Swann's Way (In Search of Lost Time, #1)

Feb 07, 2013 s.penkevich rated it 5 of 5 stars Recommends it for: You

Recommended to s.penkevich by: Proustitute

Shelves: french, favorites, love

'reality will take shape in the memory alone...’

For 100 years now, Swann’s Way, the first volume of Marcel Proust’s masterpiece, has engaged and enchanted readers. Within moments of turning back the cover and dropping your eyes into the trenches of text, the reader is sent to soaring heights of rapture while clinging to Proust prose, leaving no room for doubt that this is well-deserving of it’s honor among the timeless classics. In swirling passages of poetic ecstasy, the whole of his life and m...more

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Feb 18, 2013 Jason rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: à-la-recherche-du-temps-perdu, 2013, reviewed, thrill-me-chill-me-fulfill-me

Memory is a slippery little sucker. It constitutes an elusive, transient cache of data, the reliability of which decreases in reverse proportion to the length of time it has been stored. It can even be a blatant liar! How often have we found ourselves convinced of the details a particular memory only to have those details called into question by some testimony or other of which we have been made newly aware? It is almost frightening how quickly and naturally the bytes of our mind can be removed...more Memory is a slippery little sucker. It constitutes an elusive, transient cache of data, the reliability of which decreases in reverse proportion to the length of time it has been stored. It can even be a blatant liar! How often have we found ourselves convinced of the details a particular memory only to have those details called into question by some testimony or other of which we have been made newly aware? It is almost frightening how quickly and naturally the bytes of our mind can be removed and supplanted by ones more convenient, ones designed to soothe our psyche, thereby allowing us to live at peace with ourselves.

Marcel Proust was not a psychologist, but he may as well have been, what with his ridiculous understanding (the kids are using the word “ridiculous” to mean like, way amazing, these days) of the fluidity of memory, and more specifically, of involuntary memory, which may or may not be any more reliable than that which is conjured consciously. Though we believe a person or a place from our past remains stationary in our idea of them while its true-life counterpart adapts and progresses, Proust shows us how memory can have a life of its own, as well. And yet when his narrator bites into that famous piece of sponge cake and transports us back to the days of his French childhood, we go willingly, not hesitating to question the accuracy or the validity of his musings. Because it doesn’t matter. When in Proust’s world, it is the remarks on human nature and memory and social customs and relationships and whatever else comes with that trip that makes it so worthwhile.

The best part of Swann’s Way, by far, is the intricate portrayal, from beginning to end ((view spoiler)), of the relationship between Swann and Odette. Their relationship is doomed from the start, being based on superficialities at its onset and becoming increasingly toxic as it progresses, yet by no means does its toxicity ever invalidate the love Swann has for Odette. That part of it is wholeheartedly genuine. For anyone who has ever been in such a relationship, it is kind of wild how realistically it is depicted. For anyone who has ever witnessed objectively a friend in such a relationship, it is kind of wild how recognizable the signs are of its toxicity, and how it seems to tap us on the shoulder, reminding us of the ease with which we must at the time have said, “I wonder why he doesn’t just leave her and move on with his life?”

This book really blew me away. For all the difficulties I anticipated reading Marcel Proust, I have to admit how pleased I was by its readability. I think what I enjoyed most, besides its perfectly constructed sentences, was that if I had been able to track the number of times I would encounter a passage that so exquisitely peels away the complicated layers of the human condition, exposing its unadulterated innards, I...well, I suppose I’d have reached a pretty high number. Having embarked on In Search of Lost Time in full ignorance, I have no idea what to expect next, but part of me wonders if “Swann in Love” isn’t meant to foreshadow the budding of a similar relationship between the narrator and Gilberte. I suppose we’ll find out.

Main Review Page for In Search of Lost Time(less)

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Apr 15, 2013 Megan Baxter rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Swann's Way does not, say, have a lot of plot. At all. Let's get that out of the way upfront. If you're looking for a plot-driven story, look elsewhere. What it does is loop in and around certain topics, in the narrator's life and the life of Swann, and examine them in such minute detail, in such flowing prose from one moment to the next, looping around the events in question. And it is beautifully written.

More than that, it contains these moments where Proust describes an experience in a way th...more Swann's Way does not, say, have a lot of plot. At all. Let's get that out of the way upfront. If you're looking for a plot-driven story, look elsewhere. What it does is loop in and around certain topics, in the narrator's life and the life of Swann, and examine them in such minute detail, in such flowing prose from one moment to the next, looping around the events in question. And it is beautifully written.

More than that, it contains these moments where Proust describes an experience in a way that I've never seen on page before and yet viscerally respond to. I get excited because small experiences I never thought worth sharing, never realized were universal, are suddenly there on the page, and I know them, and the way Proust describes them brings them vividly back to life.

There were many examples I can't quite remember, but the description of the aunt waking up from some nightmare, and that sudden, thankful realization the horrors one was just dreaming were just that, a dream, and do not have to be lived through, that aren't there to haunt you anymore. Of course, when I do that, the dreams tend to be a lot darker than that someone forced me to get out of bed and go for a walk, as the narrator's aunt feared. But that sense of relief, of thankfulness that what seemed so real is not going to continue to affect me every day for the rest of my life because it was, after all, just a dream - that I've experienced.

There were many moments like this, large and small. And even when I didn't have that shock of recognition, I still enjoyed the rest of the book, because the leisurely tour through the the minutiae of the everyday was so well done, and so interesting.

Swann's Way takes place in three parts - the narrator's remembrances of his youth at Combray, when his family first knew Swann, after Swann had made an unfortunate marriage, and the narrator's sensitive childhood, his fears and worries, and love for his mother. The second part takes place earlier, and details Swann falling hopelessly in love, and progresses through the stages of an unfortunate courtship. By the third section, we are back in the childhood of the narrator, when he has met Swann's daughter in Paris and fallen head over heels in love with her with all the unspoken love of an eleven-year-old.

It's hard to know who to recommend this book to. It's certainly not for everyone. It needs a lot of patience, requires a lot of attention, but it richly rewarding for all that. But I wouldn't blame those who get frustrated with its slow place, either.

Crossposted to Smorgasbook (less)

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Jan 28, 2013 Ian Graye rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: proust, frogs, read-2013, reviews, reviews-5-stars

PART I

Spoilers

For reasons that will become apparent, my review focuses not on the plot of the novel, but on its style and themes.

If you want to develop your own relationship with these aspects of the novel, then it might be better to turn away now.

This is partly why I paid little attention to the excellent discussion group at Proust 2013, before writing my review.

“Swann’s Way” is one of the most personal books ever written, and I want to define my personal relationship with it, without viewing i...more

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Jan 21, 2008 Jessica rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition Recommends it for: rememberers of things past

Shelves: happyendings, love-and-other-indoor-sports, leetle-boys

AFTER:

Okay, well, I really screwed up my schedule this weekend, so now it's the latening am and nothing's happening for me in the sleep department. Honestly I can't think of a more appropriate time to review this book, which begins with insomnia.

This was great. It really was. Granted, it's not for everyone, but nor is it the rarified hothouse orchid cultured specifically and exclusively for an elite audience of fancy-pants dandies with endless supplies of Ritalin and time. This book is fascinati...more

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Apr 30, 2013 Richard rated it 5 of 5 stars

Book Circle Reads 145

Rating: 5* of five

The Publisher Says: Penguin really skimped on this one--Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time is one of the most entertaining reading experiences in any language and arguably the finest novel of the twentieth century. But since its original prewar translation there has been no completely new version in English. Now, Penguin Classics brings Proust's masterpiece to new audiences throughout the world, beginning with Lydia Davis's internationally acclaimed tra...more Book Circle Reads 145

Rating: 5* of five

The Publisher Says: Penguin really skimped on this one--Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time is one of the most entertaining reading experiences in any language and arguably the finest novel of the twentieth century. But since its original prewar translation there has been no completely new version in English. Now, Penguin Classics brings Proust's masterpiece to new audiences throughout the world, beginning with Lydia Davis's internationally acclaimed translation of the first volume, Swann's Way.

The Modern Library does a more creditable job of selling, IMO--Swann's Way tells two related stories, the first of which revolves around Marcel, a younger version of the narrator, and his experiences in, and memories of, the French town Combray. Inspired by the "gusts of memory" that rise up within him as he dips a Madeleine into hot tea, the narrator discusses his fear of going to bed at night. He is a creature of habit and dislikes waking up in the middle of the night not knowing where he is.

He claims that people are defined by the objects that surround them and must piece together their identities bit by bit each time they wake up. The young Marcel is so nervous about sleeping alone that he looks forward to his mother's goodnight kisses, but also dreads them as a sign of an impending sleepless night. One night, when Charles Swann, a friend of his grandparents, is visiting, his mother cannot come kiss him goodnight. He stays up until Swann leaves and looks so sad and pitiful that even his disciplinarian father encourages "Mamma" to spend the night in Marcel's room.

My Review: There is nothing I can add to the reams and reams and reams of verbiage-covered e-inked cyberpaper discussing the merits and demerits (yes, of course there are some of those) of this book. I'm not that interested in engaging in right-versus-wrong debates about books. A review is an opinion. Mine of this book is: Luminously lovely sentences, as re-rendered by the outstanding artist Lydia Davis, wrapping themselves in sinuous and supple and sueded strands around one's neurons, creating new pathways that could never have existed without these almost unbearably mannered, overripe, narcotically slowly orgasmic images and sensations related in smooth sentences of subtle, complex, resonant crystal chiming language.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.(less)

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Jun 04, 2012 Sparrow rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition Recommends it for: Twilight fans

Shelves: monsters, utopia-dystopia, slaves, on-a-dare, motherless-daughters, disturbing, reviewed, under-read-gems

Painting of Swann, by David Richardson, with the caption, 'I gave the bitch a cattleya; bitches love cattleyas.'

(Painting of Swann, by David Richardson)

In some ways, maybe, both love and destruction come to us, seek us out, and we are powerless to pursue or avoid them. I tend to think that is not the case, but I am often wrong, and I am too willing to make grand pronouncements about life to be unwilling to be called wrong. Or, as my friend says of herself, I am never wrong because if I hear an idea that is better than mine, I change my mind to that idea, and then I am right again. Anyway, in Swann’s Way,...more

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Feb 25, 2013 Jeffrey Keeten rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

”At the hour when I usually went downstairs to find out what there was for dinner...I would stop by the table, where the kitchen-maid had shelled them, to inspect the platoons of peas, drawn up in ranks and numbered, like little green marbles, ready for a game; but what most enraptured me were the asparagus, tinged with ultramarine and pink which shaded their heads, finely stippled in mauve and azure, through a series of imperceptible gradations to their white feet--still stained a little by the...more

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Mar 29, 2013 Fionnuala rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Eheu fugace, Postume, Postume, labuntur anni Horace

When I reached the final pages of Du Côté de chez Swann, I knew that I hadn’t finished a book but rather, that I’d simply begun one, that what I’d read were only the first chapters of a much longer work and that reading through the entire seven volumes of A la Recherche du Temps Perdu would be, to borrow one of Proust’s favourite images, like travelling on a very long and very beautiful train.
Therefore, what I had achieved so far was simply to...more Eheu fugace, Postume, Postume, labuntur anni Horace

When I reached the final pages of Du Côté de chez Swann, I knew that I hadn’t finished a book but rather, that I’d simply begun one, that what I’d read were only the first chapters of a much longer work and that reading through the entire seven volumes of A la Recherche du Temps Perdu would be, to borrow one of Proust’s favourite images, like travelling on a very long and very beautiful train.
Therefore, what I had achieved so far was simply to wander through the first few carriages of this train where I met with some intriguing passengers and overheard some curious conversations. I admired the different decor in each carriage while recognising the common elements that recurred from one to the next. I encountered some of the passengers more than once as they moved about from one section of the train to another, backwards and forwards as they pleased. I gazed from the windows of each carriage and spotted familiar landmarks, now on the left, now on the right. I noticed that the landscape seemed unchanging at times and yet the passengers now wore different clothing. At other times, it was the scenery that was different while the preoccupations and conversations remained the same. And so I wondered if the train was not on some hugely complex orbit around a central point, passing over and back, revolving in both space and time. Because, although Proust loved the precision of railway timetables, the chronology of this narrative is very, very mobile. At the beginning, I found this distracting but now I’ve accepted that alongside clock time and calendar time, there is Proust time and that there may be many more meanings to Temps Perdu than the obvious one of ‘lost time’.
I find it significant that many episodes in the early sections of this work occur around Pâques or Easter. When we remember that Easter is not a fixed date in the calendar, that it is a mobile feast, falling on the Sunday following the full moon which itself follows the Spring equinox and which in turn depends on the earth’s orbit around the sun, then the series of Easter times in the narrative become as difficult to pin down on a calendar as the resurrection of memories from a wafer of tea-soaked cake.
But Proust has such a keen sense of how nature responds in each season that, while we rarely know the exact date of any particular episode, we do know exactly where the episode is situated in nature’s calendar. During the many Easters of the narrative, the weather is remarkably consistent even though it may be March in one and April in another. Proust talks repeatedly of the types of flowers which bloom around Easter, and the miracle of the renewal of nature. Aubépine or hawthorn is a favourite, the thorns of the new growth tinged with pink in a subtle Good Friday analogy. Boules de neige or viburnum are mentioned too for their parallel with Easter weather when snow showers can occur as easily as sunshine. In this way, we are reminded that Easter has more than religious significance, that plants too are influenced by the equinox, that the earth has its own renewal calendar and that Proust time is cosmic time.
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Jun 16, 2010 karen rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: i-am-reading-proust, my-summer-of-classix, littry-fiction

so i figured i would finally read me some proust, get in touch with my roots or whatnot. and i have to say, for my introduction, it was kind of a mixed bag. the first part i had real problems with. i am not a fan of precocious or sensitive children, so the whole first part was kind of a wash for me. i know, that's terrible, right?? here is this Monument of Great Literature, and i am annoyed, as though i were watching some children's production of oklahoma, or any musical, really. (shudder) there...more

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May 07, 2013 Garima rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: to-re-read

OVERTURE

For a long time I used to read really bad books. I have mentioned this before but it’s more like a reminder for me about how much 'bad' bad can get and how much 'good' reading good books feels like. DAMN GOOD! I owe my knowledge of all those good books entirely to goodreads. So as far as I was concerned, the last quarter of 2012 was all about reading Infinite Jest, about David Foster Wallace and about reading and loving him. But there was another name that was doing the rounds of this ha...more
OVERTURE

For a long time I used to read really bad books. I have mentioned this before but it’s more like a reminder for me about how much 'bad' bad can get and how much 'good' reading good books feels like. DAMN GOOD! I owe my knowledge of all those good books entirely to goodreads. So as far as I was concerned, the last quarter of 2012 was all about reading Infinite Jest, about David Foster Wallace and about reading and loving him. But there was another name that was doing the rounds of this happening corner of our beloved Goodreads. Proust. Proust what? Yes! The level of my ignorance was so baffling that I started my questions with what instead of who. A quick look at the reviews gave me a fair idea that Proust is someone I should have read a long time ago but right place, right time and all that jazz made me join the Proust Group (Great Group) and reading it is what I did.

SLEEPVILLE

So, this is what it feels like. When almost all your friends highly praise a book but when you get around reading it you can’t understand what the fuss is all about and the emotion one experience is something close to envy, envying the fact that you can’t appreciate something as much as others do. Proust basically made me sleep. The brilliance of his prose is so evident that one can’t ignore it even deliberately but I had a hard time getting myself interested in what he was saying. Each turn of the page was usually marked by this long, eye watering yawn and left me embarrassed at my own insensitivity. I was bored, I was restless and I freaked out at the idea of reading more than 600 pages of something I was not exactly beginning to 'love'. I started reading all the negative reviews (Paul Bryant never disappoints) to find some solace in them. I laughed at the 'cookie' jokes too and the biggest problem: I wasn’t looking for any motivation to read it. I found the group too intimidating with sooo much information around that I gave up the idea of even going through any of the ongoing discussions but then I’m a lousy group reader anyway. However, there was no question of abandoning this book because like I mentioned, the writing is to die for. I briefly considered stalling it for future read but I was waiting for somebody to fall in love.

GARIMA IN LOVE (?)

But sometimes the motivation is found in the most unlikely circumstances and when you’re least prepared for it. A lazy weekend, a movie and a quote:

Dwayne: I wish I could just sleep until I was eighteen and skip all this crap-high school and everything-just skip it.
Frank: You know Marcel Proust?
Dwayne: He’s the guy you teach.
Frank: Yeah. French writer. Total loser. Never had a real job. Unrequited love affairs. Gay. Spent 20 years writing a book almost no one reads. But he’s also probably the greatest writer since Shakespeare. Anyway, he uh… he gets down to the end of his life, and he looks back and decides that all those years he suffered, Those were the best years of his life, ’cause they made him who he was. All those years he was happy? You know, total waste. Didn’t learn a thing. So, if you sleep until you’re 18… Ah, think of the suffering you’re gonna miss. I mean high school? High school-those are your prime suffering years. You don’t get better suffering than that.

A change in perspective is what followed next and this was at a time I was about to begin with 'Swann in Love' part. Among all the adjectives at my disposal, I went with Serendipity because what else could it be? These small sentimental things does happen because they does matter and soon I found that Proust was finally talking to me. He was speaking my language about which I greatly cared for. I felt for him because he gave voice to the emotions I have experienced myself. It was so easy to say that this man couldn't be anything else but a writer. And I was finally in love, too. I marked quotes after beautiful quotes but not including any of them here because this is more like a whining article for most part than a proper review. Proper and awesome reviews are written by Kalliope, Aubrey, Fionnuala, Sven, Ian and many others. So here’s the deal I have done with myself: To carefully read this volume again before moving to other volumes and appreciate the beauty of not only the words but what they signify and have a nice French vacation in Proust Land. I won’t give sleep much of a chance and will rather spend my time in literary sightseeing. And then, I’ll post a review this book truly deserves.
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Feb 20, 2013 Kyle rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: favorites, classics-in-2013, alphabet-challenge

My first experience with Proust, in the form of this first volume of his, Swann's Way has, to say the least, been other than what I expected when I began this journey through Lost Time; even beyond the act of overwhelming my expectations, Proust has permeated my life in ways I never could have before imagined, especially since, before this foray through his masterpiece, I knew next to nothing about Proust or his work, let alone the risks of unintentional effects upon my very being. An obvious ef...more My first experience with Proust, in the form of this first volume of his, Swann's Way has, to say the least, been other than what I expected when I began this journey through Lost Time; even beyond the act of overwhelming my expectations, Proust has permeated my life in ways I never could have before imagined, especially since, before this foray through his masterpiece, I knew next to nothing about Proust or his work, let alone the risks of unintentional effects upon my very being. An obvious effect upon myself is my willingness to extend sentences to previously explored lengths, not only with the hope that what I'm saying still remains intelligible, but because, as I continually notice, "regular" sized sentences have become dull, more dry, more obvious in their shortness, and they ultimately produce in me the tendency to notice the absence of, and to miss, Proust's unique and beautiful way of communicating. Another effect this work has had on me so far, is the level to which I have become more perceptive of the world around me: the expression on a face, the turn of a mouth, the angle of a building's lines, and with this increased perceptiveness my world has become much fuller, of sounds, sensations, and thoughts, all of which strike me as being so essential now; I do not know how I truly lived without them before.

Though Proust's way of writing may be unsettling for someone unprepared for it, it is entirely accessible (more so than I initially thought), and should never be confused with simple affectation, like it is with the verbiage of this review; Proust may use many words, but he wastes none. With the most simple observation, facial expression, or turn of a phrase, Proust exposes, illuminates, and anatomizes the traits and behaviors which make us human, as though we social creatures were simply projects on his dissection table. Though a sentence of his may last half of a page, Proust is more than capable of writing in one simple phrase what other writers spend entire novels attempting to cover, and, with Proust's sentences being so long, he brings to them a certain intangible beauty, unlike this review which is simply ugly in comparison to Proust's dreamy prose, and if the reader has made it this far through it, they must be applauded or scorned, depending upon whether the reader's progress so far can be attributed to determination, or simply a lack of anything better to do. Proust would be able to tell us which case is most true, and it would be beautifully put.

Yet, do not confuse his analysis of humans with a judgement upon them, for, as we continue to read more and more of Proust's work, we find within his narration the perfect openness; there are no good people or bad people, there are simply people, each with their own motivations, thoughts, desires, hopes, dreams, and all of them are worthy of our examination. In Swann's Way, we focus mainly upon two figures: our narrator at a younger age, who allows we readers insight into his memories of the war which raged in his head over the issue of his mother's bedtime kisses, and, of course, Swann himself, the sorta dashing, sorta charming, sorta smart, rich guy who becomes... involved, with a woman. Through the exploration of these two simple, yet oddly connected, situations, Proust forces us to come to terms with the thoughts, actions, and motivations of ourselves as though we were in the same situation- or perhaps, as though we were able to access our own memories of times when we were in similar situations- and by coming to terms with, and by becoming closer to, ourselves, Proust brings us closer to our fellow man. We begin to recognize ourselves in each other, we forgive each other for our flaws and mistakes, and we hope that, perhaps one day, we can manage to maneuver ourselves through the world around us with an adroitness which allows us to draw pleasure and satisfaction from the world, in lieu of pain, jealousy, or disappointment.

Who knows? Maybe even one day I will manage to write a review that's actually worthy of Proust.(less)

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Feb 26, 2013 Richard rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: proustiana, david-likes-it-so-it-must-be-great, re-reads, reviewed

This is the second time I have read Du côté de chez Swann (Swann's Way). The first time was in college, during a course on twentieth century literature, when we were assigned the first two sections ("Combray"* and "Un amour de Swann"; I later read the last section so that I could at least say I'd finished the book). I got very confused about the philosophical and aesthetic concepts in the book, probably because I was trying to write an enormously complicated paper comparing Proust with Gide, Sar...more

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Feb 01, 2013 Mala rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: classic-ever-enduring-appeal, 2013-the-year-of-reading-proust

Review of Swann's Way by Marcel Proust.
Shelf: 2013- The year of Reading Proust,Classic- ever-enduring-appeal.
Recommended for: Lit lovers.

"narratives we have written inside of us, those that make us who we are."

There are books that we are supposed to read or our reading is not taken to be complete- it's like the seven wonders of the world-you may choose not to visit them but seeing them will somehow make you a part of their cultural heritage & history. Proust's ISOLTis one such cultural landm...more

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Nov 30, 2007 Koeeoaddi added it Recommends it for: patient, thoughtful people

Shelves: ditched, partially-read

I really wanted to like this book, but I just kept dozing off. Lovely poetic nothing happens for page after gorgeous page, while the the Jurassic era becomes the Cretaceous, colonies of brachiopods harden into cliff faces and the cool afternoon sun slants in on the morning of the Cenozoic.

I think someone eats a cookie.

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Mar 11, 2013 Rakhi Dalal rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Recommended to Rakhi by: Kris

Shelves: favorites

“But it was also by the force of inertia; there was in his soul that want of adaptability which can be seen in the bodies of certain people who, when the moment comes to avoid a collision, to snatch their clothes out of reach of a flame, or to perform any other such necessary movement, take their time (as the saying is), begin by remaining for a moment in their original position, as though seeking to find in it a starting-point, a source of strength and motion.”

The unflinching pursuance of mind,...more “But it was also by the force of inertia; there was in his soul that want of adaptability which can be seen in the bodies of certain people who, when the moment comes to avoid a collision, to snatch their clothes out of reach of a flame, or to perform any other such necessary movement, take their time (as the saying is), begin by remaining for a moment in their original position, as though seeking to find in it a starting-point, a source of strength and motion.”

The unflinching pursuance of mind, en route the labyrinthine alleys of memory, arouse an ardor to regain that which is far and lost. Thence seeketh the eyes, those moments which necessitate one to remain in one’s original position. Those moments, which engender vigor to let clear the aisle for the memories to ascend, ensnare and leave you mesmerized. How fortunate it is to find those moments in the most exquisite and enticing prose to have ever been written! A delicacy, for the famished soul to behold and savor!

Those exigent moments, hence brought forth by the reading of this work, seized the present and rendered those lovely ones, hidden in the recesses of heart. A stroll with the narrator turned the steeple into an old building, madeline into a sweet dish entwining the warmth of the lovely soul by whom it was prepared and 'that corner at the street' into a long lost point in past which still possesses me as a child. Lovely moments, all of them, more so because they are gone and are never to return except in memories.

“Somewhere in one of the tall trees, making a stage in its height, an invisible bird, desperately attempting to make the day seem shorter, was exploring with a long, continuous note the solitude that pressed it on every side, but it received at once so unanimous an answer, so powerful a repercussion of silence and of immobility that, one would have said, it had arrested for all eternity the moment which it had been trying to make pass more quickly.”

These beautiful lines inspire a motive to seek solitude and hence, plunge deep into thoughts, explore and contemplate on what is imperative to existence. Living everyday or letting life happen? Somewhere a midst the chaos, the madness of everyday life, the moments which mean the most to us, are unconsciously ignored and forgotten. It is these moments which we keep looking for and searching for long after they are gone. And then in a desperate attempt to evade the remorse, we sadly end up in the state of more acute awareness of the loss.

Proust, is not only aware of such moments, but he lets them linger on…in life…..in memories.…in writing…so that seekers like us can look upon them in amazement and in return be rewarded with the pleasure of going through the ones we have long lost…

The dearth of words on my part purport the extent, to which my heart is exhilarated and wishes to remain still some time longer in those moments. Let me linger on some more……
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Feb 22, 2013 Madeleine rated it 4 of 5 stars

Shelves: maybe-it-s-time-to-live, books-with-buttons, head-in-the-clouds-nose-in-a-book, our-libeary, there-s-no-i-in-group-read, mmxiii

I came into The Year of Proustifarian Delights accompanied by a vague dread, worried that I was embarking upon a seven-book voyage of joyless obligation that would ultimately prove I have too much dullard in me to chug along with anything other than the empty appearance of rapt literary euphoria. I feared that I'd be approaching these books like they were the kind of high-school required reading that sucks all the fun from the one pastime that's stuck with me ever since I learned how to unlock t...more I came into The Year of Proustifarian Delights accompanied by a vague dread, worried that I was embarking upon a seven-book voyage of joyless obligation that would ultimately prove I have too much dullard in me to chug along with anything other than the empty appearance of rapt literary euphoria. I feared that I'd be approaching these books like they were the kind of high-school required reading that sucks all the fun from the one pastime that's stuck with me ever since I learned how to unlock the English language's secret treasures more than two decades ago. Because one of my lifelong constants has also been unflagging self-doubt.

So imagine the flood of relief I felt when this book turned out to be the most pleasant surprise I've ever encountered in my literary travels.

By all rights, I should have hated this first volume of "In Search of Lost Time." I don't really have it in me to care that much about a precocious child's mommy issues. I am not at all interested in the trifling concerns of society-obsessed folk. And I absolutely want nothing to do with a bitterly hostile love affair, especially when it comes to watching its ugliness unfold from an insider's vantage point (seriously, Swann, what the everlasting fuck).

But here I stand on the other end of a book that brought me such needless apprehension, thoroughly enchanted by the magic Proust worked with "Swann's Way." His beautiful, seamless storytelling has proven that just about anything can make for a powerfully intoxicating reading experience when crafted by a master wordslinger. It's not just Proust's dazzling language that is the lone source of this novel's charms, though. That would be too easy. It's the ideas, the connections, the tangible humanity that proves our species' nature hasn't changed all that much in a century. That even with our nifty gadgets we're slaves to our lost pasts and need for love. That all anyone really wants is a little affirmation of our personal worth at the end of the day.

The emotions here are absolutely palpable. If I couldn't outright understand the rises and falls in a character's moods and luck, I sure could sympathize. Far from being banal, each moment of lowest woe and highest elation were the very stuff comprising the whole of the human experience. I wanted to reach across time (and, you know, the boundaries of fiction) to hug little Marcel when he was so thoroughly caught up in the tragedy of being denied his mother's nightly kiss just as much as I wanted to celebrate with Swann over the onset of a seemingly loving romance (before I wanted to kick him in the ass for mistaking obsession for affection, knowing from my own failed relationships how that unhealthy need for complete possession of another person ends).

The celebration of nature, music, food, books and human memory are all songs I know well. I found myself rereading passages not for a want of understanding but for the sheer joy of burrowing into some of the most achingly gorgeous prose I've ever had the joyful abandonment of losing myself in. Tell me more about thoroughly alien architecture! Describe in loving detail the perfumes and rainbow palate of spring to dull the pain of my American winter! Remind me that others have marveled over how a song that once embodied a love's rapturous early days can bring nothing but fresh heartache until the heart can distance itself from such pain to rediscover the melody's own merit as a living piece of art!

My only complaint? This book made me feel too much. Every stab of loss, every bad decision, every mawkish pity-party dragged me right along with the fictional person wallowing in such emotional dregs. It got exhausting.

Still. A round of hurrahs for the book that drove me to self-mastication and the discovery that, while I am sadly not as tasty as the teacakes of my shared appellation, this beautiful book sure is. (less)

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Feb 28, 2013 Ian Graye rated it 1 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: frogs, proust, read-2013, reviews, reviews-1-star

DJ Ian Digests the Classics in 50 Words or Less

Every time this French geezer has a piece of sponge cake, he remembers some tart who sponged off one Charles Swann many years ago. (1), (2), (3)

(1)(view spoiler)

(2)(view spoiler)

(3)(view spoiler)...more

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Oct 15, 2011 Mariel rated it 5 of 5 stars Recommends it for: Marcelpuials

Recommended to Mariel by: Proustitutes

Alternative Celebrity Death Match round versus The Fellowship of the Ring.
My great eye counts the stars in the sky. One burns less bright today, less if today is today and more if not yesterday or tomorrow. I have no fingers to count the days. That other super villain, that Count Von Count, laughs as he enumerates.
I remember when that star was born new, when it was a part of the constellation that long dead men named after their beloved pooch, Fido, guiding them home to slippers and newspapers,...more Alternative Celebrity Death Match round versus The Fellowship of the Ring.
My great eye counts the stars in the sky. One burns less bright today, less if today is today and more if not yesterday or tomorrow. I have no fingers to count the days. That other super villain, that Count Von Count, laughs as he enumerates.
I remember when that star was born new, when it was a part of the constellation that long dead men named after their beloved pooch, Fido, guiding them home to slippers and newspapers, in a land and time before it was mine, when theirs was news more than the encroaching end. Lidless, the flames drying the unwept tears from the corners of my one eye. What will be me without me? I am not whole, the amputated does not remember to move without its whole. Time has stolen my precious. Is time that amputated limb that goes on twitching once it has been hacked off?
My eye cannot shut so I do not dream to change the days. I see dogs as they are snatched up by the hungry hands for the hopeless stomachs of men. Are they colorblind, those dogs? Will they eat anything, men? I squint the eye in the sky that is my tower. The tower built to blot out the sky and see all, and nothing. Tower made of blood, tower made of bone. My bread, my butter. Waterless, lifeless, you are what you eat. My bodiless embodiment is 100% an ocean of skeletons that would litter the sea floor. Bones consumed by other bones. A carcass... If you are what you eat, they eat nothing and they are me, that nothing. My will bends on my missing pointless time. It was mine.
I lost count. One star... Does the dog see me and are the flames and my eye red? Can dogs see the reds? Can they see the greens of the shire, the leaves of the elves, the green money that is all the men care about? Orc shit is green. I see a lot of shit from my armies. Arms and leggies. Why are they not called leggies? Orcs can cover great distances in the nothing, that neverending story. I see their legs, they bend to the ground as if they would become a part of it once more. Not the top, it is always the bottom. Are they mine, those legs and those arms?
My stars... Starry sky tonight, starry sky at morning.
My rage summons a dragon to the sky. The wraiths, the smoke, those who would be dead and lost unto me. Blot out those stars. I only want to see one shine... My one. The one to rule with me, over them. My time, my life, my future. You and I are going to live forever [Yes, Sauron likes Oasis]. Green morning, green sky at night.
They are walking to their gray havens... It shines green to me like my skin when I tried on all of those fake one rings. What is so gray about the matter, that mass in the shell of those dying carcasses? Cannot they come back? It will fade to me what they meant to me when they are gone. I will read book after book to get it back and it will not be the same. Red eye...
I will be in every book you read. My face in the villains. I am what the hero strives against. I am be no more, but my lack is bigger than their whole. I am a point to shiver. I am the goosebumps. Is it fear, is it excitement? I am the points on the flesh, in those felt bumps. My eye reads the braille in the stars. Connect the dots. I lost count. What was in those stories? There's Fido... There's the dragon... What happened next? In the time... In the time of stories. The in between times, of fear and of dreaming. If only I could close this eye I could see if the Joker is upside down or right side up. He is both. Frown upside down. Smile upside down. Damned lenscrafters don't make anything for this.
It was precious to me. If I could get me back I wouldn't have to soak this dried up eye in tea just to cry about what I've lost. There's a cookie bit in there. Let me blink it out... It would have been nice to have been invited to at least second breakfast. Did they have good cookies? The cookie monster. The count! I know there were a lot of cookies. Big Bird no longer hugs me every morning. Have a wonderful day.
Bilbo has his There and Back Again, a Hobbit's Tale. What do I have? I have a burned out precious. The Precious Way. Treacherous... I still feel it on the end of the finger that connects to the wrist that connects to the arm to the funny bone I don't have to my shoulder and to my head. Why did I pull out my heart and put into this ring that I cannot have with me all of the time? How can a amputated memory be me?
I lose count... I lose...
Winner: The winner is me 'cause I've got the Prousty and the Tolkeinanator! They are my.... precccccccccccccciouuuuuuuusssssssssssssssessssssssss! (Forgot I had to get one of those in here. My apologies to the Sesame Street gang.)(less)

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Mar 09, 2011 tim rated it 5 of 5 stars

My goodness, Proust could write. Had he chosen to describe paint drying on a wall (which for all I know he did), he would have transformed that dull event into a profound experience as moving as a passionately executed piano sonata. At first I admit I wasn’t sure how I was going to do with the musings of an overly precocious mama’s boy. But it didn’t take long for me to respect Proust for introducing himself as an needy and overly-sensitive young boy. Such as when he would be sent upstairs to hi...more My goodness, Proust could write. Had he chosen to describe paint drying on a wall (which for all I know he did), he would have transformed that dull event into a profound experience as moving as a passionately executed piano sonata. At first I admit I wasn’t sure how I was going to do with the musings of an overly precocious mama’s boy. But it didn’t take long for me to respect Proust for introducing himself as an needy and overly-sensitive young boy. Such as when he would be sent upstairs to his bedroom before a dinner party and immediately begin writing long desperate letters to his mother, to be delivered to her by the family servant, in which he pleaded that she leave the party and come upstairs to give him one more goodnight kiss. A kiss which without he might not survive the night. It is with this unflattering honesty that I first became enamored with Proust. But it didn’t take long before finding myself mesmerized and swept completely away into the rest of his amazingly lush and artfully crafted world full of memories, time, music, light, and most of all, longing.

The middle section – Swann in Love – is by far my favorite of the three (not that any part of this book is anything less than, as David’s bookshelf implies: pants-crapping-awesome). Proust writes a fictionalized love affair about a friend of his family’s that takes place before Proust was born. Swann, an aristocratic Society man, begins seeing Odette, a woman aspiring to work her own way into High Society by frequenting one of the most fashionable Paris salons of the day. At first Swann is not as taken by Odette as she is with him, but slowly the tables turn (why does this seem to be such a common characteristic of human nature?) and Swann eventually finds himself helplessly under her spell while she secretly sees other people, spinning a web of lies to cover her less than noble behavior. Swann’s ensuing jealousy and heartache is so painfully real that I was unable to prevent an upwelling of memories from my own sordid past of failed love affairs. However painful it was to relive these provoked memories, Proust made me feel better about my own past poor choices. For Proust shows how helpless love can render us, how completely at its mercy we find ourselves. And that the experience from the inside of love can never be accurately understood from the outside. Swann’s love affair with Odette is most similar to those intense first loves of adolescence/young adulthood, which can blind us to the truth and leave us feeling like a shell of our former selves in the leftover wreckage. Although as Proust shows, love (and jealousy) can strike at any age. Yet when it leaves us high and dry, rarely do we stop seeking love out again. For no matter how devastating it can be, love’s rewards are too great to resist. Same goes for Proust’s words.

(less)

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Feb 11, 2013 Proustitute rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: classics, favorites, five-stars, french-literature, proust, proust-2013, 2013

(There are no "spoilers," I promise.)

Combray
"A sleeping man holds in a circle around him the sequence of the hours, the order of the years and worlds" — bedrooms; "the immobility of things" — habit — the magic lantern — weather; barometers — "Bathilde! Come and stop your husband from drinking cognac!" — the consolation of Mama's goodnight kiss — M. Swann — "our social personality is a creation of the minds of others" — "like good poets forced by the tyranny of rhyme to find their most beautiful...more (There are no "spoilers," I promise.)

Combray
"A sleeping man holds in a circle around him the sequence of the hours, the order of the years and worlds" — bedrooms; "the immobility of things" — habit — the magic lantern — weather; barometers — "Bathilde! Come and stop your husband from drinking cognac!" — the consolation of Mama's goodnight kiss — M. Swann — "our social personality is a creation of the minds of others" — "like good poets forced by the tyranny of rhyme to find their most beautiful lines" — "Since we tear the band off the newspaper so feverishly ever morning, they ought to change things and put into the newspaper, oh, I don't know, perhaps ... Pascal's Pensées!" — Françoise's "imperious" code — "that gesture" of Swann's "so like his father" — photographs and the "mechanical mode of representation" — George Sand — the Celtic belief of lost souls — the madeleine and tisane: "the truth I am seeking is not in the drink, but in me" — "the immense edifice of memory" — "a sort of twilight of flowers" — where everybody knows your name — "What, Françoise, more asparagus! Why, you've got a regular mania for asparagus this year." — the church at Combray — "it was always to the steeple that we had to return, always the steeple that dominated everything" — M. Legrandin, "the epitome of the superior man" — "in which Art allowed me a presentment of what it was," or actors' names — the lady in pink — Giotto's Virtues and Vices — the "different states of mind which my consciousness would simultaneously unfold while I read" — Bloch, barometers, Berma, and Bergotte's "mirrors of truth which were his books" — the etymological corruption of saints' names — Léonine's "little routine" — M. Vinteuil — "It was in the Month of Mary that I remember beginning to be fond of hawthorns" — "theatre in bed" — asparagus and chamber pots — Françoise's paradoxical pity — alter egos — the Méséglise way (the way by Swann's) and the Guermantes way — "blushing bodies undone by breath" — Gilberte among the pink hawthorns — "There's certainly a lot of music-making going on in that establishment" — the weather — Françoise's loyalty — "Zut, Zut, Zut, Zut" — landscapes; desire — sadism; voyeurism — the Vivonne — water lilies; neurasthenics — names; colors — "these dreams warned me that since I wanted to be a writer someday, it was time to find out what I was meant to write about" — Mme. de Guermantes — the depths of impressions — the two steeples of Martinville joined by Vieuxvicq's — "the smell of invisible, enduring lilacs"

Swann in Love
Mme. Verdurin's salon — Odette — "the bouquet of artificial pansies" — Dr. Cottard — "It's precisely the andante that completely paralyzes me" — the bronzes on the Beauvais couch — Vinteuil's "phrase or harmony ... that had opened his soul so much wider" — "a pure work of music contains none of the logical relationships whose alteration in language reveals madness" — Swann's connections — "a last chrysanthemum" — tea; cigarette cases; hearts — love and aesthetics — "searching for Eurydice" — straightening the cattleyas — "the little phrase had the power to open up within him the space it needed" — fashionable society — the Comte de Forcheville and Brichot — Cottard's "puns" — Dumas's Francillon and a Japanese salas — the effect of forbidden names on the little clan — "sonata-snake" — les cadeaux — "a painful need to master her entirely" — the bedroom light is on — "this strange phase of love" — jealousy; knowledge; letters — walking through the Bois imagining Chatou — "the Faubourg Saint-Germain's Noli me tangere" — the romance of railway timetables and the consolation of maps — Odette makes orangeade — Wagner — "the need to hear, and to understand, music" — preparations for absence — "his love was no longer operable" — M. de Charlus — influence — "Delightful—I'm turning into a real neurotic" — "We do not tremble except for ourselves, except for those we love" — Balzac's tigers — the staircase at the Marquise de Saint-Euverte's and "an empty milk can on a doormat" — men's monocles — the Princess des Laumes — "the phrases of Chopin with their sinuous and excessively long necks" — love; cholera — La Pérouse and the rue de La Pérouse — violins; "this body of sound" — an anonymous letter; suspicions — Théodore Barrière's Les Filles de Marbre — "Reality is therefore something that has no relation to possibilities, any more than the stab of a knife in our body has any relation to the gradual motions of the clouds overhead" — on the island in the Bois — "For what we believe to be our love, or our jealousy, is not one single passion, continuous and indivisible. They are composed of an infinity of successive loves, of different jealousies, which are ephemeral but by their uninterrupted multitude give the impression of continuity..." — brothel banter — Machard's portrait — Napoleon III and Forcheville "in the twilight of a dream" — retrospective presages

Place-Names: The Name
the bedroom at Balbec's Grand-Hôtel de la Plage — "the beauty of landscapes" — Gothic steeples and sea storms — place-names: "proper names like the names people have" — "the countries we long for occupy a far larger place in our actual life ... than the country in which we happen to be" — Gilberte in the Champs-Élysées — "we no longer love anyone else when we are in love" — imaginary letters — Bergotte on Racine — the name Swann — Mme. Blatin and Les Débats — the beauties in the allée des Acacias — Mme. Swann — "a veritable fever for the dead leaves" of the Bois de Boulogne — automobiles; changes in fashion; the passing of time — "The reality I had known no longer existed"(less)

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Nov 16, 2009 David Katzman rated it 5 of 5 stars Recommends it for: those who love to read, with patience

Shelves: all-time-favorites

I’m on a life raft floating across a sea of words, pulled into swirling tidal pools to observe the rich, vibrant forms spawning like phantasmagoric aliens (forms that once appeared mundane but only because, previously, no one had observed them as closely), pulled deep down by the undertow—note the hilarious mating habits in-situ of the foolish Parrot Fish—pulled out across hyaline waters sparkling like blue diamonds to drift peacefully in the doldrums before being abruptly dashed over great cata...more I’m on a life raft floating across a sea of words, pulled into swirling tidal pools to observe the rich, vibrant forms spawning like phantasmagoric aliens (forms that once appeared mundane but only because, previously, no one had observed them as closely), pulled deep down by the undertow—note the hilarious mating habits in-situ of the foolish Parrot Fish—pulled out across hyaline waters sparkling like blue diamonds to drift peacefully in the doldrums before being abruptly dashed over great cataclysms of horror and despair; I’m a fool, a madman, an obsessive-compulsive; I’m fragile like a porcelain flower, a mother whose son was taken from her before it could breast-feed; I’m a laser, a microscope, a telescope, a catalog, a representation of the inner life of an artist much deeper than any Portrait of. I am going Swann’s Way.

If one were a close observer of both (in)humanity and other (in)organic states with an addiction to the documentation of one’s thoughts, one might spend a lifetime writing a never-ending story in an inevitable (and eternally recurring in its inevitability because words can never capture the entirety of reality) failed attempt to capture all of life in a mad swoop. Much of literature (if not all) is an attempt to capture at least some corner of this life (whether it be outer or inner), but for Proust that corner bursts out tesseract to encompass the very existence of a man from childhood until elderhood through the prism of memory (and not just anyone’s memory, but clearly the memory of an autistic savant who can conjure up the texture of a grain of sand in the crease of the toe of a boot worn on the day a particular slant of light reached through a window that was normally closed but on this particular day was opened due to some certain random but explicable convergence of events). The unfurling of these thoughts is as delicate as the dance of a sea anemone in a gentle undersea breeze, if a breeze that occasionally rips the limbs off the anemone and taunts you with the inner juices dripping from the dismembered tentacle. At times, I could not take this torture, the agony and horror of Swann’s idiotic, naïve love (and, perhaps, even more so, the horror of seeing my own reflection in Swann’s way); and knowing how he ends up if not knowing how he gets to ending up that way (because I have not yet read the subsequent books of In Search of Lost Time), made it all the more painful. Thank Proust for the slapstick hypochondria of Auntie Leonie and the aristocratic wit and folly to brighten the murder of love.

Softly flowing linguistic slitherings mingle with crisp literary devices, even mundane ones—such as cliffhangers—profoundly philosophical musings that achieve near Zen-states of enlightenment, and an unparalleled grasp of language induces me to declare Swann’s Way to be the work of a schizophrenic witch, and the greatest work of literature ever written…and this is only book one. But nothing I’ve ever read, certainly, compares to it. Which isn’t to say I haven’t received a greater degree of pleasure from other works, but pleasure is not the only measure of success. In fact, as Buddhism would ask you to consider, pleasure is ephemeral and disappointing. One doesn’t read Proust for “fun.” One reads Proust to become lost, amazed, and weakened, to learn, struggle, and grow, and, in the end, to admire what it is possible to create with dedication and passion and skill.

On a final mundane note, I do highly recommend this edition. Although I have not read the Moncrieff version, based upon the quality of Lydia Davis’ gorgeous translation, and the notes in the preface regarding the errors and personal emendations made by Moncrieff to Proust’s writing, I would hazard that this is a superior version. Welcome to a peculiar world.(less)

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Oct 26, 2012 Paul marked it as assorted-rants-about-stuff

PROBABLY HOW NOT TO READ MARCEL PROUST

In series three of The Sopranos, Tony tells his therapist about his latest fainting spell which happened when he was cooking meat. Then he remembers his very first fainting spell, which happened a short time after he witnessed his father chop a guy's finger off with a meat cleaver. She says his very first attack happened when he short circuited after witnessing his parents’ sexuality, the violence and blood associated with the food he was about to eat, and t...more

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May 11, 2013 MoonButterfly rated it 4 of 5 stars

Shelves: 2013, literature, reviews, stars-rating-4

I knew nothing about Proust before I started this journey. I didn't know he was French; I didn't know this book was published in 1913; I did not even know what the book was about (yeah I know). So, I will call this The Dollar Store Review.

For a more refined experience see Kalliope's Review. They have read the book in French; they have read the biography; they were one of the moderators of the Proust group; in short, they know what they're talking about. Me, well, not so much - as will be appare...more

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Feb 09, 2013 Emma rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: translated, vive-le-france, i-like-you-a-normal-amount, proust-2013, ace

My name is Emma and I am a tea addict and a Proust Virgin.

Well, not anymore I'm not! I've only drunk 5 cups of tea today AND I have just finished Swann's Way. My life is turning around.

I had some pre-conceptions about Monsieur Proust; he lived in my ‘too difficult’ pile, along with Joyce and VAT. I never would have picked him up if it wasn’t for the group read on this site, I thought if I get stuck, ya’ll could explain what was the hell was going on.

Reading Swann’s Way turned out to be a uniqu...more

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Jan 18, 2010 Jen rated it 3 of 5 stars · review of another edition Recommends it for: smart and clever readers mad for musings

Recommended to Jen by: everyone smart and clever

I want to write that Proust changed my life. He seems to have been just what so many others needed (just check out the glowing, frothy-mouthed reviews from nearly everyone). Unfortunately, I missed something in my months long reading of Swann's Way: a point. I know, I know, there isn't one...and that in itself is a point. Right? No? Can't I just turn in my literary snob card now and not be banished from GR? Because I need a plot, some kind of dramatic something. Something that pretends to be ac...more

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Dec 01, 2008 Manny rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: french, too-sexy-for-maiden-aunts, older-men-younger-women, life-is-proust

I think my original impetus for reading this was Thomas Disch's excellent short story "Getting into Death". Finding out that she probably only has a few weeks to live, the heroine immediately goes out, buys an edition of Proust, and starts reading. She's only able to relax once she's finished. Well, clearly, it had to be pretty good, and maybe I shouldn't wait until the last month of my life.

OK... it IS pretty good! Like all truly great novels, it's also very strange. Proust is just interested i...more

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Jan 06, 2013 Nick Craske rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: i_haves_it, 2013_book_feast

One hundred years old, this book.

100.

I'm awed at the parallels with modern authors. I'm glad I have previously read W.G. Sebald, and love his style of writing; of conjuring memories and evoking fleeting feelings in vivid detail. And the blending of art, memoir, travelogue, history and fiction.

Knowing next-to-nothing about Proust or his Lost Time opus —and hardly having read any classic lit'— I was not anticipating feeling so enthralled(or to quote Proust in 'thraldom')

There are hardly any paragr...more

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Aug 23, 2007 Sam rated it 1 of 5 stars · review of another edition Recommends it for: no one

Shelves: readitjusttomakesureihateit

There wouldn't happen to be a Proust-Hater's Club around here, would there?

"Swann's Way" is awful. I kept hearing people fawn over it, so I read it all the way through, just to make sure. I am in the process of reading the entire set. There are so many books, each with so many ideas chained together, connected but disconnected, different, but headed in vaguely the same direction. It's like watching a freight train. No. It's like watching a freight train wreck.

Every time I hear another nitwit gus...more

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Aug 20, 2012 AC rated it 5 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Shelves: proust, novels-french-writers

(I finally found an hour today to read the last few pages. This is a marvelous translation -- Lydia Davis' - and I highly recommend it. It is a pity that she didn't do the subsequent volumes. The 'new' translation of volume II is by Mark Treharne, and the reviews are more mixed -- and, in any event, the book can't be bought on Kindle, where I'm reading it, in the United States. So much for cyberspace..... So I'll have to read volume two in the old Montcrieff - Montcrieff/Kilmartin even being una...more (I finally found an hour today to read the last few pages. This is a marvelous translation -- Lydia Davis' - and I highly recommend it. It is a pity that she didn't do the subsequent volumes. The 'new' translation of volume II is by Mark Treharne, and the reviews are more mixed -- and, in any event, the book can't be bought on Kindle, where I'm reading it, in the United States. So much for cyberspace..... So I'll have to read volume two in the old Montcrieff - Montcrieff/Kilmartin even being unavailable on Kindle until August 2011.)

"The walls of the houses, the Tansonville hedge, the trees of the Roussainville woods, the thickets at the back of Mountjouvain, submitted to the blows of my umbrella or walking stick, heard my shouts of joy, these being both merely confused ideas that exhilarated me and found no repose in the light of understanding, because they had preferred, instead of a slow and difficult clarification, the pleasure of an easier diversion towards an immediate outcome. Most of the supposed expressions of our feelings merely relieve us of them in this way by drawing them out of us in an indistinct form that does not teach us to know them...."

This is pure Descartes...
(http://www.amazon.com/METHOD-DESCARTE...)

And while many who read Proust will focus simply on the mood -- some of this is really the fault of Montcrieff, it must be said -- it is my view that what Proust offers us instead is rather what is fundamentally a Cartesian aesthetics: presenting the confused mass of sensation to the clarifying, distinguishing, ever dissecting and delimiting light of the understanding (intellectus)..., such that what results from the analysis is -- instead of an indistinct (and indistinguishable) mass -- is now rather a fully distinct and articulated whole.

I think this is quite deliberate -- and is very French.

Also interesting is his comparison later on with Dante --
"This water-lily was the same, and it as also like one of those miserable creatures whose singular torment, repeated indefinitely throughout eternity, aroused the curiosity of Dante, who would have asked the tormented creature himself to recount its cause and its particularities at greater length had Virgil, striding on ahead, not forced him to hurry after immediately..., as my parents did me."

(pause added)

Proust, for all his verbosity and intricacies, writes with great deliberation -- and has no difficulty drawing the reader's attention to key passages, key comparisons, and key images. Compare, e.g., the transcription of his first writing attempt of the three steeples, with the three farms that they see on the return from the walk on the Guermantes Way -- in each case, two huddling together, while the third lingers behind... -- with Proust and his parents... in the summer of his childhood.(less)

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knig AC, I am fascinated by your review. If you get a chance. I’d like to hear more on your comparison between Proust and Descartes. Its not one that came...more
Jan 22, 2013 09:41pm

AC knig wrote: "AC, I am fascinated by your review. If you get a chance. I’d like to hear more on your comparison between Proust and Descartes. Its not o...more
Jan 23, 2013 04:42pm

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BBCode	[url=http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12749.Swann_s_Way?utm_medium=api&utm_source=blog_book][img]http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1269255643l/12749.jpg[/img][/url] [url=http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12749.Swann_s_Way?utm_medium=api&utm_source=blog_book]Swann's Way by Marcel Proust[/url]

Swann's Way (À la recherche du temps perdu #1)

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