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4.06 AVERAGE
4.06 AVERAGE
You stand at a mirror, or what you think is a mirror, for you can see yourself in it well enough. But the image is not steady, parts of your face are blurring and sections of your body are stretching, and all the colors flow like oil. You reach out a hand to steady it, and the reflection ripples, your fingers sink into surface and touch something cool and curved, an arched web running its backbone beneath. Try as you might, you cannot stop it from moving, and finally in frustration you grab at the structure and pull, breaking away a handful of mercury that melts and crystallizes in equal measure. You can see the imprint of your palm in the gripped reflection, but it is no longer your palm, it is the sticky hot temper tantrum of a hot summers day ice cream, it is the wet exhilaration sting high five of a rainy day team win, it is the cold straining muddle ache of an essay test during the middle of winter, the classroom heater wasn't working and you couldn't wait to never have to look at another rhetorical analysis ever again, and you had plans with friends in a far off parking lot where the snow was deep and the space was wide, Christmas was soon and your favorite part has always been the tree, a rotundity of green peeking cheerfully beneath its freezing cape of downy white and an aroma of vibrant life arcing through the chill, fir trees that made up for their absence in your youth with their riotous spread in adulthood, curled around the small house in Washington, so different from that crowded tenement in Illinois, and sometimes you wonder how you ever got so far.
And do you ever wonder at your brain? That seething mass of electrical spitfire that registers and archives and retrieves, much like a library except time is its tricky mistress, and many of the books have lost their pages, or have wandered off to the most obscure realms and melded and branched with others, and checking just one out is near impossible when half the words on a single tome have nestled among twenty-six and a half different genres and the shear act of tugging on a single binding can trigger a reaction as painful and inevitable as an avalanche juggernauting its birth out from a single stone.
An occurrence especially common when it comes to memories of friends, of months of amusement dying into years of annoyance and anger and back again, or of love, that chaotic monster that lies and cheats and steals from itself in the hope of this feeling it has heard so much about, or of family, those first traits and trademarks sculpting the fragile nostalgia that will forever set the tone for reminiscence. Also words on a page for the readers, whirling you away into lands unknown that you still see behind your eyelids upon realizing that yes the light is dying soon on the last page of this latest author who defines your world in ways you can only dream of doing. Also notes on the staffs for the listeners, that motif spanning years and miles on end in repetition, so delicate and small and yet can breach horizons beyond space and time. Also nature, and architecture, and society, aspects of life breathtaking in the sheer existence that are threaded through with the constants of color and light.
Do you see them? Those moments, so ephemeral, so deceptive, so futile, forever lost in the mists of some faint promise that you did indeed exist at that point in time, based on a single sliver of remembrance or worse, external evidence that provokes not the slightest responding recollection. How beautiful they can be, and how heartrending, and oftentimes it is hard to distinguish the pleasure from the pain, sprung from both the remembrance and the forgetting. But how wondrous a structure they form, how they run to and fro and back again along the endless walls and arches of the grandest of cathedrals, with nary a pause for the places that have fallen into disrepair and emptiness, for time heals all wounds and what is left must have some kind of importance. For why else would they exist? Why else would we remember?
And do you ever wonder at your brain? That seething mass of electrical spitfire that registers and archives and retrieves, much like a library except time is its tricky mistress, and many of the books have lost their pages, or have wandered off to the most obscure realms and melded and branched with others, and checking just one out is near impossible when half the words on a single tome have nestled among twenty-six and a half different genres and the shear act of tugging on a single binding can trigger a reaction as painful and inevitable as an avalanche juggernauting its birth out from a single stone.
An occurrence especially common when it comes to memories of friends, of months of amusement dying into years of annoyance and anger and back again, or of love, that chaotic monster that lies and cheats and steals from itself in the hope of this feeling it has heard so much about, or of family, those first traits and trademarks sculpting the fragile nostalgia that will forever set the tone for reminiscence. Also words on a page for the readers, whirling you away into lands unknown that you still see behind your eyelids upon realizing that yes the light is dying soon on the last page of this latest author who defines your world in ways you can only dream of doing. Also notes on the staffs for the listeners, that motif spanning years and miles on end in repetition, so delicate and small and yet can breach horizons beyond space and time. Also nature, and architecture, and society, aspects of life breathtaking in the sheer existence that are threaded through with the constants of color and light.
Do you see them? Those moments, so ephemeral, so deceptive, so futile, forever lost in the mists of some faint promise that you did indeed exist at that point in time, based on a single sliver of remembrance or worse, external evidence that provokes not the slightest responding recollection. How beautiful they can be, and how heartrending, and oftentimes it is hard to distinguish the pleasure from the pain, sprung from both the remembrance and the forgetting. But how wondrous a structure they form, how they run to and fro and back again along the endless walls and arches of the grandest of cathedrals, with nary a pause for the places that have fallen into disrepair and emptiness, for time heals all wounds and what is left must have some kind of importance. For why else would they exist? Why else would we remember?
If there were the polar opposite of the literary style of Hemingway, it would be Proust. His attention to detail and understanding of the human mindset is simply astounding. This book is not for everyone, and challenged me at times. In challenged, I mean ...simply exhausted me. I very glad I stuck with it, and I hope to get back to the remainder of the series from time to time.
I also highly recommend this translation. From what I have read, it is vastly superior to the other commonly available translation.
I also highly recommend this translation. From what I have read, it is vastly superior to the other commonly available translation.
delicate people,
Swann, dude...that's not love!
although, maybe I have to continue the series for things to build into something approaching profundity.. đ©đ§
Swann, dude...that's not love!
although, maybe I have to continue the series for things to build into something approaching profundity.. đ©đ§
challenging
emotional
mysterious
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
No
This book is definitely meandering and at times hard to get through. But I love how it made me slow down.
Proust so titillates my own desire for expression that I can hardly set out the sentenceâŠ
My great adventure is really Proust. Wellâwhat remains to be written after that? Iâm only in the first volume, and there are, I suppose, faults to be found, but I am in a state of amazement; as if a miracle were being done before my eyes. How, at last, has someone solidified what has always escapedâand made it too into this beautiful and perfectly enduring substance? One has to put the book down and gasp. The pleasure becomes physicalâlike sun and wine and grapes and perfect serenity and intense vitality combined.
â Virginia WoolfThe Letters of Virginia Woolf: Volume Two, 1912-1922
INTRODUCTION
For a long time, I went to bed early. Thus begins the most challenging novel I have read this year, which I have been deliberately avoiding for a very long time, daunted by its renowned intricacy and sumptuous sophistication. With those simple words â to which I cannot relate since going to bed early and sleeping through the night is not something I am known for â a vast array of themes are brought to life by virtue of the magnificent and oh, lord, intellectually demanding pen of Marcel Proust; and this is hardly a complaint: it is difficult to express my gratitude, for this is the most beautiful and stimulating prose I have read in years, composed of sentences whose length left me awestruck at first but, after a while, became a familiar and endearing quality, since they are replete with charm, profundity, unparalleled versatility and an unflagging will to find the meaning of our existence in a world where time will never call a truce.
Being fully aware of this novel's complexity, I thought about getting a great Spanish edition in order to avoid overexertion and provide my brain with a chance at survival; then I reconsidered and decided to indulge my desire for a real literary challenge, ergo, I purchased this English edition brilliantly crafted by Lydia Davis, filled with helpful footnotes that enlightened me about many matters and informed me at once of some clever puns that unfortunately I wasn't in the position to comprehend due to obvious language restrictions. Clearly, I took my time... my mind, on many occasions, was somewhat dizzy with confusion which emanated from a plethora of words of all sizes and colors, trudging to the brink of linguistic fatigue, floral hallucinations and architectonic mirages; thus ended up seeking refuge in sitcoms, two TV series and articles on the Internet that ranged from Kierkegaard to the recipe for strawberry shortcake. I can't deny reading this novel was a bumpy ride, but the benefits it brought me far outweighed any benign bump or educational jolt that ultimately led me to sheer beauty and utter knowledge; for the best things in life â as the best kind of people â are not easy to find.
I need to rest for a couple of weeks, but I look forward to the time when I tackle the second volume that is already beckoning me, patiently waiting on my bookshelf (I would like to read them all with my current mind-set), that unexplored and exciting land in my hands, hoping to find again the same delightful and amusing prose that captivated me for so long.
EXPOSITION â COMBRAY
This first part of the novel was the one I struggled with the most since it was my first contact with Proust's unusual writing style, a succession of words conveying incredibly evocative visualizations that became tangible objects and landscapes by the end of an everlasting sentence; a songbook bursting with candor, with a lofty, delicious language portraying the most vivid metaphors that elevated any ordinary situation and ringed it with pure sublimity; melodies speaking of sleep, an elusive companion; of habit, a despot whose whip is somehow needed; of art, one of the many realms in which one can find the long-awaited and rather fugitive meaning of life; of country walks and the shimmering beauty of nature; a goodnight kiss that keeps being postponed and left me here, in this pearl-colored room where the perfect blend of an andante spianato and a polonaise ignites the walls, where silence is eloquent and words are essentially needed and successfully eluded, in a state of indefatigable contemplation of my almost corporeal melange of emotions and thoughts, intoxicating the air with the scent of contradiction, extrapolating fears and disappointments as I see my own illogical detachment towards a motherly kiss that hardly ever arrives to a boy's door but I receive every single night; for memories strike the Narrator's mind and inoculate an early regret into mine, as I picture the day I no longer get that kiss once taken for granted and there is only night, a faint gleaming of distant stars and a taciturn memory inside a cup of tea, encapsulated in a madeleine, waiting to be reawaken.
But, when nothing subsists of an old past, after the death of people, after the destruction of things, alone, frailer but more enduring, more immaterial, more persistent, more faithful, smell and taste still remain for a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, upon the ruins of all the rest, bearing without giving way, on their almost impalpable droplet, the immense edifice of memory. (51)
DEVELOPMENT â SWANN IN LOVE
The second part of the novel speaks of a refined gentleman with an artistic disposition pulsating through his veins, a man already mentioned in 'Combray', Charles Swann and his overly complicated relationship with Odette de CrĂ©cy, a persistent source of intense yet minimal joy, stifling and omniscient misery; an unbearable, almost inhumane addiction from which vivid, ardent, passionate, irrational gusts of jealousy adulterating love's nature, palpitating with despair, throbbing with terror, spring up in the face of absolute indifference; a cold-hearted state in which once inhabited her unreserved love beaming with pretended grace and a dab of frivolous peculiarity, molded after the voluptuousness of a cattleya, a devoted chrysanthemum, an obscure book, an exquisite painting rationally observed; samples of affection that make him exhale unfaltering sighs desirous of reciprocity; tokens of a torrid love that have germinated in an ethereal-sounding violin accompanied by the gentle touch of a piano, both coexisting in a large salon where the mere fleeting essence of love has been sketched, crafted by a composer who will never be consigned to oblivion, where every pain inflicted by bare existence was mentally absorbed, physically assimilated, awakening inspiration and channeling those existential wounds â whose presence has been cursed with the countenance of eternity â placing them in the midst of a maelstrom of creativity; a whirlwind in front of my weary eyes, as I contemplate the melodious renaissance of the âlittle phraseâ, like a phoenix blazing in the darkness, time and time again, triggering memories of passion and loss, obsession and self-pity, the absurdity of possession; wishing for love to recede, reveling in melancholy, harboring a hope for deliverance.
He apologized for his fear of new friendships, for what he had called, out of politeness, his fear of being unhappy. âYouâre afraid of affection?â (223)
RECAPITULATION â PLACE-NAMES: THE NAME
Unravel every mystery, reader.
...helped me better understand what a contradiction it is to search in reality for memory's pictures, which would never have the charm that comes to them from memory itself and from not being perceived by the senses. The reality I had known no longer existed. (481)
CODA
Anesthetized beings seem to have lost the ability to see beauty in life, in people, as they continue to watch the days go by, one after another, impassively, resignedly, like a medieval prisoner gazing up at a small window that helps him realize the presence of the sun and the coldness of the moonlight â that perennial, pale glow that is whitening forlorn skyscrapers at this moment â while holding the keys to the dungeon where he has been dwelling for years but, unable to move due to some uncanny force, perhaps a comfortable fear, could never manage to open. Those days will never cease to pass, days teeming with books, music, windows, soothing memories and distant dreams, instilling life in despondent bodies; brimful of ideas, reflections, beauteous words belonging to this novel, the efflorescence of Proustâs brilliance and generosity, that furnished me with a sense of solace which helped me sleep through an entire night, after the last page was turned. Pages. Words. Words involving goodbyes when love becomes agony. Existence attached to impossibility. Childhood made of beloved places and reminiscences of diverse textures and flavors. An everlasting waiting that will remain so when facing unwavering reluctance. A purpose in life. A wretched alchemist grasping love and art, cutting through their shells in the hope of finding a droplet of essence: a hopeful distillation, a futile attempt at turning existence to meaning; a combination of both. Traces of beauty. The beauty around us. The scent of freshly brewed coffee. A pile of books. The contradiction of my emotions on paper. Staccato lines, disjointed thoughts, scribblings without any light. The sun seeping through the cracks in the blinds. Breakfast in bed. A flowering garden. The fragrance of jasmines. A motherly kiss. A nonexistent immutability which involves not only blissful times but, fortunately, ages of sorrow. Memories, madeleines; lazy Sundays in my hometown. A sonata echoing through the years. The art of appreciation in a single dewdrop, before everything withers away.
June 2, 16
* Also on my blog.
** Photo credit: Tea cup and madeleine / Patrick Forget via tourisme28.com
Madeleine de Scudery, "Le Pays de Tendre" / CC
Les Champs-ĂlysĂ©es / via Pinterest
Water Droplets / via Nevsepic
shelfnotes.com
Dear Reader,
I always feel very daunted by the task of reviewing a classic; often, I will entirely skip writing anything about it, because I want to let the book sink in over days and months. Then, I will simply let myself not ever write anything, because my life has been changed so profoundly by the book and I don't know how to put that into words. This review might, then, not be exactly what I want to say - and, perhaps, I'll come back and add more later - but I wanted to get some words down, for now.
Proust is an amazing writer. That should come as no surprise; he is certainly a member of the elite authors circle, and has been for centuries. However, I didn't realize how accessible he would be, either. Swann's Way is long and dense and took me quite a while to get through, yes, but I was thrilled by what he put down on the page once I had finally opened the book. Proust writes so very true to life. He seems to just get human nature. His study of Swann's obsessive love, swinging wildly from one extreme to the other, was so apt.
I loved the layering of the book: how it went from the idyllic life in Combray to the story of Swann's pursuit of Odette, and then back to the narrator's (in academic discourse, he is often referred to as "Marcel", since most assume this is Proust's portrayal of himself) own yearning for the young Gilberte. The book has this wonderful, cozy sandwiching feel, where the two stories ultimately intertwine to create a complex layering of people and time and places. This seems quite appropriate, as Proust was writing a book which, at its core, examines the nature of time itself. He questions whether time is truly linear or whether we simply feel that it is, when in fact it often folds back upon itself in our lives, in our memories, in our experiences.
Certain gorgeous writing still stands out in my mind after having closed the book: of course, the famous madeleine scene where a small taste of cookies dipped in tea recalls the Narrator to a previous time, and also a quite amusing bit where Swann attempts to catch Odette in infidelity, only to discover he has been lurking underneath the wrong window. Proust's descriptions recall paintings, appropriate because art is again something for which the author felt passion. Combray was vividly illustrated in my mind, and I know I will recall certain pieces of this story - descriptions of places and events - for years to come. Exactly as Proust intended, I believe.
I can still almost smell the cattleyas, taste the madeleines, and hear the Vinteuil.
I'd like to think more on this book, of course - it still needs a lot of time to settle into whatever place it will inhabit in my mind from now on. For now, though, I am glad I was able to get some words down to express my emotions after reading this wonderful book.
Yours,
Arianna
Dear Reader,
I always feel very daunted by the task of reviewing a classic; often, I will entirely skip writing anything about it, because I want to let the book sink in over days and months. Then, I will simply let myself not ever write anything, because my life has been changed so profoundly by the book and I don't know how to put that into words. This review might, then, not be exactly what I want to say - and, perhaps, I'll come back and add more later - but I wanted to get some words down, for now.
Proust is an amazing writer. That should come as no surprise; he is certainly a member of the elite authors circle, and has been for centuries. However, I didn't realize how accessible he would be, either. Swann's Way is long and dense and took me quite a while to get through, yes, but I was thrilled by what he put down on the page once I had finally opened the book. Proust writes so very true to life. He seems to just get human nature. His study of Swann's obsessive love, swinging wildly from one extreme to the other, was so apt.
I loved the layering of the book: how it went from the idyllic life in Combray to the story of Swann's pursuit of Odette, and then back to the narrator's (in academic discourse, he is often referred to as "Marcel", since most assume this is Proust's portrayal of himself) own yearning for the young Gilberte. The book has this wonderful, cozy sandwiching feel, where the two stories ultimately intertwine to create a complex layering of people and time and places. This seems quite appropriate, as Proust was writing a book which, at its core, examines the nature of time itself. He questions whether time is truly linear or whether we simply feel that it is, when in fact it often folds back upon itself in our lives, in our memories, in our experiences.
Certain gorgeous writing still stands out in my mind after having closed the book: of course, the famous madeleine scene where a small taste of cookies dipped in tea recalls the Narrator to a previous time, and also a quite amusing bit where Swann attempts to catch Odette in infidelity, only to discover he has been lurking underneath the wrong window. Proust's descriptions recall paintings, appropriate because art is again something for which the author felt passion. Combray was vividly illustrated in my mind, and I know I will recall certain pieces of this story - descriptions of places and events - for years to come. Exactly as Proust intended, I believe.
I can still almost smell the cattleyas, taste the madeleines, and hear the Vinteuil.
I'd like to think more on this book, of course - it still needs a lot of time to settle into whatever place it will inhabit in my mind from now on. For now, though, I am glad I was able to get some words down to express my emotions after reading this wonderful book.
Yours,
Arianna
