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leahtylerthewriter 's review for:
Swann's Way
by Marcel Proust
Reading volume 1 of In Search of Lost Time was simultaneously anticlimactic and awe inspiring. I'm so out of my depth that upon finishing, I pulled myself out of a dazed stupor and immediately listened to The Life and Work of Marcel Proust by Neville Jason, which was helpful.
We are on a sentimental journey with a 9-year-old French boy as he recounts the memories of his youth. I don't know where it's going, nor do I really care.
I'm the woman in the back of the convertible with a scarf around my head, sipping off a bottle of port, zoned out on Quaaludes, cigarette ash flicking all over my blouse, as I observe Proust's world passing me by.
I am along for the ride.
I will also be rereading this book at the conclusion of the seven-part series.
There is a story here, embedded in the frivolous descriptions and embellished emotions of a child. There is a little boy who pines for a good night kiss from his mum and a neighbor who becomes obsessed with a woman who does not love him. There is society and nuance and texture and the disappointments of human behavior.
Hopefully as I venture further I will start to do Proust justice. All I can say right now is Virginia Woolf ain't got nothing on his stream of consciousness. And his descriptions are out of this world.
Let's discuss asparagus:
"The asparagus, tinged with ultramarine and rosy pink which ran from their heads, finally stippled in mauve and azure, through a series of imperceptible changes to their white feet, still stained a little from the soil of their garden-bed: a rainbow loveliness that was not of this world."
We are on a sentimental journey with a 9-year-old French boy as he recounts the memories of his youth. I don't know where it's going, nor do I really care.
I'm the woman in the back of the convertible with a scarf around my head, sipping off a bottle of port, zoned out on Quaaludes, cigarette ash flicking all over my blouse, as I observe Proust's world passing me by.
I am along for the ride.
I will also be rereading this book at the conclusion of the seven-part series.
There is a story here, embedded in the frivolous descriptions and embellished emotions of a child. There is a little boy who pines for a good night kiss from his mum and a neighbor who becomes obsessed with a woman who does not love him. There is society and nuance and texture and the disappointments of human behavior.
Hopefully as I venture further I will start to do Proust justice. All I can say right now is Virginia Woolf ain't got nothing on his stream of consciousness. And his descriptions are out of this world.
Let's discuss asparagus:
"The asparagus, tinged with ultramarine and rosy pink which ran from their heads, finally stippled in mauve and azure, through a series of imperceptible changes to their white feet, still stained a little from the soil of their garden-bed: a rainbow loveliness that was not of this world."