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A review by roxanamalinachirila
How Proust Can Change Your Life by Alain de Botton
2.0
How can Proust change my life? Well, he probably can't.
I read this book with one purpose in mind: to determine whether to start reading Proust at all. You see, I find it difficult to abandon books, and if a book is famous, the problem is even greater: whenever someone mentions it, I'll remember I haven't finished it and maybe I should.
Luckily, Alain de Botton saved me: I vaguely remembered him as being a "famous philosopher" or something of the sort, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone and have someone I might want to read explain an author whom I wasn't sure I wanted to pick up.
Alas, my life would have been so much better if I'd read the wikipedia entry on Botton first, to confirm my preconceptions of him, because he may have studied philosophy, but he became a "self-help guru" after abandoning his studies. It shows! The book is either spewing banalities or praising Proust as if he could do no wrong. If Proust had farted in the wind, I'm quite sure Botton would have explained how Proust's fart is a commentary on the effect small things have on our lives, encouraging us to appreciate the wonderfulness of clean air when we do have it.
I'm not sure whether to blame Botton or Proust, but as far as I could gather from this book, the latter seems to have been a genuinely unpleasant person. Meanwhile, Botton's ideas on life and humans are weird indeed.
For example, he says Proust constantly thought himself ill, and acted ill, although it all seemed to be in his head. Hypochondriac? No, Botton tells us - as in the end he caught a disease and died, he must have been right about being ill all along! (I wonder if hypochondria is supposed to make you immune to all diseases in this scenario)
Proust, Botton tells us, was modest. He was so modest that he praised the texts of his friends even if they didn't deserve praise. (I... rather hope my friends aren't 'modest' like that) He was also an amazing friend, buying expensive dinners for people and then listening to them talk. (I'm... not sure that's what a good friend is, Botton?)
All in all, Botton paints the picture of Proust as a momma's boy, a hypochondriac, a hypocrite in his personal relationships, but the conclusion he draws is that the writer could do no wrong, and write no wrong.
But the bulk of the book is about bland life advice - live life! learn to look at the beauty of everyday objects! the details are more interesting than the summary of the story! don't just suffer, learn something from your suffering! The rest of the book, on the other hand, is grating.
I think I ought to give it five stars for ridding me of any impulse to read either Proust or Botton, but I'll be honest: it's worth two stars at best.
I read this book with one purpose in mind: to determine whether to start reading Proust at all. You see, I find it difficult to abandon books, and if a book is famous, the problem is even greater: whenever someone mentions it, I'll remember I haven't finished it and maybe I should.
Luckily, Alain de Botton saved me: I vaguely remembered him as being a "famous philosopher" or something of the sort, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone and have someone I might want to read explain an author whom I wasn't sure I wanted to pick up.
Alas, my life would have been so much better if I'd read the wikipedia entry on Botton first, to confirm my preconceptions of him, because he may have studied philosophy, but he became a "self-help guru" after abandoning his studies. It shows! The book is either spewing banalities or praising Proust as if he could do no wrong. If Proust had farted in the wind, I'm quite sure Botton would have explained how Proust's fart is a commentary on the effect small things have on our lives, encouraging us to appreciate the wonderfulness of clean air when we do have it.
I'm not sure whether to blame Botton or Proust, but as far as I could gather from this book, the latter seems to have been a genuinely unpleasant person. Meanwhile, Botton's ideas on life and humans are weird indeed.
For example, he says Proust constantly thought himself ill, and acted ill, although it all seemed to be in his head. Hypochondriac? No, Botton tells us - as in the end he caught a disease and died, he must have been right about being ill all along! (I wonder if hypochondria is supposed to make you immune to all diseases in this scenario)
Proust, Botton tells us, was modest. He was so modest that he praised the texts of his friends even if they didn't deserve praise. (I... rather hope my friends aren't 'modest' like that) He was also an amazing friend, buying expensive dinners for people and then listening to them talk. (I'm... not sure that's what a good friend is, Botton?)
All in all, Botton paints the picture of Proust as a momma's boy, a hypochondriac, a hypocrite in his personal relationships, but the conclusion he draws is that the writer could do no wrong, and write no wrong.
But the bulk of the book is about bland life advice - live life! learn to look at the beauty of everyday objects! the details are more interesting than the summary of the story! don't just suffer, learn something from your suffering! The rest of the book, on the other hand, is grating.
I think I ought to give it five stars for ridding me of any impulse to read either Proust or Botton, but I'll be honest: it's worth two stars at best.