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martinbihl 's review for:
Swann's Way
by Marcel Proust
How the hell did I get this far in my reading career without reading Marcel Proust? Good question. And because of this question, I have (foolishly perhaps) embarked on a multi-year plan to work my way through "La Recherche..."
This may turn out to be a long strange trip indeed.
Look, I love Faulkner and I can see how without Proust there is no Absalom. And I love Beckett and Joyce and I can see how without "La Recherche..." there's no Murphy or Ulysses. The way Proust treats time, the way he visits and revisits scenes from different angles, or even the same angle but with new baggage, presages so many writers I admire.
But I have to confess that this was not at all what I was expecting. The prose moves unbelievably slowly. The characters, the scenes, the events, everything - are all merely vehicles for that prose. Or better yet, for the way Proust wants to tell the story.
And while I can admire the technique - and even be willing to concede that in the French it's probably even more impressive - I really had to push through the chapters. There was never that moment that I was hoping for, where I lost myself in the book. I was always very conscious of reading the book. And while that may be part of Proust's intention, it's not what I was expecting, and not easy going.
That said, I will keep reading. Who knows, maybe he'll get better. Maybe I will. Or maybe we'll meet somewhere in the middle...
This may turn out to be a long strange trip indeed.
Look, I love Faulkner and I can see how without Proust there is no Absalom. And I love Beckett and Joyce and I can see how without "La Recherche..." there's no Murphy or Ulysses. The way Proust treats time, the way he visits and revisits scenes from different angles, or even the same angle but with new baggage, presages so many writers I admire.
But I have to confess that this was not at all what I was expecting. The prose moves unbelievably slowly. The characters, the scenes, the events, everything - are all merely vehicles for that prose. Or better yet, for the way Proust wants to tell the story.
And while I can admire the technique - and even be willing to concede that in the French it's probably even more impressive - I really had to push through the chapters. There was never that moment that I was hoping for, where I lost myself in the book. I was always very conscious of reading the book. And while that may be part of Proust's intention, it's not what I was expecting, and not easy going.
That said, I will keep reading. Who knows, maybe he'll get better. Maybe I will. Or maybe we'll meet somewhere in the middle...