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4.06 AVERAGE
4.06 AVERAGE
The writing in this book is absolutely exquisite. Proust's narrator inspects each nuance of consciousness and the opening scene in which he discusses waking is fabulous. There is moe in one page of this book to ponder than I'm sure I even caught.
Time stands still in this book - or moves so swiftly that it gives the impression that time is something completely independent of reality.
The author/narrator/Swann is obsessive and paranoid and the telling is so complete. No wonder it is labeled a masterpiece.
Time stands still in this book - or moves so swiftly that it gives the impression that time is something completely independent of reality.
The author/narrator/Swann is obsessive and paranoid and the telling is so complete. No wonder it is labeled a masterpiece.
i need to read the final volume for a class on friday, and though i of course don't have the time to also read the rest of the cycle by the end of the week, i decided i could at least pick up the first book. and i am very glad that i did! it was a uniquely beautiful experience to read this during spring: both in the sunny bloom of the park, and at my kitchen window while watching the rain.
there is a part near the middle in which he talks about a fictional author, bergotte, whose books he most admires for the lengthy passages in which all plot is suspended in favour of describing (for example) the front of a cathedral. this is also true of how i feel about proust: i loved this novel the most during the several pages we'd spend at the river with its lotus flowers, or preparing asparagus for lunch, or walking among the red hawthorn trees. and all the while it is not so much the objects themselves that enchant you, but a sort of light that falls on them, like brushstrokes of a dreamlike painting. in any case, i look forward to reading on!
there is a part near the middle in which he talks about a fictional author, bergotte, whose books he most admires for the lengthy passages in which all plot is suspended in favour of describing (for example) the front of a cathedral. this is also true of how i feel about proust: i loved this novel the most during the several pages we'd spend at the river with its lotus flowers, or preparing asparagus for lunch, or walking among the red hawthorn trees. and all the while it is not so much the objects themselves that enchant you, but a sort of light that falls on them, like brushstrokes of a dreamlike painting. in any case, i look forward to reading on!
A beautifully written meditation on the power and perils of memory, full of vivid imagery and great detail about upper class society life in the late 19th century France. It does have a stream-of-consciousness feel to it, more focused on mood, atmosphere, and detail than on plot, which may put off some readers. But it captures the reader in a particular place and time, and has moments of devastating beauty. Highly recommended.
Proust wrote, apparently, by a process of grafting parenthetical phrases together in such a manner that the final result is something resembling a massive oak tree, a sprawling, beautiful, leafy mess of commas, subordinate clauses, and insightful observations. It is impressive, but if you aren't the type to follow each branch to its grammatical and semantic conclusion, this might not be the tree to build your house in. I liked it, but it will be a while before I pick up the next volume in the series.
To start with, I really enjoyed this. The prose plunges right into the centre of whatever is being described and wallows in it, luxuriating in every detail.
This got tedious, though, particularly in the second part where nothing much happened, apart from repetitive, similar incidents and a lot of self-indulgent romantic suffering. The extended, multi-claused - repeatedly parenthetical until difficult to follow - adjective and figure-of-speech laden sentences, were an interesting - full of details and hints as they were - novelty in the earlier chapters, full, as they were, of rich, complex vocabulary, but I soon tired of losing the connection between object and subject and verb, the distinction between main and sub-clauses, and of being lost within the twisting vines of the the meandering, unrelated, internal tangents. In other words, most of the sentences are a bit like that one I just wrote, which got tired and tiring by the time I'd waded to the middle of the book.
This way of writing would have made a pleasant short story, I definitely won't be able to cope with another six volumes.
This got tedious, though, particularly in the second part where nothing much happened, apart from repetitive, similar incidents and a lot of self-indulgent romantic suffering. The extended, multi-claused - repeatedly parenthetical until difficult to follow - adjective and figure-of-speech laden sentences, were an interesting - full of details and hints as they were - novelty in the earlier chapters, full, as they were, of rich, complex vocabulary, but I soon tired of losing the connection between object and subject and verb, the distinction between main and sub-clauses, and of being lost within the twisting vines of the the meandering, unrelated, internal tangents. In other words, most of the sentences are a bit like that one I just wrote, which got tired and tiring by the time I'd waded to the middle of the book.
This way of writing would have made a pleasant short story, I definitely won't be able to cope with another six volumes.
'Had u ook maar uw hart vergeten, ik zou het u niet laten terughalen.'
Op zoek naar de verloren tijd. Het is niet zo vreemd dat vele kunstenaars, muzikanten en dichters geïnspireerd raakten door dit meesterwerk. Dit boek is een verrijking voor een mensenleven.
Op zoek naar de verloren tijd. Het is niet zo vreemd dat vele kunstenaars, muzikanten en dichters geïnspireerd raakten door dit meesterwerk. Dit boek is een verrijking voor een mensenleven.
The places we have known do not belong solely to the world of space in which we situate them for our greater convenience. They were only a thin slice among contiguous impressions that formed our life at that time; the memory of a certain image is only regret for a certain moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fleeting, alas, as the years.
challenging
reflective
relaxing
sad
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
No
challenging
emotional
reflective
slow-paced