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A review by casparb
The Fugitive by Marcel Proust
in some ways a stepping stone, as the penultimate volume (6) lives a little in the shadow of vol. 5,,, but that's an excellent shadow. So we have the same surprising aphorisms - 'the whole world is merely a vast sun-dial, a single sunlit segment of which enables us to tell what time it is' - which recalls an obsessive description ~2500 pages ago in volume 1 of the play of shadows & sunlight on a rock.
the gender-camouflage is really coming apart here... it's more and more obvious that albertine is really Albert. it almost feels like that's an effect of scope by this point, the self-awareness of the arc refining itself into a kernel , Real
There are optical errors in time as there are in space. The persistence within me of an old impulse to work, to make up for lost time, to change my way of life, or rather to begin to live, gave me the illusion that I was still as young as in the past
a little foreshadowing of the next, final volume, as Catherine Malabou describes it, the traumatic experience of old age, a sudden catastrophe.
anyway loving marcel again
the gender-camouflage is really coming apart here... it's more and more obvious that albertine is really Albert. it almost feels like that's an effect of scope by this point, the self-awareness of the arc refining itself into a kernel , Real
There are optical errors in time as there are in space. The persistence within me of an old impulse to work, to make up for lost time, to change my way of life, or rather to begin to live, gave me the illusion that I was still as young as in the past
a little foreshadowing of the next, final volume, as Catherine Malabou describes it, the traumatic experience of old age, a sudden catastrophe.
anyway loving marcel again