鬲噩賵 亘乇丕蹖 丨賯蹖賯鬲貙 賮賯胤 亘丕 賴賳乇 亘賴 賳鬲蹖噩賴 賲蹖 乇爻丿.
噩爻鬲噩賵 亘乇丕蹖 丨賯蹖賯鬲
爻賵丕賳 丿賵 禺氐賵氐蹖鬲 丿丕乇丿:
讴賱亘蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖
胤賮乇賴 乇賮鬲賳 丕夭 丕馗賴丕乇 毓賯蹖丿踿 卮禺氐蹖 賵 賴賲蹖卮賴 亘賴 亘蹖丕賳 噩夭卅蹖丕鬲 賵丕賯毓蹖 丕讴鬲賮丕 讴乇丿賳. 賵 賴乇 诏丕賴 賴賲 賲蹖 禺賵丕賴丿 毓賯蹖丿賴 丕卮 乇丕 丕馗賴丕乇 讴賳丿貙 丌賳 乇丕 亘丕 賱丨賳蹖 丕馗賴丕乇 賲蹖 讴賳丿 讴賴 丕賳诏丕乇 丌賳 乇丕 丿丕禺賱 诏蹖賵賲锟斤拷 诏匕丕卮鬲賴 賵 亘丕 鬲賲爻禺乇蹖 丕夭 爻乇 禺噩丕賱鬲貙 丌賳 毓賯蹖丿賴 乇丕 亘賴 芦讴爻丕賳蹖 讴賴 亘賴 丕蹖賳 噩賵乇 賲爻丕卅賱 丕毓鬲賯丕丿 丿丕乇賳丿禄 賳爻亘鬲 賲蹖 丿賴丿貙 賳賴 禺賵丿卮.
丕倬蹖讴賵乇蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖
讴賴 丿乇 賳鬲蹖噩踿 讴賱亘蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖 倬丿蹖丿 賲蹖 丌蹖丿: 夭賳丿诏蹖 丕蹖 讴賴 鬲賯賱蹖賱 倬蹖丿丕 讴乇丿賴 亘賴 禺賵卮蹖 賴丕蹖 乇賵夭 亘賴 乇賵夭 讴賴 賲蹖 倬賳丿丕乇丿 鬲丕 丿賲 賲乇诏 鬲睾蹖蹖乇 賳禺賵丕賴丿 讴乇丿:
趩賳丕賳 丿乇丕夭 夭賲丕賳蹖 丕夭 噩爻鬲賳 賴丿賮蹖 丌乇賲丕賳蹖 亘乇丕蹖 夭賳丿诏蹖 丿爻鬲 卮爻鬲賴 賵 丌賳 乇丕 亘賴 禺賵卮蹖 賴丕蹖 乇賵夭 亘賴 乇賵夭 賲丨丿賵丿 讴乇丿賴 亘賵丿 讴賴 鈥� 亘蹖 丌賳 讴賴 乇爻賲丕賸 亘賴 禺賵丿 亘诏賵蹖丿 鈥� 賲蹖 倬賳丿丕卮鬲 夭賳丿诏蹖 丕卮 丿蹖诏乇 鬲丕 丿賲 賲乇诏 丿诏乇诏賵賳 賳禺賵丕賴丿 卮丿. 丕夭 丕蹖賳 賴賲 亘丕賱丕鬲乇貙 丕夭 丌賳 噩丕 讴賴 丿蹖诏乇 賴蹖趩 丕賳丿蹖卮踿 賵丕賱丕蹖蹖 丿乇 匕賴賳 禺賵丿 爻乇丕睾 賳賲蹖 讴乇丿貙 賵噩賵丿 趩賳蹖賳 丕賳丿蹖卮賴 賴丕蹖蹖 乇丕 賴賲 亘丕賵乇 賳丿丕卮鬲. 丕夭 丕蹖賳 乇賵 毓丕丿鬲 讴乇丿賴 亘賵丿 亘賴 丕賳丿蹖卮賴 賴丕蹖 亘蹖 丕賴賲蹖鬲蹖 倬賳丕賴 亘亘乇丿 讴賴 亘賴 丕賵 丕賲讴丕賳 賲蹖 丿丕丿 亘賴 讴購賳賴 趩蹖夭賴丕 [芦丨賯蹖賯鬲禄 趩蹖夭賴丕] 倬蹖 賳亘乇丿 - 氐 鄢郯郾 噩賱丿 丕賵賱.
丕蹖賳 丿賵 丕賲乇 (讴賱亘蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖貙 丕倬蹖讴賵乇蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖) 賲毓賱賵賱 丿乇讴蹖 毓賯賱丕賳蹖 丕夭 夭賲丕賳 丕爻鬲 讴賴 丿乇 丌賳 夭賲丕賳 趩蹖夭蹖 賳蹖爻鬲 噩夭 丕讴賳賵賳 賴丕蹖 賲鬲賵丕賱蹖 讴賴 賲蹖 丌蹖賳丿 賵 丕夭 亘蹖賳 賲蹖 乇賵賳丿貙 賵 诏匕卮鬲賴 趩蹖夭蹖 賲乇丿賴 賵 丕夭 丿爻鬲 乇賮鬲賴 丕爻鬲. (乇丕賵蹖 丿乇 氐 郾郾郯 噩賱丿 丕賵賱 賵囟毓蹖鬲 诏匕卮鬲踿 禺賵丿 乇丕 丕蹖賳 趩賳蹖賳 鬲賵氐蹖賮 賲蹖 讴賳丿. 丕賵 賲蹖 诏賵蹖丿 讴賴 诏匕卮鬲賴 丕卮 乇丕 亘丕 丨丕賮馗踿 毓賯賱丕賳蹖 賵 丌诏丕賴丕賳賴 亘賴 蹖丕丿 賲蹖 丌賵乇丿貙 蹖毓賳蹖 賲蹖 丿丕賳丿 讴賴 亘賴 賲丿乇爻賴 乇賮鬲賴貙 睾匕丕 禺賵乇丿賴貙 丿賵爻鬲丕賳蹖 丿丕卮鬲賴 賵... 丕賲丕 丨爻 芦夭賳丿诏蹖 讴乇丿賳禄 丿乇 丌賳 賵囟毓蹖鬲 乇丕 亘丕 丨丕賮馗踿 毓賯賱丕锟斤拷蹖 賳賲蹖 鬲賵丕賳 亘賴 丿爻鬲 丌賵乇丿貙 丿乇 賳鬲蹖噩賴 诏匕卮鬲賴 丕卮 趩蹖夭蹖 亘蹖 乇賳诏 賵 賲乇丿賴 丕爻鬲.) 丿乇 趩賳蹖賳 賵囟毓蹖鬲蹖貙 夭賳丿诏蹖 鬲賳賴丕 賲鬲卮讴賱 丕爻鬲 丕夭 賱丨馗丕鬲 诏匕乇丕蹖 丕讴賳賵賳貙 亘丿賵賳 賴蹖趩 賴賵蹖鬲 賵 賲毓賳丕蹖蹖. 賵 丕蹖賳 賲賳噩乇 亘賴 丕倬蹖讴賵乇 賲爻賱讴蹖 (禺賵卮蹖 賴丕蹖 乇賵夭 亘賴 乇賵夭) 賵 讴賱亘蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖 (丕噩鬲賳丕亘 丕夭 毓賯蹖丿賴 丿丕卮鬲賳 乇丕噩毓 亘賴 讴購賳賴 趩蹖夭賴丕) 賲蹖 卮賵丿. 丕夭 丌賳 噩丕蹖蹖 讴賴 噩丕蹖蹖 亘乇丕蹖 丨賯蹖賯鬲 丿乇 丕蹖賳 卮讴賱 丕夭 夭賲丕賳 賵噩賵丿 賳丿丕乇丿貙 丕蹖賳 丿乇讴 毓賯賱丕賳蹖 丕夭 夭賲丕賳 賲賳噩乇 亘賴 賴蹖趩 丕賳诏丕乇蹖 賲蹖 卮賵丿.
丕蹖賳 賴蹖趩 丕賳诏丕乇蹖貙 亘丕 卮賳蹖丿賳 賲賵爻蹖賯蹖 賵賳鬲賵蹖 (亘乇丕蹖 爻賵丕賳) 賵 禺賵乇丿賳 卮蹖乇蹖賳蹖 賲丕丿賱賳 (亘乇丕蹖 乇丕賵蹖) 賳丕诏賴丕賳 丿爻鬲禺賵卮 夭賱夭賱賴 丕蹖 卮诏乇賮 賲蹖 卮賵丿: 诏匕卮鬲賴 夭賳丿賴 賲蹖 卮賵丿貙 丕夭 賳蹖爻鬲蹖 亘蹖乇賵賳 賲蹖 丌蹖丿貙 丕夭 亘乇丿丕卮鬲蹖 氐乇賮丕賸 丕賳鬲夭丕毓蹖 賵 毓賯賱丕賳蹖 丿賵乇 賲蹖 卮賵丿 賵 乇賳诏 賲蹖 诏蹖乇丿貙 賵 趩蹖夭賴丕 賲毓賳丕 賲蹖 蹖丕亘丿. 賵 乇丕賵蹖 丕賲蹖丿 賲蹖 蹖丕亘丿 讴賴 亘丕 鬲噩乇亘踿 丕蹖賳 趩賳蹖賳蹖 夭賲丕賳 (丿乇 賲賯丕亘賱 鬲噩乇亘踿 毓賯賱丕賳蹖 夭賲丕賳 亘賴 賲孬丕亘賴 鬲賵丕賱蹖 丕讴賳賵賳 賴丕蹖 賳蹖爻鬲 卮賵賳丿賴) 亘鬲賵丕賳丿 丕夭 賴蹖趩 丕賳诏丕乇蹖 (讴賱亘蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖貙 丕倬蹖讴賵乇蹖 賲爻賱讴蹖) 亘诏乇蹖夭丿貙 賵 亘鬲賵丕賳丿 讴購賳賴 趩蹖夭賴丕 乇丕 亘賴鬲乇 丿乇讴 讴賳丿.
丕蹖賳 鬲賱賯蹖 丕夭 夭賲丕賳 乇丕 賲蹖 鬲賵丕賳 賳賵毓蹖 噩丕賵丿丕賳诏蹖 賳丕賲蹖丿貙 丕賲丕 賳賴 噩丕賵丿丕賳诏蹖 賲鬲毓丕賱蹖 丕夭 夭賲丕賳貙 亘賱讴賴 噩丕賵丿丕賳诏蹖 夭賲丕賳賲賳丿貙 噩丕賵丿丕賳诏蹖 丿乇 丿賱 夭賲丕賳.
June 4, 2019
Finally, finally, 3000 pages in, the structure of this novel is fully in sight. For the first time, Proust's world becomes contained - the majority of characters and places here are ones we have already seen (Balbec, the surprise (and welcome) return of "the little clan," Albertine and Charlus, Saint-Loup and the Duchess de Guermantes). And Proust allows these repetitions to complicate, often flashing back to seemingly insignificant moments from the first two volumes (most importantly, with his grandmother, and with his eavesdropping on Vientieul's daughter) and causes the scenes to broaden in depth and meaning. I'm beginning to see that not much of this work was wasted, as much of the long-windedness of the start now seems like part of some grand plan. And for all that, he never makes it difficult to remember who's who, frequently reminding us of the earlier appearances of one of his many characters. It's more Balzac and less Modernist in these moments.
As for the subject of this volume, homosexuality, the work is at once homophobic and remarkably insightful, which I suspect mirrors the experience of the author. There are moments of extreme sensitivity and there are also crude reductions (and a regrettable tendency toward transphobia). It reminds me a bit of the fabulous scene in ROOM WITH A VIEW when the reverend Beebe bathes with two handsome men, and one can feel Forester fall in love with the scene almost despite himself. And so, while individual responses may vary, I found this volume an effective look at queerness - it gave real insight on the period.
And most strangely - this segment ends with a cliffhanger, a real one, that is shocking and exciting. Who would have believed it?
As for the subject of this volume, homosexuality, the work is at once homophobic and remarkably insightful, which I suspect mirrors the experience of the author. There are moments of extreme sensitivity and there are also crude reductions (and a regrettable tendency toward transphobia). It reminds me a bit of the fabulous scene in ROOM WITH A VIEW when the reverend Beebe bathes with two handsome men, and one can feel Forester fall in love with the scene almost despite himself. And so, while individual responses may vary, I found this volume an effective look at queerness - it gave real insight on the period.
And most strangely - this segment ends with a cliffhanger, a real one, that is shocking and exciting. Who would have believed it?
January 29, 2022
"We dream much of a paradise, or rather of a number of successive paradises, but each of them is, long before we die, a paradise lost, in which we should feel ourselves lost too.鈥�
Marcel Proust's Sodom and Gomorrah, the fourth installment of his masterpiece In Search of Lost Time/Remembrance of Things Past, while it continues with a deep immersion in the fashionable salons of the Fauborg Saint-Germain, is known for its explicit focus on homosexual love as well as its sort of longish 958-word sentence. While ironically Marcel/the narrator's amorous attachment is still to Albertine, heterosexual love no longer seems the norm in upper class Parisian society. Proust's portrait of sexual jealousy in these homosexual liaisons has all the trappings of love affairs explored in earlier volumes. In this case, the narrator's attention shifts to Baron de Charlus, who we met in previous volumes.
It's strange to think about the length of Proust's sentences as well as the over 3,000-page book because it feels like he writes in pictures that move before your eyes as you read. Not what I usually think when I hear that something is wordy. Another fantastic, beautifully written and immersive read!
鈥淚 felt that I did not really remember her except through the pain, and I longed for the nails that riveted her to my consciousness to be driven yet deeper.鈥�
Marcel Proust's Sodom and Gomorrah, the fourth installment of his masterpiece In Search of Lost Time/Remembrance of Things Past, while it continues with a deep immersion in the fashionable salons of the Fauborg Saint-Germain, is known for its explicit focus on homosexual love as well as its sort of longish 958-word sentence. While ironically Marcel/the narrator's amorous attachment is still to Albertine, heterosexual love no longer seems the norm in upper class Parisian society. Proust's portrait of sexual jealousy in these homosexual liaisons has all the trappings of love affairs explored in earlier volumes. In this case, the narrator's attention shifts to Baron de Charlus, who we met in previous volumes.
It's strange to think about the length of Proust's sentences as well as the over 3,000-page book because it feels like he writes in pictures that move before your eyes as you read. Not what I usually think when I hear that something is wordy. Another fantastic, beautifully written and immersive read!
鈥淚 felt that I did not really remember her except through the pain, and I longed for the nails that riveted her to my consciousness to be driven yet deeper.鈥�
July 23, 2021
As the train left Adelaide Central Station, I resumed my reading of Sodome et Gomorrhe, its interruption by the meeting with Mme de Maizonniaux having given me so many unexpected insights into the beauties of the Iaai language that for a moment I had almost imagined ourselves seated peacefully together on New Caledonia's vermillion sands watching the sun set over the wind-flecked waters of la baie de Koutio Kou茅ta while discussing the relationship between, as she referred to it, l'enfant Kaori and the Biblical story of Abraham and Isaac; and having taken my leave of Melanesia's charming apologist, I prepared to reenter Proust's world, which by the mysterious force of experience had been transformed into a landscape so familiar that only through an effort of will was it possible to recall I had once found equally alien and forbidding an, as I now knew even without pausing to reflect, Kaurna locative like Noarlunga or Onkaparinga and a two hundred word sentence with nine subordinate clauses, the magical prose acting as a balm on my senses, again momentarily distracting me from the question which now lurked constantly behind my every thought: was Not a lesbian?
May 20, 2020
Ah, it's only with the hindsight of having finished this volume that I can see why I struggled so much with the previous one (): in that one the narrator had himself become a part of the superficial, though outwardly enticing, world of the salons and, consequently, his style of recall was itself essentially superficial, lacking in the meditative analysis and interiority that characterises this work. It's a clever and bold move on Proust's part, an outward performance of inner closing down, as the narrator's consciousness dwells on the surface glamour of 'society', though one that I, at least, didn't 'get' until this volume marks, in part, its passing.
The key theme of this volume for me is instability: the book foregrounds a chaotic flux of switches from the open emergence of queer relationships, frequently in people we've already met, to the hairpin bends of the narrator's own emotions. Without being heavy-handed, the narrative flags its modernity in the crumpling of stabilities, not least in the narrator's own inner equilibrium.
Midway through the work as a whole, this volume looks both backwards and forwards: we return to Balbec and there the narrator accesses the suppressed grief for his grandmother that was so conspicuously missing from the previous volume. He also revives his relationship with Albertine that has been simmering quietly in the background and we can now understand that the relationship between Swann and Odette, so vividly recounted in volume 1, is a motif that has coloured the narrator's whole understanding of erotic love, of sexual desire, even of women - or, at least, of his objects of desire (it's well recognised that all the narrator's beloveds have feminine versions of masculine names: Gilberte, Albertine, Andr茅e). The Swann/Odette narrative is like a form of imprinting that shades the narrator's perceptions and comprehensions - a fine example of contingency that, I'm assuming with three volumes to go, will also shape the narrator's life - at least in this memorialised reconstruction which, let's not forget, is what this is.
So this is an important volume for me, and the one where, I think, Proust's larger design comes into clearer focus. And just when we're admiring all the modernist abandonment of coherency when it comes to plot or characterisation, Proust mischievously throws in a well-worn trope of the novel - he ends on a cliff-hanger!
The key theme of this volume for me is instability: the book foregrounds a chaotic flux of switches from the open emergence of queer relationships, frequently in people we've already met, to the hairpin bends of the narrator's own emotions. Without being heavy-handed, the narrative flags its modernity in the crumpling of stabilities, not least in the narrator's own inner equilibrium.
Midway through the work as a whole, this volume looks both backwards and forwards: we return to Balbec and there the narrator accesses the suppressed grief for his grandmother that was so conspicuously missing from the previous volume. He also revives his relationship with Albertine that has been simmering quietly in the background and we can now understand that the relationship between Swann and Odette, so vividly recounted in volume 1, is a motif that has coloured the narrator's whole understanding of erotic love, of sexual desire, even of women - or, at least, of his objects of desire (it's well recognised that all the narrator's beloveds have feminine versions of masculine names: Gilberte, Albertine, Andr茅e). The Swann/Odette narrative is like a form of imprinting that shades the narrator's perceptions and comprehensions - a fine example of contingency that, I'm assuming with three volumes to go, will also shape the narrator's life - at least in this memorialised reconstruction which, let's not forget, is what this is.
So this is an important volume for me, and the one where, I think, Proust's larger design comes into clearer focus. And just when we're admiring all the modernist abandonment of coherency when it comes to plot or characterisation, Proust mischievously throws in a well-worn trope of the novel - he ends on a cliff-hanger!
January 28, 2025
This volume of In Search of Lost Time was a bit disappointing. Up to this fourth volume, I enjoyed Proust's narrative, the beautiful and evocative prose, and the detailed account of the French society at his time. Although this volume was continued in the same pattern, it didn't have the same charm for me.
Sodom and Gomorrah, addresses same-sex love which was socially a taboo topic at the time Proust wrote it. Society shunned open knowledge of men and women with homosexual tendencies. Nevertheless, they were not completely ostracised depending on their social status and connections. In the case of higher ranks, society feigned ignorance or at the most, only suspicion even when the facts shouted in their face. Proust has exposed this hypocrisy wonderfully.
The narrative, so far as it focused on this theme, was interesting. But this narrative arc was often disturbed by irrelevant descriptions and the narrator's soliloquy. These stories are lengthy volumes, and when the storyline is frequently disturbed by irrelevant details, the reader's interest decreases to the point of tedium. That was exactly my reading experience. The story was promising, yet its delivery was dull and insipid. There was some lovely prose, but the beauty of these was marred by the tedium the story created.
A significant feature, however, stood out sharply for me. That is the power of the memory against time. How accurate the narrator's memory in recounting the past events was a question that was constantly on my mind. Certain actions and dialogues of the narrator sounded unconvincing. If Proust was testing the memory power against the passage of time, the story in Sodom and Gomorrah has skillfully demonstrated how the time-lapse could affect one's memory. The narrator may think his past account is accurate, but this is often blurred with his present mature thoughts. This was keenly felt throughout the story.
Also, the story ends up exciting the reader's interest despite its overall dullness, and my curiosity was aroused enough to want to know what would happen in the next volume. That was pretty cleverly done by Proust.
In any case, I will continue reading this lengthy work despite the disappointment I felt about this volume. My reason for so doing is the fact that In Search of Lost Time is a continuous narrative, even though it was compartmentalised into 7 volumes (my edition consists of 7 volumes). In justice to the author, the readers should firmly bear this in mind before being too critical about the individual volumes.
More of my reviews can be found at
Sodom and Gomorrah, addresses same-sex love which was socially a taboo topic at the time Proust wrote it. Society shunned open knowledge of men and women with homosexual tendencies. Nevertheless, they were not completely ostracised depending on their social status and connections. In the case of higher ranks, society feigned ignorance or at the most, only suspicion even when the facts shouted in their face. Proust has exposed this hypocrisy wonderfully.
The narrative, so far as it focused on this theme, was interesting. But this narrative arc was often disturbed by irrelevant descriptions and the narrator's soliloquy. These stories are lengthy volumes, and when the storyline is frequently disturbed by irrelevant details, the reader's interest decreases to the point of tedium. That was exactly my reading experience. The story was promising, yet its delivery was dull and insipid. There was some lovely prose, but the beauty of these was marred by the tedium the story created.
A significant feature, however, stood out sharply for me. That is the power of the memory against time. How accurate the narrator's memory in recounting the past events was a question that was constantly on my mind. Certain actions and dialogues of the narrator sounded unconvincing. If Proust was testing the memory power against the passage of time, the story in Sodom and Gomorrah has skillfully demonstrated how the time-lapse could affect one's memory. The narrator may think his past account is accurate, but this is often blurred with his present mature thoughts. This was keenly felt throughout the story.
Also, the story ends up exciting the reader's interest despite its overall dullness, and my curiosity was aroused enough to want to know what would happen in the next volume. That was pretty cleverly done by Proust.
In any case, I will continue reading this lengthy work despite the disappointment I felt about this volume. My reason for so doing is the fact that In Search of Lost Time is a continuous narrative, even though it was compartmentalised into 7 volumes (my edition consists of 7 volumes). In justice to the author, the readers should firmly bear this in mind before being too critical about the individual volumes.
More of my reviews can be found at
March 31, 2025
Update: Finished. Completely rewritten 1/5/2023.
鈥淧roust explains way too much for my taste鈥�300 pages to make us understand that Tutur [i.e., Arthur] is buggering Tatave [i.e., Gustave] is really too much.鈥� 鈥擫ouis-Ferdinand C茅line
鈥淢eanwhile Jupien, shedding at once the humble, kindly expression which I had always associated with him, had鈥攊n perfect symmetry with the Baron鈥攖hrown back his head, given a becoming tilt to his body, placed his hand with grotesque effrontery on his hip, stuck out his behind, struck poses with the coquetry that the orchid might have adopted on the providential arrival of the bee.鈥�
For the past several months, Proust and I have been caught in a feverish cycle of infatuation and destruction, breaking up, making up, and breaking up again and again. He comes into my life like a tornado and leaves it like a hurricane, leaving me little time in between to sift through the emotional debris. The only way I can think to save myself is to see this through to the bitter end. I must read this novel, literally, to the death. Hopefully, it doesn鈥檛 kill me first.
I鈥檇 originally written pages and pages trying to explain why I鈥檇 had so much trouble reading this volume. But a quick glance at the told me I鈥檇 lapsed into a general appraisal of the work, not of this particular volume. It鈥檚 probably best to wait until I鈥檝e finished the entire novel before dealing with it comprehensively (and I wouldn鈥檛 want to subject anyone to pages and pages of amateur criticism, anyway), so, against the spirit of Proust, I鈥檓 going to try to keep this short.
Maybe the biggest problem I have with Proust is that the overwhelming majority of the time, I don鈥檛 find his brand of comedy very funny. (In fact, I find it achingly dull.) And even if I did find it funny, I鈥檇 still find comedy-of-manners Proust (who has occupied, let鈥檚 say, three-quarters of the past two volumes) disjunctive with excavation-of-the-self Proust. I find the constant alternation between salon soir茅es and Bergsonian metaphysics exasperating, and it makes it impossible for me to take the novel as seriously as it wants to be taken. It鈥檚 not that I want a book unconcerned with the outside. Just the opposite, really. I鈥檓 not convinced that drawing rooms and seaside resorts are the place for opening the fan of memory, as Walter Benjamin would say. That, I think, would be the alleys, the streets, the avenues, the boulevards, the squares. Among the crowd, if only to slip into it incognito鈥斺€渁 thing among things, a man among men.鈥� The city. Or at least, not drawing rooms and seaside resorts. If you dive into these four thousand pages expecting a panorama of French society, you鈥檒l be unpleasantly surprised to find we only get a keyhole view, as it were鈥攍ike Proust spying on men being chained and whipped at gay brothels, hee hee鈥攁 keyhole view of aristocratic characters who practically cry out that they鈥檙e not worth looking at, even as Proust crushes our eye against the keyhole and yells at us to look. I guess Proust鈥檚 psychogenic asthma should be taken into account here, but if the thought 鈥淲ho the hell would be interested in this?鈥� had popped into Proust鈥檚 head at any moment鈥� (Please, someone hand me a tissue!)
Pansies, by Joe Brainard.
Another problem I have with Proust is that I鈥檓 getting tired of the way he writes. It鈥檚 not his hyperhypotactic sentences鈥攍ike Russian dolls, one clause enclosing the next enclosing the next ad nauseam (although that gets annoying, too)鈥攂ut more that I鈥檓 beginning to find him self-indulgent, and I rarely ever have this reaction. After reading Kawabata a few months ago, I started looking into Japanese aesthetics, and I鈥檝e got to say, there鈥檚 something beautiful鈥擨鈥檓 beginning to hate that word!鈥攁bout the unobtrusive sentence鈥攐ne that鈥檚 more concerned with fixing an image in memory than embellishing it. Proust鈥檚 style for me is a rococo assault on the senses. This is a little cruel, but much of the time, it sickens me (this is compounded by the aristocratic focus and the fact that I find the narrator contemptible, hiding behind his overwrought style as with a cloak). (And yes, I recognize the hypocrisy in the way this very review is written. I guess it鈥檚 because I鈥檝e spent so much time in Proust鈥檚 company that I can鈥檛 help reflecting his influence鈥� He鈥檚 pollinated me.) Kilmartin, who revised the editions I鈥檓 reading, leaves a note at the beginning that Moncrieff swathes Proust in reams of quaint, Edwardian purple prose (only some of which Kilmartin chucks away) and that Proust is 鈥渆ssentially natural and unaffected鈥� in the original despite his complicated syntax. I have a hard time believing that, but I鈥檒l cut Proust some slack. You鈥檙e probably thinking I鈥檓 just not a Proust reader, which I guess is fair enough.
I did like reading about the Baron de Charlus and Morel鈥檚 sugar daddy/boy toy relationship in the last third of the book. Whenever those two characters appeared on the page, it was pregnant with a vitality I鈥檇 long forgotten existed. I say sugar daddy/boy toy relationship, but (contrary to that C茅line quote) Proust notes the two of them probably aren鈥檛 even having sex (鈥渢he probable chastity of [Charlus鈥檚] relations with Morel鈥�)鈥攁s is probably true for most of the gay relationships in the novel (what a disappointment鈥�where is the promised sodomy?). The way Proust writes it, Morel doesn鈥檛 seem to be all that into guys and certainly isn鈥檛 into Charlus, and doubtless thanks his stars the subject of sex never comes up. Proust is even more bitter about gay love than he is about straight love, and he鈥檚 pretty bitter about straight love.
Probably my favorite passage from this volume:
鈥淪uddenly, my horse reared; he had heard a strange sound; it was all I could do to hold him and remain in the saddle; then I raised my tear-filled eyes in the direction from which the sound seemed to come and saw, not two hundred feet above my head, against the sun, between two great wings of flashing metal which were bearing him aloft, a creature whose indistinct face appeared to me to resemble that of a man. I was as deeply moved as an ancient Greek on seeing for the first time a demi-god. I wept鈥攆or I had been ready to weep the moment I realised that the sound came from above my head (aeroplanes were still rare in those days), at the thought that what I was going to see for the first time was an aeroplane. Then, just as when in a newspaper one senses that one is coming to a moving passage, the mere sight of the machine was enough to make me burst into tears. Meanwhile the airman seemed to be uncertain of his course; I felt that there lay open before him鈥攂efore me, had not habit made me a prisoner鈥攁ll the routes in space, in life itself; he flew on, let himself glide for a few moments over the sea, then quickly making up his mind, seeming to yield to some attraction that was the reverse of gravity, as though returning to his native element, with a slight adjustment of his golden wings he headed straight up into the sky.鈥�
鈥淧roust explains way too much for my taste鈥�300 pages to make us understand that Tutur [i.e., Arthur] is buggering Tatave [i.e., Gustave] is really too much.鈥� 鈥擫ouis-Ferdinand C茅line
鈥淢eanwhile Jupien, shedding at once the humble, kindly expression which I had always associated with him, had鈥攊n perfect symmetry with the Baron鈥攖hrown back his head, given a becoming tilt to his body, placed his hand with grotesque effrontery on his hip, stuck out his behind, struck poses with the coquetry that the orchid might have adopted on the providential arrival of the bee.鈥�
For the past several months, Proust and I have been caught in a feverish cycle of infatuation and destruction, breaking up, making up, and breaking up again and again. He comes into my life like a tornado and leaves it like a hurricane, leaving me little time in between to sift through the emotional debris. The only way I can think to save myself is to see this through to the bitter end. I must read this novel, literally, to the death. Hopefully, it doesn鈥檛 kill me first.
I鈥檇 originally written pages and pages trying to explain why I鈥檇 had so much trouble reading this volume. But a quick glance at the told me I鈥檇 lapsed into a general appraisal of the work, not of this particular volume. It鈥檚 probably best to wait until I鈥檝e finished the entire novel before dealing with it comprehensively (and I wouldn鈥檛 want to subject anyone to pages and pages of amateur criticism, anyway), so, against the spirit of Proust, I鈥檓 going to try to keep this short.
Maybe the biggest problem I have with Proust is that the overwhelming majority of the time, I don鈥檛 find his brand of comedy very funny. (In fact, I find it achingly dull.) And even if I did find it funny, I鈥檇 still find comedy-of-manners Proust (who has occupied, let鈥檚 say, three-quarters of the past two volumes) disjunctive with excavation-of-the-self Proust. I find the constant alternation between salon soir茅es and Bergsonian metaphysics exasperating, and it makes it impossible for me to take the novel as seriously as it wants to be taken. It鈥檚 not that I want a book unconcerned with the outside. Just the opposite, really. I鈥檓 not convinced that drawing rooms and seaside resorts are the place for opening the fan of memory, as Walter Benjamin would say. That, I think, would be the alleys, the streets, the avenues, the boulevards, the squares. Among the crowd, if only to slip into it incognito鈥斺€渁 thing among things, a man among men.鈥� The city. Or at least, not drawing rooms and seaside resorts. If you dive into these four thousand pages expecting a panorama of French society, you鈥檒l be unpleasantly surprised to find we only get a keyhole view, as it were鈥攍ike Proust spying on men being chained and whipped at gay brothels, hee hee鈥攁 keyhole view of aristocratic characters who practically cry out that they鈥檙e not worth looking at, even as Proust crushes our eye against the keyhole and yells at us to look. I guess Proust鈥檚 psychogenic asthma should be taken into account here, but if the thought 鈥淲ho the hell would be interested in this?鈥� had popped into Proust鈥檚 head at any moment鈥� (Please, someone hand me a tissue!)
Pansies, by Joe Brainard.
Another problem I have with Proust is that I鈥檓 getting tired of the way he writes. It鈥檚 not his hyperhypotactic sentences鈥攍ike Russian dolls, one clause enclosing the next enclosing the next ad nauseam (although that gets annoying, too)鈥攂ut more that I鈥檓 beginning to find him self-indulgent, and I rarely ever have this reaction. After reading Kawabata a few months ago, I started looking into Japanese aesthetics, and I鈥檝e got to say, there鈥檚 something beautiful鈥擨鈥檓 beginning to hate that word!鈥攁bout the unobtrusive sentence鈥攐ne that鈥檚 more concerned with fixing an image in memory than embellishing it. Proust鈥檚 style for me is a rococo assault on the senses. This is a little cruel, but much of the time, it sickens me (this is compounded by the aristocratic focus and the fact that I find the narrator contemptible, hiding behind his overwrought style as with a cloak). (And yes, I recognize the hypocrisy in the way this very review is written. I guess it鈥檚 because I鈥檝e spent so much time in Proust鈥檚 company that I can鈥檛 help reflecting his influence鈥� He鈥檚 pollinated me.) Kilmartin, who revised the editions I鈥檓 reading, leaves a note at the beginning that Moncrieff swathes Proust in reams of quaint, Edwardian purple prose (only some of which Kilmartin chucks away) and that Proust is 鈥渆ssentially natural and unaffected鈥� in the original despite his complicated syntax. I have a hard time believing that, but I鈥檒l cut Proust some slack. You鈥檙e probably thinking I鈥檓 just not a Proust reader, which I guess is fair enough.
I did like reading about the Baron de Charlus and Morel鈥檚 sugar daddy/boy toy relationship in the last third of the book. Whenever those two characters appeared on the page, it was pregnant with a vitality I鈥檇 long forgotten existed. I say sugar daddy/boy toy relationship, but (contrary to that C茅line quote) Proust notes the two of them probably aren鈥檛 even having sex (鈥渢he probable chastity of [Charlus鈥檚] relations with Morel鈥�)鈥攁s is probably true for most of the gay relationships in the novel (what a disappointment鈥�where is the promised sodomy?). The way Proust writes it, Morel doesn鈥檛 seem to be all that into guys and certainly isn鈥檛 into Charlus, and doubtless thanks his stars the subject of sex never comes up. Proust is even more bitter about gay love than he is about straight love, and he鈥檚 pretty bitter about straight love.
Probably my favorite passage from this volume:
鈥淪uddenly, my horse reared; he had heard a strange sound; it was all I could do to hold him and remain in the saddle; then I raised my tear-filled eyes in the direction from which the sound seemed to come and saw, not two hundred feet above my head, against the sun, between two great wings of flashing metal which were bearing him aloft, a creature whose indistinct face appeared to me to resemble that of a man. I was as deeply moved as an ancient Greek on seeing for the first time a demi-god. I wept鈥攆or I had been ready to weep the moment I realised that the sound came from above my head (aeroplanes were still rare in those days), at the thought that what I was going to see for the first time was an aeroplane. Then, just as when in a newspaper one senses that one is coming to a moving passage, the mere sight of the machine was enough to make me burst into tears. Meanwhile the airman seemed to be uncertain of his course; I felt that there lay open before him鈥攂efore me, had not habit made me a prisoner鈥攁ll the routes in space, in life itself; he flew on, let himself glide for a few moments over the sea, then quickly making up his mind, seeming to yield to some attraction that was the reverse of gravity, as though returning to his native element, with a slight adjustment of his golden wings he headed straight up into the sky.鈥�
February 27, 2020
亘丕 賮讴乇 讴乇丿賳 亘賴 噩賳爻 禺丕氐 乇丕亘胤賴鈥屸€屬呚з嗀� 禺丕氐 賵 亘爻蹖丕乇 丿賱倬匕蹖乇貙 賵 禺丕賱氐 丕夭 賳賵毓蹖 讴賲鬲乇 丌賲蹖禺鬲賴 卮丿賴 亘賴 賴賵爻貙 賴乇 賱丨馗賴 丕賵 乇丕 丿乇 讴賳丕乇 禺賵丿 鬲氐賵乇 賲蹖讴乇丿賲. 丕賵 乇丕 亘丕 賱亘丕爻蹖 乇丕丨鬲 賵 爻丕丿賴貙 丕夭 賴賲丕賳鈥� 賳賵毓 讴賴 賲毓賲賵賱丕 丿乇 丌賳賴丕 丿蹖丿賴 亘賵丿賲卮貙 丿乇 讴賳丕乇 禺賵丿賲 丕蹖爻鬲丕丿賴 蹖丕 丿乇 丨丕賱 賯丿賲 夭丿賳貙 丿乇 丨丕賱蹖讴賴 丿爻鬲賴丕蹖 賳乇賲 賵 爻賮蹖丿卮 乇丕 讴賴 讴賲鬲乇 亘賴 丿爻鬲 賲乇丿丕賳 爻蹖鈥屫池з勝� 卮亘丕賴鬲 丿丕卮鬲 丿乇 丿爻鬲 丿丕卮鬲賲 賵 丕賳诏卮鬲丕賳 賱胤蹖賮 賵 丨爻丕爻卮 乇丕 丿乇 賲蹖丕賳 丕賳诏卮鬲丕賳賲 賲蹖賮卮乇丿賲貙 鬲氐賵乇 賲蹖讴乇丿賲. 丕夭 丕蹖賳 禺蹖丕賱 诏匕乇丕貙 卮賵乇 賵 卮毓賮蹖 爻乇丕爻乇 賵噩賵丿賲 乇丕 丿乇 亘乇 賲蹖 诏乇賮鬲 讴賴 爻丕毓鬲賴丕 亘乇丕蹖 爻乇禺賵卮蹖 丕賲 讴丕賮蹖 亘賵丿貙 丕賲丕 亘丕夭 賴賲 賲蹖禺賵丕爻鬲賲卮 賵 丕夭 丕蹖賳 禺蹖丕賱倬乇丿丕夭蹖 丌賲蹖禺鬲賴 亘賴 卮乇賲 丿爻鬲 亘乇鈥屬嗁呟屫ж簇� 賵 倬蹖鈥屫扁€屬聚屫� 禺賵丿 乇丕 賴賲趩賵 賳賵夭丕丿蹖 讴賴 丕賳賯丿乇 丕夭 倬爻鬲丕賳 賲丕丿乇 卮蹖乇 賲讴蹖丿賴 讴賴 夭蹖丕丿蹖 丕卮 丕夭 诏賵卮賴鈥屰� 丿賴丕賳卮 亘乇賵蹖 诏賵賳賴鈥屬囏� 賵 诏乇丿賳 爻乇乇蹖夭 卮丿賴貙 丕賲丕 丿爻鬲 丕夭 賲讴蹖丿賳 亘乇鈥屬嗁呟� 丿丕乇丿 賵 丕蹖賳讴丕乇 乇丕 賳賴 丕夭 乇賵蹖 丨爻 诏乇爻賳诏蹖 讴賴 亘乇丕蹖 讴爻亘 賱匕鬲 賲蹖讴賳丿貙 亘賴 丿丕賲丕賳卮 賲蹖鈥屫з佢┵嗀�. 亘毓丿 丕夭 丌賳 亘賵丿 讴賴 賵爻賵爻賴鈥屰� 賮乇爻鬲丕丿賳 倬蹖睾丕賲蹖 賲賴乇丌賲蹖夭 亘賴 爻乇丕睾賲 賲蹖鈥屫①呚� 賵 丿賱鬲賳诏蹖鈥屫ж簇� 丿賱鬲賳诏蹖 亘乇丕蹖 卮賳蹖丿賳 氐丿丕蹖 丕孬蹖乇蹖鈥� 賵 卮賵禺蹖鈥屬囏й屫� 讴賴 賴蹖趩賵賯鬲 乇賳诏 蹖丕賵賴 賵 夭蹖丕丿賴鈥屭堐屰� 賳賲蹖诏乇賮鬲貙 賵 賲乇丕 鬲丕 丕賳噩丕 賲蹖禺賳丿丕賳丿 讴賴 丿賴丕賳賲 鬲丕 丕禺乇蹖賳 丨丿 賲賲讴賳 讴卮蹖丿賴 賲蹖卮丿 賵 亘毓丿 趩賳丿 丿賯蹖賯賴 丕爻鬲禺賵丕賳賴丕蹖 賮讴鈥屬� 乇丕 亘賴 丿乇丿 賲蹖鈥屫①堌必� 鬲賲丕賲 噩丕賳賲 乇丕 賲蹖賮卮乇丿 賵 賯賱亘賲 乇丕 賲蹖鈥屫①呚ж驰屫�.
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丕诏乇 賲鬲賳 亘丕賱丕 乇賵 禺賵賳丿蹖丿 賵 賲鬲賵噩賴 卮丿蹖丿 趩蹖 诏賮鬲賲貙 亘乇賳丿賴 噩丕蹖夭賴 蹖讴 賲蹖賱蹖賵賳 丿賱丕乇蹖 诏乇賵賴 丌賳丕讴丕乇賳蹖賳丕 賲蹖卮蹖丿馃槉
倬乇賵爻鬲 毓夭蹖夭賲 賴賲蹖賳噩賵乇蹖 鬲賯乇蹖亘丕 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 鬲毓乇蹖賮 賲蹖讴賳賴 賵 賲賳 丿乇 倬丕蹖丕賳 賴乇 噩賲賱賴鈥屰� 亘賱賳丿 丿賴 禺胤蹖 貙 亘乇诏丕賲 賲蹖 乇蹖夭賴 丕夭 卮丿鬲 鬲爻賱胤 賲賴丿蹖 爻丨丕亘蹖 亘賴 夭亘丕賳 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 賵 爻亘讴卮
亘賴 乇丕爻鬲蹖 卮诏賮鬲丕!
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亘賴鬲乇蹖賳 噩賱丿 鬲丕 丕賱丕賳 賵 賲賳 賴賲趩賳丕賳 卮蹖賮鬲賴 丕賲 賵 丕丿丕賲賴 禺賵丕賴賲 丿丕丿
丕賲丕 丿乇爻鬲 丿乇 賱丨馗賴鈥屰� 丨爻丕爻 丌禺乇貙 毓賯賱賲 亘丕 丌賳 賲賳胤賯 爻禺鬲 賵 禺丕賱蹖 丕夭 丕丨爻丕爻卮 賲趩賲 乇丕 賲蹖 诏乇賮鬲 賵 诏賵蹖蹖 亘乇丕蹖 噩賱賵诏蹖乇蹖 丕夭 賮丕噩毓賴鈥屫й� 毓馗蹖賲貙 爻蹖賱蹖 賲丨讴賲蹖 亘賴 诏賵卮賲 賲蹖賳賵丕禺鬲貙 賴賲趩賵 夭賲丕賳蹖讴賴 亘蹖賲丕乇 賲亘鬲賱丕 亘賴 睾卮 乇丕 爻蹖賱蹖 賲蹖夭賳賳丿 蹖丕 卮丕賳賴鈥屬囏й屫� 乇丕 亘賴 卮丿鬲貙 亘丿賵賳 丿乇 賳馗乇 诏乇賮鬲賳 丿乇丿 丕丨鬲賲丕賱蹖貙 鬲讴丕賳 賲蹖鈥屫囐嗀� 鬲丕 丕夭 賲乇诏 亘丕夭卮 诏乇丿丕賳賳丿貙 鬲丕 亘賴 禺賵丿賲 亘蹖丕蹖賲 賵 賴賵卮蹖丕乇 卮賵賲.
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丕诏乇 賲鬲賳 亘丕賱丕 乇賵 禺賵賳丿蹖丿 賵 賲鬲賵噩賴 卮丿蹖丿 趩蹖 诏賮鬲賲貙 亘乇賳丿賴 噩丕蹖夭賴 蹖讴 賲蹖賱蹖賵賳 丿賱丕乇蹖 诏乇賵賴 丌賳丕讴丕乇賳蹖賳丕 賲蹖卮蹖丿馃槉
倬乇賵爻鬲 毓夭蹖夭賲 賴賲蹖賳噩賵乇蹖 鬲賯乇蹖亘丕 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 鬲毓乇蹖賮 賲蹖讴賳賴 賵 賲賳 丿乇 倬丕蹖丕賳 賴乇 噩賲賱賴鈥屰� 亘賱賳丿 丿賴 禺胤蹖 貙 亘乇诏丕賲 賲蹖 乇蹖夭賴 丕夭 卮丿鬲 鬲爻賱胤 賲賴丿蹖 爻丨丕亘蹖 亘賴 夭亘丕賳 賳賵蹖爻賳丿賴 賵 爻亘讴卮
亘賴 乇丕爻鬲蹖 卮诏賮鬲丕!
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亘賴鬲乇蹖賳 噩賱丿 鬲丕 丕賱丕賳 賵 賲賳 賴賲趩賳丕賳 卮蹖賮鬲賴 丕賲 賵 丕丿丕賲賴 禺賵丕賴賲 丿丕丿
November 14, 2023
When they are happy, calm, satisfied with their surroundings, we marvel at their precious gifts; it is the truth, literally, that speaks through their lips. A touch of headache, the slightest prick to their self-esteem, is enough to alter everything. The luminous intelligence, become brusque, convulsive and shrunken, no longer reflects anything but an irritable, suspicious, teasing self, doing everything possible to displease.This book was both the easiest and the most tedious of the series to date, in that the pages flowed faster under my Proust-accustomed gaze, but only on the days that I didn鈥檛 pass over it in favor of other works. It also didn鈥檛 help that, unlike the previous installations in the series, I finished the last twenty or so pages in a state of aggravated fury brought upon not by incomprehension, but the clearest understanding one could possibly hope for. As I can鈥檛 do anything unusual, especially in matters relating to literature, without my mind immediately latching onto the issue and needling the reason out it, I will explain myself here.
It was indeed the corrupting effect, as it was also the charm, of this country round Balbec, to have become for me a land of familiar acquaintances; if its territorial distribution, its extensive cultivation, along the entire length of the coast, with different forms of agriculture, gave of necessity to the visits which I paid to these different friends the aspect of a journey, they also reduced that journey to the agreeable proportions of a series of visits.
I am a great believer in the powers of empathy when it comes to literature, to the point that if a disagreeable character appears, I immediately keep an especial eye on them and their circumstances in the hopes of finding something to improve my favorable understanding of them. In previous works Proust has been a consummate master at this, delving as deeply as he does into the human psyche at every turn and rendering nearly every action of seeming insipidness and stupidity into something I recognize as being capable of myself, the insufferable human condition rendered sufferable and as a result granting valuable learning. The difficulty of his prose simply made the journey a slow and contemplative one, whose culminations bloomed as grandly and as gorgeously as if one had spent a lifetime watching a single seed languorously shoot and spread into the most awe inspiring of cathedrals. Simply put, the effort was well worth it.
The problem, of course, is when the beauty and thoughtful meanderings can no longer excuse the idiocy, and one becomes frustrated not only with the actions, but even moreso with the attempts of the book to cloak the actions with the same softening colors that previously delighted the reader, attempts that fail again and again.
I have to mention here that I am a very reserved person, in the effect that while I feel as rapidly and as strongly as Proust so often describes, I do not act on it. As a result, I have an extremely low tolerance for ridiculous heights of selfish idiocy, something that I have observed in the narrator as well as other characters in ISOLT but was able to forgive when offered with wonderful passages of crystalline insight. There is also my extreme dislike of stereotyping, especially with regards to multitudes of varied souls that populate humanity in seemingly discriminate bunches. In effect, these two aspects of my personality lessened my compatibility with this book, something that saddens me but cannot be helped.
For the book is called Sodom and Gomorrah, and when it comes to the quote of Beckett that proclaims that in the book, Homosexuality鈥s as devoid of moral implications鈥� as the sexual patterns of flowers, I have to disagree, and instead find favor with the quote of Andr茅 Gide, Will you never portray this form of Eros for us in the aspect of youth and beauty?, for while Proust never outright condemns it, he does everything but. There is no contemplative empathy, no beautifying of another form of love, nothing but ridiculous theories on the ways homosexuals act and come into contact with another, mockeries of those who are severely mistaken in their belief that their secret is safe, little skits of insipid jealousy with none of the compassion that Swann鈥檚 own efforts were treated. No, instead the narrator glorifies his own labors of love in all their hypersensitive irrationality, and resigns himself to a lifetime of torment not when .
I won鈥檛 deny that many of the society events were amusing, and that every so often a sentence full with inherent truth would crop up, or that the pages detailing grief were as heartrending as one of Proust鈥檚 skill could make them. However, all this together wasn't enough, and ultimately the frustrating misconceptions in regards to homosexuality, the aggravating viciousness of many of the shallower characters, and finally the repulsive selfishness of the narrator himself all sounded the death knell for that fifth star.
Perhaps I have grown too used to Proust鈥檚 prose, or maybe his own tools of immense perception backfired on him when he concerned himself with this particular subject that impacted his life no matter how much he denied it to himself. All I know is this time, it didn鈥檛 work out nearly as well as previous times when I and the book ended our journey together with a joyous skipping off into the sunset. I hope that results prove better with the succeeding works.
September 16, 2015
亘賴 賷丕丿 賲蹖 丌賵乇賲 讴賴 賷讴 爻丕毓鬲蹖 倬賷卮 丕夭 夭賲丕賳蹖 讴賴 賲丕丿乇亘夭乇诏賲 亘丕 倬賷乇賴賳 禺丕賳賴 禺賲 卮丿 鬲丕 趩讴賲賴 賴丕賷賲 丿乇 丿乇丌賵乇丿貙丿乇 诏乇賲丕蹖 讴卮賳丿賴 丿乇 禺賷丕亘丕賳賴丕 倬乇爻賴 賲賷夭丿賲 賵貙丿乇 亘乇丕亘乇 賲睾丕夭賴 賯賳丕丿蹖貙 丕丨爻丕爻賲 丕賷賳 亘賵丿 讴賴 亘丕 賴賲賴 賳賷丕夭賲 亘賴 亘賵爻賷丿賳 賲丕丿乇亘夭乇诏賲貙亘賴 賴賷趩 乇賵 胤丕賯鬲 鬲丨賲賱 賷讴 爻丕毓鬲蹖 乇丕 讴賴 賴賳賵夭 亘丕賷丿 亘蹖 丕賵 亘诏夭乇丕賳賲 賳丿丕乇賲.賵 丕讴賳賵賳 讴賴 賴賲賷賳 賳賷丕夭 丿賵亘丕乇賴 爻乇 亘乇 賲蹖 丌賵乇丿貙賲蹖 丿丕賳爻鬲賲 讴賴 丕诏乇 爻丕毓鬲賴丕 賵 爻丕毓鬲賴丕 賲賳鬲馗乇 亘賲丕賳賲 丕賵 乇丕 賴乇诏夭 丿賵亘丕乇賴 丿乇 讴賳丕乇賲 賳禺賵丕賴賲 丿賷丿貙賵 丕賷賳 乇丕 鬲丕夭賴 賲蹖 賮賴賲賷丿賲 趩賵賳 丨丕賱 讴賴 亘乇丕蹖 賳禺爻鬲賷賳 亘丕乇 丌賳 趩賳丕賳 夭賳丿賴 賵 丨賯賷賯蹖 丨爻卮 賲蹖 讴乇丿賲 讴賴 丿賱賲 乇丕 賲蹖 鬲乇讴丕賳賷丿貙丨丕賱 讴賴 爻乇賳噩丕賲 亘丕夭卮 賷丕賮鬲賴 亘賵丿賲貙鬲丕夭賴 賲蹖 賮賴賲賷丿賲 讴賴 亘乇丕蹖 賴賲賷卮賴 丕夭 丿爻鬲卮 丿丕丿賴 丕賲.丕夭 丿爻鬲 丿丕丿賴貙鬲丕 丕亘丿.鬲賳丕賯囟蹖 乇丕 賳賲蹖 鬲賵丕爻鬲賲 亘賮賴賲賲 賵 禺賵丿 乇丕 亘乇丕蹖 鬲丨賲賱 乇賳噩卮 丌賲丕丿賴 賲蹖 讴乇丿賲. 賵 丕賷賳 丕爻鬲 丌賳 鬲賳丕賯囟:丕夭 賷讴 爻賵 賵噩賵丿蹖 賵 賲賴乇蹖 讴賴 丿乇 丿乇賵賳賲 亘賴 賴賲丕賳 诏賵賳賴 讴賴 賲蹖 卮賳丕禺鬲賲貙賷毓賳蹖 爻丕禺鬲賴 卮丿賴 亘乇丕蹖 賲賳貙亘丕賯蹖 賲丕賳丿賴 亘賵丿貙賲賴乇蹖 讴賴 趩賳丕賳 賴賲賴 丕噩夭丕賷卮 賵 賴丿賮卮 賵 噩賴鬲 賴賲賷卮诏蹖 丕卮 丿乇 賲賳 禺賱丕氐賴 賲蹖 卮丿 讴賴 丿乇 賳馗乇 賲丕丿乇亘夭乇诏賲 賴賲賴 賳亘賵睾 賲乇丿丕賳 亘夭乇诏貙賴賲賴 賳賵丕亘睾蹖 讴賴 丕夭 丕夭賱 丿乇 噩賴丕賳 賵噩賵丿 丿丕卮鬲賴 亘賵丿賳丿貙亘賴 丕賳丿丕夭賴 賷讴蹖 丕夭 毓賷亘 賴丕蹖 賲賳 丕乇夭卮 賳丿丕卮鬲.賵 丕夭 丿賷诏乇 爻賵貙丿乇爻鬲 丿乇 夭賲丕賳蹖 讴賴 丕賷賳 禺賵卮亘禺鬲蹖 乇丕貙丿賵亘丕乇賴 丨爻 賲蹖 讴乇丿賲 丕賳诏丕乇 讴賴 丿乇 夭賲丕賳 丨丕賱 亘丕卮丿貙丕賷賳 禺賵卮亘禺鬲蹖 乇丕 賷賯賷賳蹖貙鬲賳丿 賵 賳丕賮匕 趩賵賳 丿乇丿蹖 噩爻賲丕賳蹖 讴賴 倬賷丕倬蹖 鬲讴乇丕乇 卮賵丿丿 丿乇 賲蹖 賳賵乇丿賷丿.賷賯賷賳 賳賷爻鬲蹖 丕蹖 讴賴 鬲氐賵乇 賲賳 丕夭 丌賳 賲賴乇亘丕賳蹖 乇丕 賲賴賵 讴乇丿賴 亘賵丿貙丌賳 賵噩賵丿 乇丕 賳丕亘賵丿 讴乇丿賴 亘賵丿貙丨鬲賲賷鬲 倬賷賵賳丿 賲賳 賵 丕賵 丿乇 诏匕卮鬲賴 乇丕 賳賷爻鬲 讴乇丿賴 亘賵丿貙賲丕丿乇亘夭乇诏賲 乇丕 丿乇 賱丨锟斤拷賴 丕蹖 讴賴 丿賵亘丕乇賴貙趩賳丕賳 讴賴 丿乇 丌賷賳賴 丕賷 亘丕夭卮貙賲蹖 賷丕賮鬲賲 丌丿賲 睾乇賷亘蹖 丕賷 讴乇丿賴 亘賵丿 讴賴 鬲氐丕丿賮丕 趩賳丿 爻丕賱蹖 乇丕 讴賳丕乇 賲賳 亘賵丿 賴賲趩賳丕賳 讴賴 賲蹖 鬲賵丕賳爻鬲 讴賳丕乇 賴乇 讴爻 丿賷诏乇蹖 亘丕卮丿 賵 倬賷卮 丕夭 丕賷賳 丿賵乇賴 賲賳 亘乇丕賷卮 賴賷趩 亘賵丿賲 賵 賴賷趩 卮丿賲.
賴賲趩賵賳 噩乇賷丕賳蹖 丕賱讴鬲乇賷讴蹖 讴賴 丌丿賲蹖 乇丕 鬲讴丕賳 亘丿賴丿貙丌賳 毓卮賯賴丕 鬲讴丕賳賲 丿丕丿貙亘丕 丌賳賴丕 夭賳丿诏蹖 讴乇丿賲貙丨爻卮丕賳 讴乇丿賲.賴乇诏夭 亘賴 丌賳噩丕 賳乇爻賷丿賲 讴賴 亘亘賷賳賲卮丕賳 賷丕 賮讴乇卮丕賳 讴賳賲.丨鬲蹖 亘賴 丕賷賳 亘丕賵乇 诏乇丕賷卮 丿丕乇賲 讴賴 丿乇 丕賷賳 毓卮賯賴丕(噩丿丕 丕夭 賱匕鬲 噩爻賲丕賳蹖 讴賴 賲毓賲賵賱丕 賴賲乇丕賴卮丕賳 丕爻鬲 丕賲丕 亘乇丕蹖 卮讴賱 丿丕丿賳 亘賴 丌賳賴丕 讴丕賮蹖 賳賷爻鬲)貙丿乇 賵乇丕蹖 馗丕賴乇 夭賳貙賳馗乇 賲丕 亘賴 賳賷乇賵賴丕賷蹖 賳丕賲乇賷蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 夭賳 乇丕 賴賲乇丕賴蹖 賲蹖 讴賳賳丿 賵 賲丕 亘賴 丌賳賴丕 趩賳丕賳 讴賴 亘賴 禺丿丕賷丕賳蹖 賳丕卮賳丕禺鬲賴 乇賵蹖 賲蹖 讴賳賷賲.賳賷丕夭 賲丕 亘賴 賳馗乇 賲爻丕毓丿 丕賷賳 丕賱賴诏丕賳 丕爻鬲貙鬲賲丕爻 亘丕 丕賷卮丕賳 乇丕 賲蹖 噩賵賷賷賲 亘蹖 丌賳 讴賴 亘賴 賱匕鬲蹖 毓賲賱蹖 丿爻鬲 賷丕亘賷賲.夭賳貙丿乇 賵賯鬲 丿賷丿丕乇貙賮賯胤 賲丕 乇丕 亘丕 丕賷賳 丕賱賴诏丕賳 丿乇 乇丕亘胤賴 賯乇丕乇 賲蹖 丿賴丿 賵 讴丕乇 丿賷诏乇蹖 賳賲蹖 讴賳丿.亘賴 毓賳賵丕賳 倬賷卮讴卮 賯賵賱 噩賵丕賴乇 賵 爻賮乇 丿丕丿賴 丕賷賲貙賵乇丿賴丕賷蹖 禺賵丕賳丿賴 丕賷賲 賷毓賳蹖 讴賴 倬乇爻鬲賳丿賴 丕賷賲 賵 賵乇丿賴丕賷蹖 賲禺丕賱賮 丌賳賴丕 賷毓賳蹖 讴賴 丕毓鬲賳丕賷蹖 賳丿丕乇賷賲.賴賲 賯丿乇鬲 禺賵丿 乇丕 亘乇丕蹖 賵毓丿賴 丿賷丿丕乇 丿賷诏乇蹖 亘賴 讴丕乇 诏乇賮鬲賴 丕賷賲貙丕賲丕 丿賷丿丕乇蹖 讴賴 賴賷趩 賲卮讴賱蹖 賳丿丕卮鬲賴 亘丕卮丿.丕诏乇 丕賷賳 賳賷乇賵賴丕蹖 賳丕卮賳丕禺鬲賴 夭賳 乇丕 讴丕賲賱 賳賲蹖 讴乇丿貙丌賷丕 亘乇丕蹖 禺賵丿 丕賵 丕賷賳 賴賲賴 爻禺鬲蹖 賲蹖 讴卮賷丿賷賲 丿乇 丨丕賱蹖 讴賴 倬爻 丕夭 乇賮鬲賳卮 丨鬲蹖 賳賲蹖 丿丕賳賷賲 趩诏賵賳賴 噩丕賲賴 丕蹖 亘賴 鬲賳 丿丕卮鬲 賵 賲鬲賵噩賴 賲蹖 卮賵賷賲 讴賴 丨鬲蹖 賳诏丕賴卮 賳讴乇丿賷賲.
賴賲趩賵賳 噩乇賷丕賳蹖 丕賱讴鬲乇賷讴蹖 讴賴 丌丿賲蹖 乇丕 鬲讴丕賳 亘丿賴丿貙丌賳 毓卮賯賴丕 鬲讴丕賳賲 丿丕丿貙亘丕 丌賳賴丕 夭賳丿诏蹖 讴乇丿賲貙丨爻卮丕賳 讴乇丿賲.賴乇诏夭 亘賴 丌賳噩丕 賳乇爻賷丿賲 讴賴 亘亘賷賳賲卮丕賳 賷丕 賮讴乇卮丕賳 讴賳賲.丨鬲蹖 亘賴 丕賷賳 亘丕賵乇 诏乇丕賷卮 丿丕乇賲 讴賴 丿乇 丕賷賳 毓卮賯賴丕(噩丿丕 丕夭 賱匕鬲 噩爻賲丕賳蹖 讴賴 賲毓賲賵賱丕 賴賲乇丕賴卮丕賳 丕爻鬲 丕賲丕 亘乇丕蹖 卮讴賱 丿丕丿賳 亘賴 丌賳賴丕 讴丕賮蹖 賳賷爻鬲)貙丿乇 賵乇丕蹖 馗丕賴乇 夭賳貙賳馗乇 賲丕 亘賴 賳賷乇賵賴丕賷蹖 賳丕賲乇賷蹖 丕爻鬲 讴賴 夭賳 乇丕 賴賲乇丕賴蹖 賲蹖 讴賳賳丿 賵 賲丕 亘賴 丌賳賴丕 趩賳丕賳 讴賴 亘賴 禺丿丕賷丕賳蹖 賳丕卮賳丕禺鬲賴 乇賵蹖 賲蹖 讴賳賷賲.賳賷丕夭 賲丕 亘賴 賳馗乇 賲爻丕毓丿 丕賷賳 丕賱賴诏丕賳 丕爻鬲貙鬲賲丕爻 亘丕 丕賷卮丕賳 乇丕 賲蹖 噩賵賷賷賲 亘蹖 丌賳 讴賴 亘賴 賱匕鬲蹖 毓賲賱蹖 丿爻鬲 賷丕亘賷賲.夭賳貙丿乇 賵賯鬲 丿賷丿丕乇貙賮賯胤 賲丕 乇丕 亘丕 丕賷賳 丕賱賴诏丕賳 丿乇 乇丕亘胤賴 賯乇丕乇 賲蹖 丿賴丿 賵 讴丕乇 丿賷诏乇蹖 賳賲蹖 讴賳丿.亘賴 毓賳賵丕賳 倬賷卮讴卮 賯賵賱 噩賵丕賴乇 賵 爻賮乇 丿丕丿賴 丕賷賲貙賵乇丿賴丕賷蹖 禺賵丕賳丿賴 丕賷賲 賷毓賳蹖 讴賴 倬乇爻鬲賳丿賴 丕賷賲 賵 賵乇丿賴丕賷蹖 賲禺丕賱賮 丌賳賴丕 賷毓賳蹖 讴賴 丕毓鬲賳丕賷蹖 賳丿丕乇賷賲.賴賲 賯丿乇鬲 禺賵丿 乇丕 亘乇丕蹖 賵毓丿賴 丿賷丿丕乇 丿賷诏乇蹖 亘賴 讴丕乇 诏乇賮鬲賴 丕賷賲貙丕賲丕 丿賷丿丕乇蹖 讴賴 賴賷趩 賲卮讴賱蹖 賳丿丕卮鬲賴 亘丕卮丿.丕诏乇 丕賷賳 賳賷乇賵賴丕蹖 賳丕卮賳丕禺鬲賴 夭賳 乇丕 讴丕賲賱 賳賲蹖 讴乇丿貙丌賷丕 亘乇丕蹖 禺賵丿 丕賵 丕賷賳 賴賲賴 爻禺鬲蹖 賲蹖 讴卮賷丿賷賲 丿乇 丨丕賱蹖 讴賴 倬爻 丕夭 乇賮鬲賳卮 丨鬲蹖 賳賲蹖 丿丕賳賷賲 趩诏賵賳賴 噩丕賲賴 丕蹖 亘賴 鬲賳 丿丕卮鬲 賵 賲鬲賵噩賴 賲蹖 卮賵賷賲 讴賴 丨鬲蹖 賳诏丕賴卮 賳讴乇丿賷賲.
June 21, 2022
Virginia Woolf on Proust....
/quotes/7013...
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鈥淚llness is the most heeded of doctors: to kindness and wisdom we make promises only; pain we obey.鈥�
鈥� Marcel Proust
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The return to Balbec by the sea....
As in that first year, the seas were rarely the same from one day to the next. But they scarcely resembled those of that first year, on the other hand, either because now it was spring, with its storms, or because, even if I had come on the same date as the first occasion, the different, more changeable weather might not have recommended this coast to certain indolent, vaporous, and fragile seas that I had seen on days of burning heat, sleeping on the beach, lifting their blue bosom imperceptibly with a soft palpitation, or above all because my eyes, educated by Elstir [Monet] to retain precisely those elements that I had once willfully discarded, dwelt at length on what that first year they had not known how to see. The opposition that had so struck me then, between the rustic excursions I took with Mme de Villeparisis and this fluid, inaccessible, mythological vicinity of the everlasting Ocean, no longer existed for me. On certain days, the sea itself now seemed to me, on the contrary, almost rural. On the quite rare days of truly fine weather, the heat had traced on the water, as if across the countryside, a white and dusty road, behind which there protruded, like a village steeple, the delicate tip of a fishing boat. A tugboat, of which only the funnel was visible, would be smoking in the distance like a secluded factory, while, alone on the horizon, a bellying white square, painted no doubt by a sail but which appeared compact and as if made of chalk, put you in mind of the sunlit corner of some isolated building, a hospital or a school. And the clouds and the wind, on the days when they were added to the sunshine, completed, if not the error of judgment, at least the illusion of a first glance, the suggestion it awakens in the imagination. For, on stormy days, the alternation between sharply defined areas of color, like those resulting in the countryside from the contiguity of different crops, the harsh, yellow, as if muddy irregularities of the sea鈥檚 surface, the embankments and slopes that hid from view a boat on which a crew of agile sailors seemed to be harvesting, all this made of the ocean something as varied, as consistent, as uneven, as populous, as civilized, as the land that was navigable, where I would before long be driving again.
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THE INTERMITTENCES OF THE HEART
"The disturbances of memory are linked to the intermittences of the heart."
The return to Balbec triggers memories of his time there with his grandmother years before; a grandmother he has belatedly mourned....
On the very first night, as I was suffering from an attack of cardiac fatigue, trying to overcome the pain, I bent down slowly and cautiously to remove my boots. But hardly had I touched the first button of my ankle boot when my chest swelled, filled with an unknown, divine presence, I was shaken by sobs, tears streamed from my eyes. The person who had come to my assistance, who was rescuing me from my aridity of soul, was the one who, several years before, at an identical moment of distress and loneliness, a moment when I no longer had anything of myself, had entered, and who had restored me to myself, for it was both me and more than me (the container which is more than the content, and had brought it to me). I had just glimpsed, in my memory, bent over my fatigue, the tender, concerned, disappointed face of my grandmother, such as she had been on that first evening of our arrival; the face of my grandmother who had nothing of her but her name, but of my true grandmother, the living reality of whom, for the first time since the Champs-脡lys茅es, where she had suffered her stroke, I had rediscovered in a complete and involuntary memory.
This reality does not exist for us until such time as it has been re-created in our minds (otherwise, the men who have been involved in some titanic battle would all be great epic poets); thus, in a wild desire to hurl myself into her arms, it was only at this instant鈥� more than a year after her funeral, on account of the anachronism which so often prevents the calendar of facts from coinciding with that of our feelings鈥� that I had just learned she was dead. I had spoken of her often since that time and thought of her also, but beneath the words and thoughts of an ungrateful, selfish, and cruel young man there had never been anything that might resemble my grandmother, for, in my frivolity, my love of pleasure, and accustomed as I was to seeing her as an invalid, I contained within me the memory of what she had been only in a virtual state.
For the disturbances of memory are linked to the intermittences of the heart. It is no doubt the existence of our body, similar for us to a vase in which our spirituality is enclosed, that induces us to suppose that all our inner goods, our past joys, all our sorrows, are perpetually in our possession.
Now, since the self that I had suddenly re-become had not existed since that far-off evening when my grandmother had undressed me on my arrival in Balbec, it was, quite naturally, not after the day we were living, of which that self knew nothing, but鈥� as if there were, in time, different and parallel series鈥� without any break in continuity, immediately after that first evening in the past, that I adhered to the moment when my grandmother had leaned toward me. The self that I was then and which had vanished all that time ago, was once again so close to me that I seemed to hear still the words that had come immediately before, yet which were no more than a dream, just as a man not properly awake thinks he can perceive close beside him the sounds of his receding dream. I was nothing more than the being who had sought refuge in his grandmother鈥檚 arms, to erase the traces of her sorrows by giving her kisses, the being I would have had as great difficulty in imagining to myself.
I recalled how, an hour before the moment when my grandmother had thus leaned over, in her dressing gown, toward my boots, wandering in the stiflingly hot street, in front of the p芒tissier, I had thought I could never, such was the need I had to embrace her, wait for the hour I had still to spend without her. And now that this same need was reborn, I knew that I could wait for hour upon hour, that never again would she be beside me, I had made the discovery only now because I had just, on being aware of her for the first time, alive, real, swelling my heart to bursting, on meeting her again, that is, realized that I had lost her forever.
============
The moment I reached the road, what bedazzlement. There, where in August, with my grandmother, I had seen only the leaves and as it were the emplacement of the apple trees, they were in full flower for as far as the eye could see, unimaginably luxuriant, their feet in the mud but wearing their ballgowns, not taking any precautions so as not to spoil the most marvelous pink satin that you ever set eyes on, made to shine by the sunlight; the far-off horizon of the sea provided the apple trees with what was in effect a background from a Japanese print; if I raised my head to look at the sky between the flowers, which made its blue appear the more cloudless, almost violent, they seemed to draw aside so as to display the depth of that paradise. Beneath this azure, a slight but fresh breeze was causing the reddening bouquets to shiver slightly. Blue tits were coming to settle on the branches and were leaping about among the indulgent flowers, as if it were some lover of exoticism and of colors who had artificially created this living beauty. But it moved one almost to tears, because, however excessive these effects of a refined artifice, you felt that it was natural, that these apple trees were there, in the heart of the countryside, like peasants, on one of the highways of France. Then to the rays of sunlight there suddenly succeeded those of the rain; they striped the entire horizon, drawing their gray mesh tight around the line of apple trees. But these continued to raise aloft their pink, flowering beauty, in a wind now become icy beneath the shower of rain that was falling: it was a day in spring.
=====
The Seduction of the Waiter, a Proust original
=======
About halfway through this volume we return to the salon of the pretentious Madame Verdurin, a poseur who rises in society through inheritance and marriage. She is surrounded by the usual pretentious and pompous parasites that Proust enjoys exposing. Although I am glad he moved on to other scenarios well before the book ended.
========
A common thread in the four books so far is the author's crushes, his fixations, his obsessions, with a female figure. In the first two books it's Gilberte, the daughter of the Swanns. He discovers her when he and she are young children in Combray. They reunite in later years in Paris. He eventually befriends the Swanns. The other is Albertine who he encounters in Balbec. She seems less pretty and definitely not as smart or literate as Gilberte, but his obsession is still as strong. He acts possessive and jealous with the girls, which is understandably off-putting to them and to the reader, as well.
=============
In this volume we are introduced to C茅leste Albaret, who would become a very important person in Proust's life. Proust is once again staying in the Grand Hotel at a seaside resort in Balbec. Celeste and her sister, Marie Gineste, were staying next door in the hotel serving as lady's maids to an elderly guest.
Proust struck up a lively friendship with them and they'd come to visit him in his room, often while he was still in bed. They enjoyed mocking his fussiness and aristocratic pretensions, which he took with good humor. He came to regard C茅leste as a "strange genius." She was uneducated, but astute and spoke in a way that was almost literary, for example as follows addressing Proust....
鈥淥h, brow that looks so pure yet hides so many things, cool and friendly cheeks like the inside of an almond, little satin hands all plush, nails like claws, and so on. Say, Marie, look at him drinking his milk, so composedly it makes me want to say my prayers. How serious he looks! Now鈥檚 when they should do his portrait, really. He鈥檚 the complete child. Is it drinking milk like them that鈥檚 kept you their clear complexion? Oh, youth, oh, what pretty skin!"
She was a country girl who moved to Paris in 1913 when she married the taxi driver Odilon Albaret. She was far from perfect....
"C茅leste sometimes reproached her husband for not understanding her, and I was astonished, for my part, that he was able to put up with her. For there were certain moments when, quivering, furious, all-destroying, she was hateful. They claim that the saline liquid which is our blood is only what survives within us of our original element, the sea. In the same way, I believe that C茅leste, not only in her rages but also in her moments of depression, had preserved the rhythm of her native streams. When she was exhausted, it was after their fashion; she had truly run dry. Nothing then could have brought her back to life. Then, all of a sudden, the circulation would resume in her tall, slender, magnificent body. The water flowed in the opaline transparency of her bluish skin. It smiled in the sunlight and became bluer still. At such moments she was truly celestial."
Lonely and bored in Paris, at her husband's suggestion, C茅leste began to run errands for Proust, who was her husband's most regular client. Before very long she became his secretary and housekeeper. During the final decade of Proust's life, when his health declined and he became progressively more withdrawn, even while working with continuing intensity on his writing, she became his nurse and the writer鈥檚 most trusted conduit to the world beyond his reclusive, cork-lined bedroom.
C茅leste lived on to be ninety-two and kept her memories to herself for most of that period in spite of many requests for intimate details of her life with Marcel Proust. When she was 82, she finally agreed to share those memories. This became the book, Monsieur Proust...
/book/show/3...
=====
Sodom and Gomorrah is, as its title suggests, unabashedly about forbidden passions.
========
"We desire passionately that there should be another life in which we would be similar to what we are here below. But we do not reflect that, even without waiting for that other life, but in this one, after a few years we are unfaithful to what we have been, to what we had wanted to remain immortally. Even without supposing that death might modify us more than the changes that occur in the course of a lifetime, if in that other life we were to meet the self that we have been, we would turn away from ourselves as from those people to whom we have been close but whom we have not seen for a long time."
/quotes/7013...
============
鈥淚llness is the most heeded of doctors: to kindness and wisdom we make promises only; pain we obey.鈥�
鈥� Marcel Proust
===========
The return to Balbec by the sea....
As in that first year, the seas were rarely the same from one day to the next. But they scarcely resembled those of that first year, on the other hand, either because now it was spring, with its storms, or because, even if I had come on the same date as the first occasion, the different, more changeable weather might not have recommended this coast to certain indolent, vaporous, and fragile seas that I had seen on days of burning heat, sleeping on the beach, lifting their blue bosom imperceptibly with a soft palpitation, or above all because my eyes, educated by Elstir [Monet] to retain precisely those elements that I had once willfully discarded, dwelt at length on what that first year they had not known how to see. The opposition that had so struck me then, between the rustic excursions I took with Mme de Villeparisis and this fluid, inaccessible, mythological vicinity of the everlasting Ocean, no longer existed for me. On certain days, the sea itself now seemed to me, on the contrary, almost rural. On the quite rare days of truly fine weather, the heat had traced on the water, as if across the countryside, a white and dusty road, behind which there protruded, like a village steeple, the delicate tip of a fishing boat. A tugboat, of which only the funnel was visible, would be smoking in the distance like a secluded factory, while, alone on the horizon, a bellying white square, painted no doubt by a sail but which appeared compact and as if made of chalk, put you in mind of the sunlit corner of some isolated building, a hospital or a school. And the clouds and the wind, on the days when they were added to the sunshine, completed, if not the error of judgment, at least the illusion of a first glance, the suggestion it awakens in the imagination. For, on stormy days, the alternation between sharply defined areas of color, like those resulting in the countryside from the contiguity of different crops, the harsh, yellow, as if muddy irregularities of the sea鈥檚 surface, the embankments and slopes that hid from view a boat on which a crew of agile sailors seemed to be harvesting, all this made of the ocean something as varied, as consistent, as uneven, as populous, as civilized, as the land that was navigable, where I would before long be driving again.
====
THE INTERMITTENCES OF THE HEART
"The disturbances of memory are linked to the intermittences of the heart."
The return to Balbec triggers memories of his time there with his grandmother years before; a grandmother he has belatedly mourned....
On the very first night, as I was suffering from an attack of cardiac fatigue, trying to overcome the pain, I bent down slowly and cautiously to remove my boots. But hardly had I touched the first button of my ankle boot when my chest swelled, filled with an unknown, divine presence, I was shaken by sobs, tears streamed from my eyes. The person who had come to my assistance, who was rescuing me from my aridity of soul, was the one who, several years before, at an identical moment of distress and loneliness, a moment when I no longer had anything of myself, had entered, and who had restored me to myself, for it was both me and more than me (the container which is more than the content, and had brought it to me). I had just glimpsed, in my memory, bent over my fatigue, the tender, concerned, disappointed face of my grandmother, such as she had been on that first evening of our arrival; the face of my grandmother who had nothing of her but her name, but of my true grandmother, the living reality of whom, for the first time since the Champs-脡lys茅es, where she had suffered her stroke, I had rediscovered in a complete and involuntary memory.
This reality does not exist for us until such time as it has been re-created in our minds (otherwise, the men who have been involved in some titanic battle would all be great epic poets); thus, in a wild desire to hurl myself into her arms, it was only at this instant鈥� more than a year after her funeral, on account of the anachronism which so often prevents the calendar of facts from coinciding with that of our feelings鈥� that I had just learned she was dead. I had spoken of her often since that time and thought of her also, but beneath the words and thoughts of an ungrateful, selfish, and cruel young man there had never been anything that might resemble my grandmother, for, in my frivolity, my love of pleasure, and accustomed as I was to seeing her as an invalid, I contained within me the memory of what she had been only in a virtual state.
For the disturbances of memory are linked to the intermittences of the heart. It is no doubt the existence of our body, similar for us to a vase in which our spirituality is enclosed, that induces us to suppose that all our inner goods, our past joys, all our sorrows, are perpetually in our possession.
Now, since the self that I had suddenly re-become had not existed since that far-off evening when my grandmother had undressed me on my arrival in Balbec, it was, quite naturally, not after the day we were living, of which that self knew nothing, but鈥� as if there were, in time, different and parallel series鈥� without any break in continuity, immediately after that first evening in the past, that I adhered to the moment when my grandmother had leaned toward me. The self that I was then and which had vanished all that time ago, was once again so close to me that I seemed to hear still the words that had come immediately before, yet which were no more than a dream, just as a man not properly awake thinks he can perceive close beside him the sounds of his receding dream. I was nothing more than the being who had sought refuge in his grandmother鈥檚 arms, to erase the traces of her sorrows by giving her kisses, the being I would have had as great difficulty in imagining to myself.
I recalled how, an hour before the moment when my grandmother had thus leaned over, in her dressing gown, toward my boots, wandering in the stiflingly hot street, in front of the p芒tissier, I had thought I could never, such was the need I had to embrace her, wait for the hour I had still to spend without her. And now that this same need was reborn, I knew that I could wait for hour upon hour, that never again would she be beside me, I had made the discovery only now because I had just, on being aware of her for the first time, alive, real, swelling my heart to bursting, on meeting her again, that is, realized that I had lost her forever.
============
The moment I reached the road, what bedazzlement. There, where in August, with my grandmother, I had seen only the leaves and as it were the emplacement of the apple trees, they were in full flower for as far as the eye could see, unimaginably luxuriant, their feet in the mud but wearing their ballgowns, not taking any precautions so as not to spoil the most marvelous pink satin that you ever set eyes on, made to shine by the sunlight; the far-off horizon of the sea provided the apple trees with what was in effect a background from a Japanese print; if I raised my head to look at the sky between the flowers, which made its blue appear the more cloudless, almost violent, they seemed to draw aside so as to display the depth of that paradise. Beneath this azure, a slight but fresh breeze was causing the reddening bouquets to shiver slightly. Blue tits were coming to settle on the branches and were leaping about among the indulgent flowers, as if it were some lover of exoticism and of colors who had artificially created this living beauty. But it moved one almost to tears, because, however excessive these effects of a refined artifice, you felt that it was natural, that these apple trees were there, in the heart of the countryside, like peasants, on one of the highways of France. Then to the rays of sunlight there suddenly succeeded those of the rain; they striped the entire horizon, drawing their gray mesh tight around the line of apple trees. But these continued to raise aloft their pink, flowering beauty, in a wind now become icy beneath the shower of rain that was falling: it was a day in spring.
=====
The Seduction of the Waiter, a Proust original
=======
About halfway through this volume we return to the salon of the pretentious Madame Verdurin, a poseur who rises in society through inheritance and marriage. She is surrounded by the usual pretentious and pompous parasites that Proust enjoys exposing. Although I am glad he moved on to other scenarios well before the book ended.
========
A common thread in the four books so far is the author's crushes, his fixations, his obsessions, with a female figure. In the first two books it's Gilberte, the daughter of the Swanns. He discovers her when he and she are young children in Combray. They reunite in later years in Paris. He eventually befriends the Swanns. The other is Albertine who he encounters in Balbec. She seems less pretty and definitely not as smart or literate as Gilberte, but his obsession is still as strong. He acts possessive and jealous with the girls, which is understandably off-putting to them and to the reader, as well.
=============
In this volume we are introduced to C茅leste Albaret, who would become a very important person in Proust's life. Proust is once again staying in the Grand Hotel at a seaside resort in Balbec. Celeste and her sister, Marie Gineste, were staying next door in the hotel serving as lady's maids to an elderly guest.
Proust struck up a lively friendship with them and they'd come to visit him in his room, often while he was still in bed. They enjoyed mocking his fussiness and aristocratic pretensions, which he took with good humor. He came to regard C茅leste as a "strange genius." She was uneducated, but astute and spoke in a way that was almost literary, for example as follows addressing Proust....
鈥淥h, brow that looks so pure yet hides so many things, cool and friendly cheeks like the inside of an almond, little satin hands all plush, nails like claws, and so on. Say, Marie, look at him drinking his milk, so composedly it makes me want to say my prayers. How serious he looks! Now鈥檚 when they should do his portrait, really. He鈥檚 the complete child. Is it drinking milk like them that鈥檚 kept you their clear complexion? Oh, youth, oh, what pretty skin!"
She was a country girl who moved to Paris in 1913 when she married the taxi driver Odilon Albaret. She was far from perfect....
"C茅leste sometimes reproached her husband for not understanding her, and I was astonished, for my part, that he was able to put up with her. For there were certain moments when, quivering, furious, all-destroying, she was hateful. They claim that the saline liquid which is our blood is only what survives within us of our original element, the sea. In the same way, I believe that C茅leste, not only in her rages but also in her moments of depression, had preserved the rhythm of her native streams. When she was exhausted, it was after their fashion; she had truly run dry. Nothing then could have brought her back to life. Then, all of a sudden, the circulation would resume in her tall, slender, magnificent body. The water flowed in the opaline transparency of her bluish skin. It smiled in the sunlight and became bluer still. At such moments she was truly celestial."
Lonely and bored in Paris, at her husband's suggestion, C茅leste began to run errands for Proust, who was her husband's most regular client. Before very long she became his secretary and housekeeper. During the final decade of Proust's life, when his health declined and he became progressively more withdrawn, even while working with continuing intensity on his writing, she became his nurse and the writer鈥檚 most trusted conduit to the world beyond his reclusive, cork-lined bedroom.
C茅leste lived on to be ninety-two and kept her memories to herself for most of that period in spite of many requests for intimate details of her life with Marcel Proust. When she was 82, she finally agreed to share those memories. This became the book, Monsieur Proust...
/book/show/3...
=====
Sodom and Gomorrah is, as its title suggests, unabashedly about forbidden passions.
========
"We desire passionately that there should be another life in which we would be similar to what we are here below. But we do not reflect that, even without waiting for that other life, but in this one, after a few years we are unfaithful to what we have been, to what we had wanted to remain immortally. Even without supposing that death might modify us more than the changes that occur in the course of a lifetime, if in that other life we were to meet the self that we have been, we would turn away from ourselves as from those people to whom we have been close but whom we have not seen for a long time."
September 24, 2023
This book is rather like all those Letterboxd reviews where Gen-Zers judge the merits of classic movies with variations of the comment, 鈥榳ould have been better if they were all gay鈥�. Proust seems to have looked at the first three volumes of his work and concluded much the same thing. Remember her? Yeah, she's gay now. Him? Massive gay.
This is more than just a new focus on homosexuality (which for Proust is mainly seen under the old model of 鈥榠nversion鈥�); it's part of what we'd now call a general 鈥榪ueering鈥� of the entire narrative, where gender identities and the polarities of sexual attraction all dissolve into a haze of unspecific frustration and misdirected arousal. Everything, not just sex, is slipping out of kilter: the Duc de Guermantes goes from a committed nationalist to a fervent Dreyfusard, while Saint-Loup goes the other way; an excursus on toponymy shows that even behind the familiarity of place-names lurk unexpected meanings, mysterious identities. A flower is really a port and 鈥� because the -homme in Norman villages is really holm 鈥榠slet鈥� 鈥撎齟very man, as Donne suggested, really is an island. The narrator鈥檚 mother morphs into his grandmother, and in the hotel manager's pronunciation, a fish (sole) becomes a tree (saule).
Sexual desire and sexual identity are at the heart of all this 鈥� Proust's and his characters'. There's a running theory in Proustian criticism that his women are basically men in drag, and their names do make this a tempting idea: perhaps Gilberte, Albertine and Andr茅e are 鈥榬eally鈥� Gilbert, Albert and Andr茅, and Albertine's secret lesbianism is some reflection, in reality, of Proust's insecurity over his boyfriends' dalliances with women.
It sounds plausible, but the concept doesn't survive impact with the text. True, there is a comment near the end where he talks of the 鈥榠nvisible forces鈥� and 鈥榦bscure divinities鈥� which are being cultivated during a love affair, and which merely take the appearance of a woman. This could be his way of hinting that they might just as easily be men. (鈥業nverts鈥�, Proust says elsewhere, must learn 鈥榯o change the gender of many adjectives in their vocabulary鈥�.) And yet for most of the time, Odette, Albertine and the rest are much more than just stand-ins: the focus is absolutely on the femaleness of them as characters, their femininity, their clothes, their hair, their bodies. It all sets up a curious tension in the work; it's hard not to think, for instance, that 脌 l'ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs is a strange book to have written if you don't have any sexual interest in women, since that book is obsessed with them to an almost pathological degree. Proust may have been entirely gay, but his book is deeply bisexual, and that fluidity inheres not wholly in the text, but in the space between it, us as readers, and our knowledge of the author. Le d茅sir, he prompts, est parfois contagieux.
Does this really matter, and does anyone care? It does, and they do. This is the volume where Proust argues (almost too fervently) that sexual attraction is vital, is a keystone of your character. The long rhapsody on homosexuality which opens Sodome et Gomorrhe has to be one of the most extraordinary passages of its kind: he first sets out the conservative position that 鈥榳hat they call love鈥� comes 鈥榥ot from an ideal of beauty that they have chosen, but from an incurable sickness鈥�, and then takes a historical view: l'opprobre seul fait le crime. But then, having adopted this vaguely liberal stance of distasteful tolerance, he describes the underworld of gay people around Europe in impossibly romantic terms, as though they're all spies with secret identities or international men of mystery 鈥� together comprising, as he says,
Sign me up!
Now it has to be said, after this thundering opening, things do slow down a bit, as we're plunged back into the round of tedious upper-class dinner parties 鈥� this time in Balbec. But even here there is an attention to the fluidity, the mutability of things that connects his themes together. The section in the middle titled Les intermittences du c艙ur (for which perhaps 鈥榙iscontinuities of the heart鈥� is the best attempt at a translation) is especially interesting. This long passage starts as a reflection on the death of the narrator's grandmother, and then gradually turns into a sort of poetic essay on our inability to be consistent in what we feel 鈥� he's indifferent, then he's suddenly distraught; he loves Albertine, then he finds her boring; we're alive, then suddenly we're gone.
I particularly loved the description of waking up from a dream, where the narrator finds himself saying a string of nonsensical words (cerfs, cerfs, Francis Jammes, fourchette) which a moment ago made perfect sense but suddenly, as he emerges into consciousness, lose their connection with the underlying sense, and become meaningless. This particular discontinuity (between sleep and wakefulness, language and meaning) feels like a crucial metaphor for Proust's whole project.
If it's an effort to drag myself away from the intellectual ideas in here to think about the actual plot and characters, that's because they are much less compelling. 鈥極ver the furtive pleasures of the imagination continually tower those of sociability, which are so soothing, so soporific,鈥� as Proust says himself. But in this volume the narrator is especially dickish, and behaves extremely badly towards Albertine. He's infuriated with jealousy at the slightest thing she does, but happy to get off with at least a dozen of her friends when she's not around. Indeed it's becoming clear that jealousy and guilt are an indivisible part of the 鈥榣ove鈥� he thinks he feels towards her. He describes this heated听state very well; but we are on her side, and basically want her to dump him and go find a nice girl to get off with.
Proust's sense of metaphor is as acute as ever, as is his overwriting. A drop of sweat falling from a farm labourer's brow makes him think of ripe fruit falling from a tree, and he can pursue a thought like this until it feel really profound; but he can also overexplain what should be a simple joke (like one character's confusion between the name Cambremer and the cheese Camembert) until he kills it dead. This is nevertheless the funniest volume of the Recherche so far, from the delicious social comedy to the scene where Dr Cottard, watching Albertine and Andr茅e dancing, says with confidently bad biology, 鈥楴ot enough people know that women mainly reach climax through their breasts, and theirs are touching completely.鈥�
Perhaps this is one reason why this has been my favourite Proust so far 鈥� a dreamy swirl of hidden sexual impulses, social sparring and snatches of conversation, which all serves, as Proust says in a different context, to 鈥榓dd perversity to pleasure鈥�.
This is more than just a new focus on homosexuality (which for Proust is mainly seen under the old model of 鈥榠nversion鈥�); it's part of what we'd now call a general 鈥榪ueering鈥� of the entire narrative, where gender identities and the polarities of sexual attraction all dissolve into a haze of unspecific frustration and misdirected arousal. Everything, not just sex, is slipping out of kilter: the Duc de Guermantes goes from a committed nationalist to a fervent Dreyfusard, while Saint-Loup goes the other way; an excursus on toponymy shows that even behind the familiarity of place-names lurk unexpected meanings, mysterious identities. A flower is really a port and 鈥� because the -homme in Norman villages is really holm 鈥榠slet鈥� 鈥撎齟very man, as Donne suggested, really is an island. The narrator鈥檚 mother morphs into his grandmother, and in the hotel manager's pronunciation, a fish (sole) becomes a tree (saule).
Sexual desire and sexual identity are at the heart of all this 鈥� Proust's and his characters'. There's a running theory in Proustian criticism that his women are basically men in drag, and their names do make this a tempting idea: perhaps Gilberte, Albertine and Andr茅e are 鈥榬eally鈥� Gilbert, Albert and Andr茅, and Albertine's secret lesbianism is some reflection, in reality, of Proust's insecurity over his boyfriends' dalliances with women.
It sounds plausible, but the concept doesn't survive impact with the text. True, there is a comment near the end where he talks of the 鈥榠nvisible forces鈥� and 鈥榦bscure divinities鈥� which are being cultivated during a love affair, and which merely take the appearance of a woman. This could be his way of hinting that they might just as easily be men. (鈥業nverts鈥�, Proust says elsewhere, must learn 鈥榯o change the gender of many adjectives in their vocabulary鈥�.) And yet for most of the time, Odette, Albertine and the rest are much more than just stand-ins: the focus is absolutely on the femaleness of them as characters, their femininity, their clothes, their hair, their bodies. It all sets up a curious tension in the work; it's hard not to think, for instance, that 脌 l'ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs is a strange book to have written if you don't have any sexual interest in women, since that book is obsessed with them to an almost pathological degree. Proust may have been entirely gay, but his book is deeply bisexual, and that fluidity inheres not wholly in the text, but in the space between it, us as readers, and our knowledge of the author. Le d茅sir, he prompts, est parfois contagieux.
Does this really matter, and does anyone care? It does, and they do. This is the volume where Proust argues (almost too fervently) that sexual attraction is vital, is a keystone of your character. The long rhapsody on homosexuality which opens Sodome et Gomorrhe has to be one of the most extraordinary passages of its kind: he first sets out the conservative position that 鈥榳hat they call love鈥� comes 鈥榥ot from an ideal of beauty that they have chosen, but from an incurable sickness鈥�, and then takes a historical view: l'opprobre seul fait le crime. But then, having adopted this vaguely liberal stance of distasteful tolerance, he describes the underworld of gay people around Europe in impossibly romantic terms, as though they're all spies with secret identities or international men of mystery 鈥� together comprising, as he says,
une franc-ma莽onnerie bien plus 茅tendue, plus efficace et moins soup莽onn茅e que celle des loges, car elle repose sur une identit茅 de go没ts, de besoins, d'habitudes, de dangers, d'apprentissage, de savoir, de trafic, de glossaire [鈥 dans cette vie romanesque, anachronique, l'ambassadeur est ami du for莽at, le prince [鈥 s'en va conf茅rer avec l'apache. [鈥 Certes ils forment dans tous les pays une colonie orientale, cultiv茅e, musicienne, m茅disante, qui a des qualit茅s charmantes et d'insupportables d茅fauts.
a Freemasonry even more widely dispersed, more efficient and less under suspicion than that of the Lodges, for it relies on an identity of tastes, needs, habits, dangers, apprenticeships, knowledge, traffic, jargon. In this quixotic and anachronistic life, the ambassador is friends with the convict, the prince confers with the outlaw. There's no doubt that in every country they form an oriental colony 鈥� cultivated, musical, bitchy 鈥� which has its charming qualities as well as its insupportable flaws.
Sign me up!
Now it has to be said, after this thundering opening, things do slow down a bit, as we're plunged back into the round of tedious upper-class dinner parties 鈥� this time in Balbec. But even here there is an attention to the fluidity, the mutability of things that connects his themes together. The section in the middle titled Les intermittences du c艙ur (for which perhaps 鈥榙iscontinuities of the heart鈥� is the best attempt at a translation) is especially interesting. This long passage starts as a reflection on the death of the narrator's grandmother, and then gradually turns into a sort of poetic essay on our inability to be consistent in what we feel 鈥� he's indifferent, then he's suddenly distraught; he loves Albertine, then he finds her boring; we're alive, then suddenly we're gone.
I particularly loved the description of waking up from a dream, where the narrator finds himself saying a string of nonsensical words (cerfs, cerfs, Francis Jammes, fourchette) which a moment ago made perfect sense but suddenly, as he emerges into consciousness, lose their connection with the underlying sense, and become meaningless. This particular discontinuity (between sleep and wakefulness, language and meaning) feels like a crucial metaphor for Proust's whole project.
If it's an effort to drag myself away from the intellectual ideas in here to think about the actual plot and characters, that's because they are much less compelling. 鈥極ver the furtive pleasures of the imagination continually tower those of sociability, which are so soothing, so soporific,鈥� as Proust says himself. But in this volume the narrator is especially dickish, and behaves extremely badly towards Albertine. He's infuriated with jealousy at the slightest thing she does, but happy to get off with at least a dozen of her friends when she's not around. Indeed it's becoming clear that jealousy and guilt are an indivisible part of the 鈥榣ove鈥� he thinks he feels towards her. He describes this heated听state very well; but we are on her side, and basically want her to dump him and go find a nice girl to get off with.
Proust's sense of metaphor is as acute as ever, as is his overwriting. A drop of sweat falling from a farm labourer's brow makes him think of ripe fruit falling from a tree, and he can pursue a thought like this until it feel really profound; but he can also overexplain what should be a simple joke (like one character's confusion between the name Cambremer and the cheese Camembert) until he kills it dead. This is nevertheless the funniest volume of the Recherche so far, from the delicious social comedy to the scene where Dr Cottard, watching Albertine and Andr茅e dancing, says with confidently bad biology, 鈥楴ot enough people know that women mainly reach climax through their breasts, and theirs are touching completely.鈥�
Perhaps this is one reason why this has been my favourite Proust so far 鈥� a dreamy swirl of hidden sexual impulses, social sparring and snatches of conversation, which all serves, as Proust says in a different context, to 鈥榓dd perversity to pleasure鈥�.
June 7, 2016
As our vision is a deceiving sense, a human body, even when it is loved as Albertine鈥檚 was, seems to us to be a few yards鈥� at a few inches鈥� distance from us. And similarly with the soul that inhabits it.
A good case can be made that these books should be read one after the other, so as not to lose the narrative thread or to forget the many characters involved. But I am finding that an equally good case can be made for spacing them out. Memory is crucial to this novel; the remembrance of things past, the search for lost time. The length of the series itself makes the passing of time almost palpable; and likewise, all of Proust's sentences are microcosms of the novel as a whole, each one stretching across the page, forcing you to hold the beginning in mind as you slowly make your way to the end. It is arguably this experience itself, feeling your mind being pulled both forward and back across time, that is the essence of Proust鈥檚 style.
This time around, the experience of time took on an additional aspect for me. Over and over during this volume I had flashbacks of my time in Manhattan, where I read the first three volumes. I remembered the chilling December days, the brooding, cloudy sky over the Hudson, the aftertaste of vinegar in my mouth as I walked along the High Line during my lunch breaks, the banging sounds of construction work and the wailing of fire truck sirens, the visceral boredom of work, the geometrical beauty of the New York skyline, the way the sun glistened off the glass fa莽ades of the skyscrapers. Here in Madrid, as I walked to work in the pre-dawn darkness, with the tall office buildings towering over me, the past and present were woven together by the continued narrative of this novel.
I haven鈥檛 yet read Harold Bloom, but I am somewhat familiar with his idea of the 鈥榓nxiety of influence鈥�. Well, I think I have this anxiety with respect to Proust. In my writing and my thinking, I have been so strongly influenced by him that it鈥檚 hard for me to see his novel clearly or evaluate it fairly. And I think this acknowledgement of my debt to him sometimes turns into resentment. I feel as though I have to find his weaknesses, what he left out, what he did wrong, to justify myself. In short, when I criticize him I suspect my own motives.
But I can鈥檛 help thinking that Proust does have serious weaknesses as a writer. First he has several bad habits鈥攊n English translation, at least鈥攖hat rubbed off on me, and from which I am still trying to rid myself. Most superficially, one of these habits is his tendency to use the royal 鈥榳e鈥� in his general pronouncements (see the opening quote for an example of this). He also tends to say how people 鈥渨ould鈥� behave and how things 鈥渨ould鈥� happen, instead of keeping to the simple past and describing how things did happen.
Of course I鈥檓 not saying that his prose isn鈥檛 superbly beautiful; very often, it is. Even so, the endless barrage of lengthy sentences and the monotonous tone鈥攁nd say what you will, he is not a versatile writer鈥攃an really wear you out. Sometime鈥檚 he鈥檚 just plain frustrating. Proust can spill gallons of ink and take up twenty pages just to make you understand that Character X is sexually involved with Character Y, or that Character Z is a bit of a bore.
Another thing that really grates on me is the subject matter. People accuse Jane Austen of being pinched and narrow in her focus; but Austen is a Tolstoy compared to Proust. Soir茅e after soir茅e after soir茅e; all of these snobbish, strange, and unsympathetic aristocrats. Granted, this novel is certainly a fascinating historical document, being a sort of ethnography of a moribund form of European society (although Proust is a much worse ethnographer than Austen). But very often I cannot feel bad about the disappearance of this way of life. That these supposedly cultured people could get so absorbed in such trifles; that four volumes could go by without the narrator so much as contemplating getting a job; that the same tired references to Moli猫re, Racine, Hugo, Balzac, Debussy, and Chopin keep getting recycled over and over; that in the land of the French Revolution the most politically controversial thing is the Dreyfus affair鈥攊t鈥檚 maddening, really. Everything is just so disconnected from life as I know it that it鈥檚 hard to find parallels or even analogs with my experience.
Philosophically, my main objection to Proust鈥檚 method is his ruthless Cartesianism. By this I mean his tendency to see human action through a hyper subjective lense; to see the mind as its own place, disconnected from the world around it, and people as inhabiting their own mental worlds. John Donne said:
No man is an island,
Entire of himself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
But Proust is enamored of the opposite idea, that people are islands. For him, all communication is in fact just miscommunication. He makes much ado about how one person misinterprets something said by another; he spends pages on the agonies that his narrator goes through as he puzzles over a chance remark or a small gesture. Often Proust can be a philosophical one-trick pony. Here is his trick: The narrator misinterprets something, acts accordingly, and then collides with the external reality; then he retreats back into himself to come up with another interpretation. Proust occupies this space, the space between perception and reality, and probes it so insistently that you question whether perception can ever be accurate.
Two or three times it occurred to me, for a moment, that the world in which this room and these bookshelves were situated and in which Albertine counted for so little, was perhaps an intellectual world, which was the sole reality, and my grief something like what feel when we read a novel, of thing of which only a madman would make a lasting and permanent grief that prolonged itself through his life; that a tiny movement of my will would suffice, perhaps, to attain to that real world, to re-enter it, passing through my grief, as one breaks through a paper hoop, and to think no more about what Albertine had done than about the actions of the imaginary heroine of a novel after we have finished reading it.
Well there鈥檚 no denying that Proust often brings up good points in this regard. Nevertheless, I think this Cartesianism limited him, both as a thinker and as a novelist. With connection to Proust, I often think of something a sociology professor said to me. The subject was intimate relations; he said:
There are many methods, using personality tests and demographics, of determining whether two people are likely to have a good relationship. But there is this extra quality, what some people call 鈥榗hemistry鈥欌€攖he unexpected ways that two people鈥檚 personalities interact with one another. Some people have good chemistry, some people have bad chemistry. There鈥檚 no way to tell beforehand what will happen when two people start talking.
Now I鈥檓 neither a psychologist nor a sociologist, and I don鈥檛 know whether there is any evidence for that view. But it certainly seems true to my experience. And for me, some of the most talented novelists are so wonderful partially because they can capture this phenomenon of chemistry. Consider two great writers I mentioned above, Tolstoy and Austen. Both of them, so different in many ways, are similar in their ability to describe how people change in the presence of other people; how one character brings out snobbishness in the protagonist, another coquettishness, and a third joviality.
In both fiction and in life, I love to see how personalities interact. Why? Because it is this experience that makes me most strongly feel that I am not an island; that I am part of the world of everyone around me, and they are a part of mine. And it is this that I most sorely miss from Proust鈥檚 perspective, because to portray this you need to give up the idea that you are just a mind, and embrace the idea that you are a social creature, with as many 鈥榮elves鈥� as social worlds you inhabit.
Whew, that felt good. I needed to get all that off my chest. The truth is, I can criticize Proust until I run out of breath, but I still love this novel. And this volume is, I think, one of the stronger ones. For a long time I had been hoping that he鈥檇 do more with the Baron de Charlus, and in this volume he does just that. The introduction of homosexuality into the novel added a badly needed touch of spice. And believe it or not, a real story is starting to take shape; this volume even ends on a cliffhanger!
I will allow more time to pass before moving on to the next volume. I definitely need a break from Proust, if only to push away his influence once again and regain my own voice. Until then, I will dwell on my memories.
May 30, 2010
I finished Sodom and Gomorrah over a week ago, and since then I've been mulling over whether to write a proper "review" of it or not. It was the most amorphous of any of the volumes yet, and thus it is slightly more difficult to speak about, or really wrap my thoughts around. Also, at this point, considering any of the volumes of A la recherche... to be distinct entities starts to become a bit silly. Certainly, Swann's Way, up through the "novel within the novel" Swann in Love (volume one), could be considered, if read only on their own, without venturing any deeper into the novel, as distinct chunks of prose, seemingly existing without necessary reference to the rest. But once you step forward, beginning with "Place-Names, The Name" at the end of volume one, there really is no separation to the story; the further you read, the more you realize how significant and interwoven all those earlier, almost slight incidents of the first few volumes have become, and one is resigned, albeit a blissful resignation, to 4,000 pages of Proust. One is then tempted to keep their mouth shut until the whole of In Search of Lost Time is read and digested, and give the novel its proper treatment, that of a single, though immense, narrative. But Proust himself created the divisions within the novel, gave them their titles, and undoubtedly wanted the reader to consider them distinctly, but volume four especially felt like a link in the chain that was quite dependent on what came before and what follows, that is to say it felt transitional, and indeed transformational, because I am sure that after the revelation that closes Sodom and Gomorrah (one that sent me rushing to start volume 5), Marcel will never be the same. To name it would be to spoil too much for the casual reader of these thoughts; it would be a disservice to someone going into the novel to reveal too much, as Proust's revelations are best discovered in his own particular oceanic depths and rhythms. So I will speak generally of a few things that struck me in volume four:
1.
By the end of Sodom and Gomorrah the structure of In Search of Lost Time really begins to bare its teeth. Events from the earlier volumes begin to resurface, repeat, gain in significance (the butterfly beating its wings that causes a hurricane on the other side of the Earth), and the attentive reader stands in awe of the power of Proust the novelist, and it is further impressed upon one that to do justice to the experience of reading A la recherche du temps perdu , it is best to read these volumes back to back; a great separation in time between them would only cause one to lose the thread, to break that stream of consciousness that is ever flowing backwards, retrieving treasures and casting them forward again through the years. As in life itself, events from the distant past do not lose their force, they are only submerged in the glacial flow of what follows, and when one reflects, it is perhaps the minor incidents, those barely considered at the moment they are experienced, that vibrate subtly in the body of the instrument and are retained in a lingering overtone, almost too quiet for our ears to capture, but that later shakes us to the core nonetheless, in that sort of strangely preserving bodily memory which is almost out of the reach of conscious attempts at recollection.
2.
One of the great achievements of Proust the artist is his portrayal of the contradictions and variety of character within a single person. In Sodom and Gomorrah it is M. de Charlus who is the prime example of this, but it is ubiquitous in the people who populate Proust's world. No one is who they are on the surface, and if they are presenting themselves in a certain way you can be sure that they are hiding either opposite inclinations, or gross deficiencies, or if they boast of talent or knowledge they are covering for what they are actually inept at or ignorant of, or if they are generous or kindly it is from some socially trained gesture and they are sure to later spit venom at the former subject of their pleasantries, or if they are overtly cruel at one moment they will show themselves later to be capable of indulgent tenderness. In other words, what Proust understands and sets down so perfectly is the infinite complexity of the human personality, the multitude of motives behind our social, and even personal interactions, or, to use Shelley's words, that "Nought may endure but Mutability". This is extended even to the physiognomic descriptions of characters such as Albertine and Mme. de Guermantes, who are seen by Marcel as revealing such differing features at different instances that they are sometimes unrecognizable to him. This is one of the great themes of the novel, the subjectivity of perception.
3.
The need for possession is seldom triggered by love, and most often triggered by jealousy. This especially is the case for Marcel, who shows frankly psychotic jealous tendencies. I mean, we are supposed to know that this young man has a sometimes debilitating nervous disorder, and physical ailments such as asthma that often restrict his activity (and allow him long bed-bound hours of introverted contemplation), but his jealousy over Albertine (which, I can say, is a hundred times more pronounced so far in volume five), is unsettling. It is not only his relationship with Albertine that is seemingly ignited by jealousy alone, but also in the case of Charlus and Morel, and in perhaps all of the social gatherings, it is a need for possession (or in the social case, domination), provoked by a kind of covetous resentfulness, that motivates these people. And while Marcel is superior to them (because of his brilliant artistic aptitude, true talent for observation, "the painterly-poetic eye") he still suffers from the same malady. More on this later.
4.
In Search of Lost Time, while always tinged with melancholy (and I fear, tragedy), is essentially comedic. The drawing rooms of the upper-echelon resound with sardonic, parodic laughter. Marcel is making fun of these people, amplifying their defects, mocking their arbitrary tastes, making use of the one tool that always subverts and destroys a power structure: laughter.
5.
The Verdurins return in volume four, seeking Marcel out to show off how artistic and "forward" their salon is, and thank god for this. They are hilariously cruel, utterly contemptuous of anyone outside their "little clan", on the whole not very bright, but entertaining as hell. The train rides along the Norman coast with Brichot's etymological digressions on French place-names are some of the highlights of this volume. Marcel's return to Balbec is quite different from his first sojourn to the shore. Now he is a connected, sought after man of society. The staff of the Grand Hotel go out of their way to accommodate him, he has inherited a large fortune and can therefore spoil Albertine with trips in a motor car (as he points out, still quite rare in those days) and fine clothes and dinners, but he is pursued, emotionally, by recent events which cloud his disposition, including his grandmother's death, the full grief of which is provoked only on his return to Balbec by an onslaught of m茅moire involontaire similar to the famous "incident of the madelaine" that plunged him into the original depths of remembrance of Combray in Swann's Way. The exorcising of this grief is detailed in the strongest section of volume four, entitled "The Intermittencies of the Heart", a powerful exposition on dealing with the death of a loved one. His grief is assuaged in one of those miracle landscape descriptions that Proust so excels at:
"Where I had seen with my grandmother in the month of August only green leaves and, so to speak, the disposition of the apple-trees, as far as the eye could reach they were in full bloom, unbelievably luxurious, their feet in the mire beneath their ball-dresses, heedless of spoiling the most marvellous pink satin that was ever seen, which glittered in the sunlight; the distant horizon of the sea gave the trees the background of a Japanese print; if I raised my head to gaze at the sky through the flowers, which made its serene blue appear almost violent, they seemed to draw apart to reveal the immensity of their paradise. Beneath the azure a faint but cold breeze set the blushing bouquets gently trembling. Blue-tits came and perched upon the branches and fluttered among the indulgent flowers, as though it had been an amateur of exotic art and colours who had artificially created this living beauty. But it moved one to tears because, to whatever lengths it went in its effects of refined artifice, one felt that it was natural, that these apple-trees were there in the heart of the country, like peasants on one of the high roads of France. Then the rays of the sun gave place suddenly to those of the rain; they streaked the whole horizon, enclosing the line of apple-trees in their grey net. But these continued to hold aloft their pink and blossoming beauty, in the wind that had turned icy beneath the drenching rain: it was a spring day."
6.
There is a deep loneliness at the heart of In Search of Lost Time. This has its roots in Marcel's keen awareness of the aforementioned subjectivity of perception (thus our inability to truly know another person), the unreliability of memory, the fact that only our past experiences shape the human being we become, that we are subject and slave to what we retain of their lessons, and yet these experiences are held in a faulty vessel. In the final summation, one is deceived as much by one's perception of one's self as that of the outside world, and though we would like to believe that the choices we make are generated from the intellect, it is indeed emotions, things stirring in the vague realms of consciousness, the invisible influences of our personal history that dictate our fates, things so often hidden or alien to our daily lives that it is almost as if our choices were made by another. That is what lies behind the ridiculous, fateful choice Marcel is brought to in the closing lines of Sodom and Gomorrah- the reverberations of the past, specifically that kiss- the maternal kiss, the one that initiated this whole novel, that kiss (the one forced into being by a slight of hand, by a deception), whose tenderness was so enhanced by being deprived of it; that comforting, calming kiss from mother that reassured a sickly, nervous child that he was loved and protected, and perhaps most of all, that he was possessed by someone, and that he in turn could possess her; that kiss that at once liberates and imprisons, calms and destroys. Marcel, I'm worried for you. You are not heeding the lessons of Swann in Love (oh so many thousands of pages ago!), in fact, you are recreating Swann's sorrows in your own life. What is that great Bob Dylan line, "You can always come back, but you can't come back all the way"? I see dark days ahead for you, Marcel.
1.
By the end of Sodom and Gomorrah the structure of In Search of Lost Time really begins to bare its teeth. Events from the earlier volumes begin to resurface, repeat, gain in significance (the butterfly beating its wings that causes a hurricane on the other side of the Earth), and the attentive reader stands in awe of the power of Proust the novelist, and it is further impressed upon one that to do justice to the experience of reading A la recherche du temps perdu , it is best to read these volumes back to back; a great separation in time between them would only cause one to lose the thread, to break that stream of consciousness that is ever flowing backwards, retrieving treasures and casting them forward again through the years. As in life itself, events from the distant past do not lose their force, they are only submerged in the glacial flow of what follows, and when one reflects, it is perhaps the minor incidents, those barely considered at the moment they are experienced, that vibrate subtly in the body of the instrument and are retained in a lingering overtone, almost too quiet for our ears to capture, but that later shakes us to the core nonetheless, in that sort of strangely preserving bodily memory which is almost out of the reach of conscious attempts at recollection.
2.
One of the great achievements of Proust the artist is his portrayal of the contradictions and variety of character within a single person. In Sodom and Gomorrah it is M. de Charlus who is the prime example of this, but it is ubiquitous in the people who populate Proust's world. No one is who they are on the surface, and if they are presenting themselves in a certain way you can be sure that they are hiding either opposite inclinations, or gross deficiencies, or if they boast of talent or knowledge they are covering for what they are actually inept at or ignorant of, or if they are generous or kindly it is from some socially trained gesture and they are sure to later spit venom at the former subject of their pleasantries, or if they are overtly cruel at one moment they will show themselves later to be capable of indulgent tenderness. In other words, what Proust understands and sets down so perfectly is the infinite complexity of the human personality, the multitude of motives behind our social, and even personal interactions, or, to use Shelley's words, that "Nought may endure but Mutability". This is extended even to the physiognomic descriptions of characters such as Albertine and Mme. de Guermantes, who are seen by Marcel as revealing such differing features at different instances that they are sometimes unrecognizable to him. This is one of the great themes of the novel, the subjectivity of perception.
3.
The need for possession is seldom triggered by love, and most often triggered by jealousy. This especially is the case for Marcel, who shows frankly psychotic jealous tendencies. I mean, we are supposed to know that this young man has a sometimes debilitating nervous disorder, and physical ailments such as asthma that often restrict his activity (and allow him long bed-bound hours of introverted contemplation), but his jealousy over Albertine (which, I can say, is a hundred times more pronounced so far in volume five), is unsettling. It is not only his relationship with Albertine that is seemingly ignited by jealousy alone, but also in the case of Charlus and Morel, and in perhaps all of the social gatherings, it is a need for possession (or in the social case, domination), provoked by a kind of covetous resentfulness, that motivates these people. And while Marcel is superior to them (because of his brilliant artistic aptitude, true talent for observation, "the painterly-poetic eye") he still suffers from the same malady. More on this later.
4.
In Search of Lost Time, while always tinged with melancholy (and I fear, tragedy), is essentially comedic. The drawing rooms of the upper-echelon resound with sardonic, parodic laughter. Marcel is making fun of these people, amplifying their defects, mocking their arbitrary tastes, making use of the one tool that always subverts and destroys a power structure: laughter.
5.
The Verdurins return in volume four, seeking Marcel out to show off how artistic and "forward" their salon is, and thank god for this. They are hilariously cruel, utterly contemptuous of anyone outside their "little clan", on the whole not very bright, but entertaining as hell. The train rides along the Norman coast with Brichot's etymological digressions on French place-names are some of the highlights of this volume. Marcel's return to Balbec is quite different from his first sojourn to the shore. Now he is a connected, sought after man of society. The staff of the Grand Hotel go out of their way to accommodate him, he has inherited a large fortune and can therefore spoil Albertine with trips in a motor car (as he points out, still quite rare in those days) and fine clothes and dinners, but he is pursued, emotionally, by recent events which cloud his disposition, including his grandmother's death, the full grief of which is provoked only on his return to Balbec by an onslaught of m茅moire involontaire similar to the famous "incident of the madelaine" that plunged him into the original depths of remembrance of Combray in Swann's Way. The exorcising of this grief is detailed in the strongest section of volume four, entitled "The Intermittencies of the Heart", a powerful exposition on dealing with the death of a loved one. His grief is assuaged in one of those miracle landscape descriptions that Proust so excels at:
"Where I had seen with my grandmother in the month of August only green leaves and, so to speak, the disposition of the apple-trees, as far as the eye could reach they were in full bloom, unbelievably luxurious, their feet in the mire beneath their ball-dresses, heedless of spoiling the most marvellous pink satin that was ever seen, which glittered in the sunlight; the distant horizon of the sea gave the trees the background of a Japanese print; if I raised my head to gaze at the sky through the flowers, which made its serene blue appear almost violent, they seemed to draw apart to reveal the immensity of their paradise. Beneath the azure a faint but cold breeze set the blushing bouquets gently trembling. Blue-tits came and perched upon the branches and fluttered among the indulgent flowers, as though it had been an amateur of exotic art and colours who had artificially created this living beauty. But it moved one to tears because, to whatever lengths it went in its effects of refined artifice, one felt that it was natural, that these apple-trees were there in the heart of the country, like peasants on one of the high roads of France. Then the rays of the sun gave place suddenly to those of the rain; they streaked the whole horizon, enclosing the line of apple-trees in their grey net. But these continued to hold aloft their pink and blossoming beauty, in the wind that had turned icy beneath the drenching rain: it was a spring day."
6.
There is a deep loneliness at the heart of In Search of Lost Time. This has its roots in Marcel's keen awareness of the aforementioned subjectivity of perception (thus our inability to truly know another person), the unreliability of memory, the fact that only our past experiences shape the human being we become, that we are subject and slave to what we retain of their lessons, and yet these experiences are held in a faulty vessel. In the final summation, one is deceived as much by one's perception of one's self as that of the outside world, and though we would like to believe that the choices we make are generated from the intellect, it is indeed emotions, things stirring in the vague realms of consciousness, the invisible influences of our personal history that dictate our fates, things so often hidden or alien to our daily lives that it is almost as if our choices were made by another. That is what lies behind the ridiculous, fateful choice Marcel is brought to in the closing lines of Sodom and Gomorrah- the reverberations of the past, specifically that kiss- the maternal kiss, the one that initiated this whole novel, that kiss (the one forced into being by a slight of hand, by a deception), whose tenderness was so enhanced by being deprived of it; that comforting, calming kiss from mother that reassured a sickly, nervous child that he was loved and protected, and perhaps most of all, that he was possessed by someone, and that he in turn could possess her; that kiss that at once liberates and imprisons, calms and destroys. Marcel, I'm worried for you. You are not heeding the lessons of Swann in Love (oh so many thousands of pages ago!), in fact, you are recreating Swann's sorrows in your own life. What is that great Bob Dylan line, "You can always come back, but you can't come back all the way"? I see dark days ahead for you, Marcel.
September 4, 2013
As Sodom and Gomorrah began, our Narrator was struggling to understand the nature of homosexuals while I was alternating between reading his early-twentieth-century musings and poring over sweetly triumphant images of same-sex couples rushing to "legitimize" their long-running relationships with celebratory midnight marriages. As the strange continent of "inverts" draws horticultural allusions and comparisons to covert societies in Proust's time, the LGBTQ community is finally being recognized in a way that signals the slow unravelling of ignorance and inequality in mine.
For the first three volumes, it was easy to lose any sense of cultural or chronological divide when faced with so many universal constants of humanity that all but waltzed off their pages and pages of lyrical metaphors; in S&G, we have a Narrator who recalls how the first time he saw an airplane overhead filled him with childlike wonder and lives in a time when it is apparently totally normal for a man to pick out his female companion's evening attire, which are but a few examples that, like unchecked homophobia, for the first time in my journey with Proust heralded a struggle to bridge the gap between when these volumes were written and when I'm reading them, bringing into stark reality just how much separates modernism from modern times, regardless of how well the common ground of so many other shared human experiences minimized the inevitable differences in eras and epochs. I finally felt the full extent of the distance -- literal and figurative, in time and physical distance, of the real and fictionally polished -- between the richly depicted, intricately crafted images Proust used to construct his Narrator's winding halls of memory and the world to which I belong. It was a jarring transition, for sure, but it was also a rather well-timed one: As the Narrator become increasingly aware of adult life's complicated emotions stirring inside and the societal politics constantly changing around him (not to mention the slow encroachment of technology, which does cast a shroud of smoky modernization on a world previously draped in pristine laces and cloud-soft velvets), I, too, got a taste of that irrevocable shift from a reasonably expected understanding to desperate reconsideration of an ever-shifting world.
This installment, sadly, is one I read in staccato bursts of precious free time. It is unfortunate because Proust is best savored like good wine rather than chugged like cheap beer, and I fear I spent more time drunk on his beautiful words than intoxicated by his narrative insight. In those exhausted but relieved hours at home, in those stolen wedges of at-work bookwormery, in whatever few minutes were spent in quiet solitude, I clung to Proust with the desperation of a booklover in the throes of both work-related burnout and the dreaded reader's slump. And while a frantic heart may not be the best way to approach words that are ideally enjoyed at a leisurely stroll, I do believe the Narrator's burgeoning sense of humor and need to slowly drink in his surroundings kept me grounded during chaotic times. While S&G may not have been my favorite installment, it is the one that affected me the deepest.
Among the revolving door of social obligations and self-indulgent observations that seem to occupy the majority of Fictional Marcel's abundant free time, I found myself most invested in his delayed reaction to his grandmother's death. Having never known the magnitude of a transgenerational love like that which Narrator shared with his maternal grandmother, I felt his palpable grief just as keenly as the slow-arriving but no less heartrending clarity of permanent absence that hit him upon revisiting a place that once played such an important role in demonstrating the fondness and compassion that can exist between a grandmother and her grandson. As the Narrator contemplates how different Balbec is without his beloved grandmother, as he muses on how much his own once-young mother has taken on the visage of her own mother now that the elder woman's death has left a role unfulfilled, as he retraces rooms that once were filled with his grandmother's presence, the concrete reality of past time being truly lost time came thundering down against a mostly familiar landscape that derives most of its changes from the players inhabiting it. It is odd that the grief is intense but short-lived, yes, but I couldn't help but write it off as the Narrator's decision to forge ahead with his life rather than mawkishly wallow in grief -- such are the intermittences of the heart, no?
I continue to find the romantic entanglements of these characters to be a high-school level of ridiculous. It seems like so few of the relationships presented thus far in ISOLT -- Swann and Odette; the Narrator and Gilberte (and also Albertine); Saint-Loup and Rachel -- are healthy, mutually affectionate ones, but it could also be that I have little patience for romances, even fictional ones, that are built on a foundation of obsession and possession rather than respect and genuine fondness. And, really, the affair between Morel and Charlus isn't anything laudable, I know, but I can't help but find it one of the most believable examples of heady lust in terms of its execution and its players' emotionally fueled behaviors. There is little else but pure attraction drawing Charlus helplessly toward Morel, who can't help but take advantage of (or be manipulated by, depending on your vantage point) the older gentleman's affections and gifts. Still, the greed with which Charlus tries to keep Morel to himself while all but undressing him in public, the satisfaction he derives just from coaxing the younger musician into his presence is鈥�. okay, a bit much, yes, but also keenly evocative of an irrationally all-consuming, unrealistically intense first crush and the reluctant empathy of understanding such memories drag along in their wake.
Sodom and Gomorrah struck me as proof that the memories of our past can't help but be intertwined with memories of others, a reminder that there are always multiple perspectives at play -- and that, as the ending scenes with Bloch reinforce, not everyone's assessment of a situation will always be reliable or anything more than actions born of misunderstanding a sticky situation that was handled badly because there are no do-over options in real life and things only make sense when hindsight lays down the rest of the puzzle. ISOLT might be fictional, sure, but it is written as an account of life, and sometimes learning life's lessons means that truths can be as ugly as our lesser selves.
For the first three volumes, it was easy to lose any sense of cultural or chronological divide when faced with so many universal constants of humanity that all but waltzed off their pages and pages of lyrical metaphors; in S&G, we have a Narrator who recalls how the first time he saw an airplane overhead filled him with childlike wonder and lives in a time when it is apparently totally normal for a man to pick out his female companion's evening attire, which are but a few examples that, like unchecked homophobia, for the first time in my journey with Proust heralded a struggle to bridge the gap between when these volumes were written and when I'm reading them, bringing into stark reality just how much separates modernism from modern times, regardless of how well the common ground of so many other shared human experiences minimized the inevitable differences in eras and epochs. I finally felt the full extent of the distance -- literal and figurative, in time and physical distance, of the real and fictionally polished -- between the richly depicted, intricately crafted images Proust used to construct his Narrator's winding halls of memory and the world to which I belong. It was a jarring transition, for sure, but it was also a rather well-timed one: As the Narrator become increasingly aware of adult life's complicated emotions stirring inside and the societal politics constantly changing around him (not to mention the slow encroachment of technology, which does cast a shroud of smoky modernization on a world previously draped in pristine laces and cloud-soft velvets), I, too, got a taste of that irrevocable shift from a reasonably expected understanding to desperate reconsideration of an ever-shifting world.
This installment, sadly, is one I read in staccato bursts of precious free time. It is unfortunate because Proust is best savored like good wine rather than chugged like cheap beer, and I fear I spent more time drunk on his beautiful words than intoxicated by his narrative insight. In those exhausted but relieved hours at home, in those stolen wedges of at-work bookwormery, in whatever few minutes were spent in quiet solitude, I clung to Proust with the desperation of a booklover in the throes of both work-related burnout and the dreaded reader's slump. And while a frantic heart may not be the best way to approach words that are ideally enjoyed at a leisurely stroll, I do believe the Narrator's burgeoning sense of humor and need to slowly drink in his surroundings kept me grounded during chaotic times. While S&G may not have been my favorite installment, it is the one that affected me the deepest.
Among the revolving door of social obligations and self-indulgent observations that seem to occupy the majority of Fictional Marcel's abundant free time, I found myself most invested in his delayed reaction to his grandmother's death. Having never known the magnitude of a transgenerational love like that which Narrator shared with his maternal grandmother, I felt his palpable grief just as keenly as the slow-arriving but no less heartrending clarity of permanent absence that hit him upon revisiting a place that once played such an important role in demonstrating the fondness and compassion that can exist between a grandmother and her grandson. As the Narrator contemplates how different Balbec is without his beloved grandmother, as he muses on how much his own once-young mother has taken on the visage of her own mother now that the elder woman's death has left a role unfulfilled, as he retraces rooms that once were filled with his grandmother's presence, the concrete reality of past time being truly lost time came thundering down against a mostly familiar landscape that derives most of its changes from the players inhabiting it. It is odd that the grief is intense but short-lived, yes, but I couldn't help but write it off as the Narrator's decision to forge ahead with his life rather than mawkishly wallow in grief -- such are the intermittences of the heart, no?
I continue to find the romantic entanglements of these characters to be a high-school level of ridiculous. It seems like so few of the relationships presented thus far in ISOLT -- Swann and Odette; the Narrator and Gilberte (and also Albertine); Saint-Loup and Rachel -- are healthy, mutually affectionate ones, but it could also be that I have little patience for romances, even fictional ones, that are built on a foundation of obsession and possession rather than respect and genuine fondness. And, really, the affair between Morel and Charlus isn't anything laudable, I know, but I can't help but find it one of the most believable examples of heady lust in terms of its execution and its players' emotionally fueled behaviors. There is little else but pure attraction drawing Charlus helplessly toward Morel, who can't help but take advantage of (or be manipulated by, depending on your vantage point) the older gentleman's affections and gifts. Still, the greed with which Charlus tries to keep Morel to himself while all but undressing him in public, the satisfaction he derives just from coaxing the younger musician into his presence is鈥�. okay, a bit much, yes, but also keenly evocative of an irrationally all-consuming, unrealistically intense first crush and the reluctant empathy of understanding such memories drag along in their wake.
Sodom and Gomorrah struck me as proof that the memories of our past can't help but be intertwined with memories of others, a reminder that there are always multiple perspectives at play -- and that, as the ending scenes with Bloch reinforce, not everyone's assessment of a situation will always be reliable or anything more than actions born of misunderstanding a sticky situation that was handled badly because there are no do-over options in real life and things only make sense when hindsight lays down the rest of the puzzle. ISOLT might be fictional, sure, but it is written as an account of life, and sometimes learning life's lessons means that truths can be as ugly as our lesser selves.
August 7, 2024
No s茅 si de aqu铆 a unos d铆as me saldr谩 una rese帽a de esta cuarta entrega de "En Busca del Tiempo Perdido", porque la tengo que ver con perspectiva, y necesito tomarme un respiro, por lo menos antes de atreverme con "La Prisionera", pero lo que si est谩 claro es que Marcel ya con 20 o 21 a帽os, nunca sabremos realmente su edad aunque la sospechemos (el tiempo aqu铆 est谩 siempre difuminado, alargado, fragmentado...), sigue erre que erre buscando a una mujer que ni existir谩, solo en su imaginaci贸n, as铆 que, se le cruce qui茅n se le cruce, siempre acabar谩 perdiendo el inter茅s y aburrido por mucho que haya ansiado conocerla, porque esa fantas铆a que se ha creado en su cabeza no es la de la mujer real. Es quiz谩s reducirlo a lo b谩sico, pero esto no es una rese帽a, todav铆a, y me quedo por ahora, con esta reflexi贸n y reconocimiento por parte de Marcel: parece que ya por fin toma conciencia de que No Las Ve, porque solo se est谩 mirando a s铆 mismo... En este volumen Marcel toma conciencia de muchas cosas, sobre todo de s铆 mismo.
"Las im谩genes elegidas por el recuerdo son tan arbitrarias, tan estrechas, tan incomprensibles como las formadas por la imaginaci贸n y destruidas por la realidad.
No hay raz贸n como para que fuera de nosotros, un lugar real domine m谩s los cuadros de la memoria que los del sue帽o y despu茅s una realidad nueva tal vez nos haga olvidar, detestar incluso, los deseos que nos movieron a partir.
Me recordaban que mi suerte era la de no perseguir otra cosa que fantasmas, personas cuya realidad radicaba en gran medida en mi imaginaci贸n; en efecto, hay personas -y as铆 hab铆a sido en mi caso desde la juventud- para las que todo lo que tiene un valor fijo, comprobable por otros, la fortuna, el 茅xito, los altos cargos, no cuenta: lo que necesitan son fantasmas.
Pero 驴por qu茅 preguntarse tanto -se me dir谩 por Gilberte, tomarse tantas molestias por la Sra. de Guermantes si -tras haber llegado a ser amigo de 茅sta- ha sido para no pensar m谩s en ella? Swann antes de su muerte, habr铆a podido responder, 茅l, que hab铆a sido un aficionado a los fantasmas. De fantasmas perseguidos, olvidados, buscados de nuevo, y para alcanzar una vida irreal que al instante se escapaba.
Hemos dispuesto de todo nuestro poder para obtener una nueva cita, pero que se conceda de buen grado. Ahora bien, 驴nos tomar铆amos tanta molestia por la mujer misma, si no fuera completada por esas fuerzas ocultas, mientras que, cuando se ha marchado, no sabr铆amos decir c贸mo iba vestida y nos damos cuenta de que ni siquiera la hemos mirado?"
Por el camino de Swann (En Busca del Tiempo Perdido #1)
A la sombra de las muchachas en flor (En Busca del Tiempo Perdido #2)
El mundo de Guermantes (En Busca del Tiempo Perdido #3)
August 26, 2013
Fluid becomes solid and then fluid again. Changing states, crossovers, transformations. Words produce pictures that turn back into words, black marks on a white page; dots, accents, commas, shapes of letters, enter through the cornea, the retina, the optic nerve, are processed into......... into what? Images, characters, narrative, scenes, landscapes, weather, tableaux, dialogue, spectacle, sensation. Reactions.
The cities of the plain:Sodom, Gomorrah, Admah, Zeboim, Bela.
But Proust takes his title from one of his favourite poets, Alfred de Vigny (Baudelaire was the other, according to the famous questionnaire):
Bient么t se retirant dans un hideux royaume,
La Femme aura Gomorrhe et l'Homme aura Sodome,
Et, se jetant, de loin, un regard irrit茅,
Les deux sexes mourront chacun de son c么t茅
From:
Piquant: de Vigny wrote this poem when his mistress, Marie Dorval became the intimate friend of George Sand. Just how physical the two women's intimacy was is a matter of some debate, but salacious rumours flew around Paris anyway. The poem treats of Samson's infatuation with Delilah, and how he was brought down by her seductive ways and ultimate betrayal. Samson's weakness was to love she who cannot love in return: "Elle se fait aimer sans aimer elle-m锚me."
Thus it echoes the constant dynamic of love affairs in 脌 La Recherche. There is always one who loves, one who accepts love. One who appears strong, but is made weak by their obsessive love. Swann and Odette, Charlus and Morel, the narrator and Albertine, Saint-Loup and Rachel, the narrator and the circles he would like to become part of.
De Vigny's poem sees the conflict between the male and the female as an eternal battle between virtue and treachery, between steadfast strength and supple seduction, between honesty and ruse. The woman on whose soothing breast he sought comfort and salvation has betrayed him for a few gold pieces. Women are as evil as men, each will inhabit their own sordid hell, women in Gomorrah and men in Sodom, with nothing but distant exasperated glances between them, the two sexes separate until death.
Proust's genius is to dissolve that dichotomy into a fluid continuum. Men who are passive until they become aggressively active, women who are sporty, strong, decisive. He plays with gender roles. Transformations, crossovers. Metamorphoses.
Book cover love: A portrait of a portrait painter.
Jacques-脡mile Blanche painted Robert de Montesquieu, one of the models for the Baron de Charlus (my favourite character):
He also painted Proust himself:
But on the cover of my edition he stands with a wide legged swagger as model for Jean Louis Forain. I think of him as M. Verdurin:
The cities of the plain:Sodom, Gomorrah, Admah, Zeboim, Bela.
But Proust takes his title from one of his favourite poets, Alfred de Vigny (Baudelaire was the other, according to the famous questionnaire):
Bient么t se retirant dans un hideux royaume,
La Femme aura Gomorrhe et l'Homme aura Sodome,
Et, se jetant, de loin, un regard irrit茅,
Les deux sexes mourront chacun de son c么t茅
From:
Piquant: de Vigny wrote this poem when his mistress, Marie Dorval became the intimate friend of George Sand. Just how physical the two women's intimacy was is a matter of some debate, but salacious rumours flew around Paris anyway. The poem treats of Samson's infatuation with Delilah, and how he was brought down by her seductive ways and ultimate betrayal. Samson's weakness was to love she who cannot love in return: "Elle se fait aimer sans aimer elle-m锚me."
Thus it echoes the constant dynamic of love affairs in 脌 La Recherche. There is always one who loves, one who accepts love. One who appears strong, but is made weak by their obsessive love. Swann and Odette, Charlus and Morel, the narrator and Albertine, Saint-Loup and Rachel, the narrator and the circles he would like to become part of.
De Vigny's poem sees the conflict between the male and the female as an eternal battle between virtue and treachery, between steadfast strength and supple seduction, between honesty and ruse. The woman on whose soothing breast he sought comfort and salvation has betrayed him for a few gold pieces. Women are as evil as men, each will inhabit their own sordid hell, women in Gomorrah and men in Sodom, with nothing but distant exasperated glances between them, the two sexes separate until death.
Proust's genius is to dissolve that dichotomy into a fluid continuum. Men who are passive until they become aggressively active, women who are sporty, strong, decisive. He plays with gender roles. Transformations, crossovers. Metamorphoses.
Book cover love: A portrait of a portrait painter.
Jacques-脡mile Blanche painted Robert de Montesquieu, one of the models for the Baron de Charlus (my favourite character):
He also painted Proust himself:
But on the cover of my edition he stands with a wide legged swagger as model for Jean Louis Forain. I think of him as M. Verdurin:
August 28, 2015
This translator (Moncrieff) was too circumspect to call this volume Sodom and Gomorrah, the original title; nevertheless, Proust's theories on "Sodom and Gomorrah" come through loud and clear. Reading Proust's introduction, I was immediately struck by the timeliness and timelessness of its theme: to a certain extent, he could be writing of today. The beginning of the introduction is also very funny; our narrator continues his snooping ways even while he's on tenterhooks over his own obsessive love, as usual.
Again, as usual, reading this volume of ISoLT was a back-and-forth experience: love over the prose and insights, and exasperation at, once again, the tiresome salon talk. Especially with this volume, I was so happy (relieved?) when the focus turned away from the latter. There was one new exasperation: the narrator's making fun of both the hotel-manager's and then the lift-boy's ways of speaking. Even if I found that kind of thing funny, I would still think there was too much of it during the former's section (I get it!) and with the latter it was definite overkill. The "too much-ness" of it caused it to feel mean-spirited, and I wondered if it was casual snobbery on Proust's part or a character trait of the narrator. Thankfully, this was basically confined to one section.
And, then, as with the beginning and other sections throughout, the work is elevated, again, by the exquisite, gorgeous final fourth, a reflecting back to a scene seen through a window in the first volume (narrator-as-voyeur again) and a beautiful passage of the train that at each stop holds an image of a friend, no longer strangers in a strange land, originally felt as such during our sensitive boy's first visit to Balbec.
Again, as usual, reading this volume of ISoLT was a back-and-forth experience: love over the prose and insights, and exasperation at, once again, the tiresome salon talk. Especially with this volume, I was so happy (relieved?) when the focus turned away from the latter. There was one new exasperation: the narrator's making fun of both the hotel-manager's and then the lift-boy's ways of speaking. Even if I found that kind of thing funny, I would still think there was too much of it during the former's section (I get it!) and with the latter it was definite overkill. The "too much-ness" of it caused it to feel mean-spirited, and I wondered if it was casual snobbery on Proust's part or a character trait of the narrator. Thankfully, this was basically confined to one section.
And, then, as with the beginning and other sections throughout, the work is elevated, again, by the exquisite, gorgeous final fourth, a reflecting back to a scene seen through a window in the first volume (narrator-as-voyeur again) and a beautiful passage of the train that at each stop holds an image of a friend, no longer strangers in a strange land, originally felt as such during our sensitive boy's first visit to Balbec.
October 1, 2020
丿乇 噩爻鬲 噩賵 丌賳趩賳丕賳 鬲亘丿蹖賱 亘賴 丕孬乇蹖 卮禺氐蹖 亘乇丕蹖 賲賳 卮丿賴 讴賴 丕讴賳賵賳 讴賴 倬爻 丕夭 蹖讴 賲丕賴 亘丿丕賳 亘丕夭賲蹖诏乇丿賲,诏賵蹖蹖 鬲睾蹖蹖乇 賲賳 丿乇 夭賳丿诏蹖 賵 乇丕賵蹖 丿乇 丿丕爻鬲丕賳 賴賲丕賴賳诏 亘丕 蹖讴丿蹖诏乇 乇禺 賲蹖丿賴丿 賵 丕蹖賳 賲毓噩夭賴 丿乇噩爻鬲 賵 噩賵 亘乇丕蹖 賲賳 丕爻鬲,丕讴賳賵賳 讴賴 賴乇 丿賵 丿乇 丨丕賱 毓亘賵乇 賵 乇賴丕蹖蹖 丕夭 賵乇胤賴 丿賵夭禺 賴爻鬲蹖賲..丕丨爻丕爻蹖 卮诏賮鬲 丕賳诏蹖夭 讴賴 卮丕蹖丿 賴乇诏夭 賳鬲賵丕賳賲 亘賴 丿乇爻鬲蹖 鬲賵氐蹖賮卮 讴賳賲..丿乇 噩爻鬲 噩賵 丿乇 賳賴丕蹖鬲 丕孬乇蹖 爻鬲 讴賴 鬲賳賴丕 禺賵丕賳丿賴 賳賲蹖 卮賵丿,亘賱讴賴 亘丕 丌賳 夭賳丿诏蹖 賲蹖讴賳蹖賲..讴鬲丕亘-夭賳丿诏蹖 丿乇 噩爻鬲 噩賵,卮诏賮鬲 丕賳诏蹖夭 鬲乇蹖賳 鬲噩乇亘賴 夭賳丿诏蹖..
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