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Days of Reading

by Marcel Proust

3.80 · rating details · 153 ratings · 16 reviews

In these inspiring essays about why people read, Proust explores all the pleasures and trials that readers take from books and the joys of losing oneself in literature.

Paperback, 118 pages

Published October 27th 2009 by Penguin Books (first published 1906)

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Dec 10, 2009

Bram rated it

· review of another edition

Shelves: 2009, proustophilia

Since this book has yet to be reviewed on this site, I feel compelled to say something, but I also feel more comfortable making this a dry description rather than utilizing my usual erratic and not-so-informative approach. Days of Reading is a collection of five essays, one of which is heavily abridged from a longer work (“Against Sainte-Beuve”). These five essays cover four topics. We have criticism of Ruskin’s art and architecture criticism; two philosophical essays on the pleasures, edific...moreSince this book has yet to be reviewed on this site, I feel compelled to say something, but I also feel more comfortable making this a dry description rather than utilizing my usual erratic and not-so-informative approach. Days of Reading is a collection of five essays, one of which is heavily abridged from a longer work (“Against Sainte-Beuve”). These five essays cover four topics. We have criticism of Ruskin’s art and architecture criticism; two philosophical essays on the pleasures, edifications, and limitations of reading; some thoughts (basically just a few long quotations) on Sainte-Beuve and his (in)famous style of literary criticism; and some words on the first volume of Proust’s novel, Swann’s Way.

At the time I was reading this book I was concurrently reading a similar Penguin "Great Ideas" book by Ruskin made up of an excerpted work and a speech, and this work, on top of information provided in In Search of Lost Time and its volume introductions, gave me just enough knowledge to enjoy/get something out of the initial Proust essay. From what I can tell, Proust’s views on Ruskin evolved from early uncritical worship to sincere respect with a few major disagreements. Ruskin’s impact on Proust’s writing can’t be overstated: one only has to read a little of Ruskin’s work to grasp the degree of influence he had on Proust’s now-famous prose style. It’s also clear that, to a greater degree than anyone else, Ruskin influenced Proust’s particular aesthetic leanings in art. He showed him where to look and what to look for, and many of Proust’s favorite artists and paintings seem to line up with Ruskin’s favorites.

A key divergence, and not necessarily the only one, is that Proust loved Turner’s later and more abstract work, while Ruskin thought his early epic realism to be the absolute pinnacle of painting and considered the later works to be evidence of Turner’s declining moral and aesthetic mind. This example leads into the major philosophical difference between the two men: Ruskin conflates beauty and aesthetic perfection with moral perfection, and his criticism bears out these beliefs, whether he’s speaking of Turner or Gothic architecture. In fact, the majority of the Ruskin book I read, On Art and Life, is dedicated to explaining the characteristics of Gothic structures and joining these characteristics to philosophical ideas about the morality of human work and the human mind. Proust rejects this connection between aesthetics and morality while remaining respectful of Ruskin’s particular aesthetic brand of Christian faith. He admits that Ruskin’s incredible artistic passion and insight would not have been possible without this specific belief system.

Proust’s next two essays discuss the act of Reading, and when he’s reminiscing autobiographically, certain sections read like drafts of passages from In Search of Lost Time. As someone who hasn't done any serious Proust biography reading, this was kind of like stepping into the bizarro alternate world of The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past or Back to the Future II. The Meseglise Way has become Mereglise Way, Proust’s grandfather is still alive, Francoise has a different name. But when he’s discussing boyhood reading, everything else is quite similar, creating a weird, slightly-off déjà-vu effect. Outside the vague joys of re-immersion into Proust’s introspective writing, the one part of this essay that’s stuck with me is Proust’s warnings about reading idolatry—not exactly something I was expecting from someone who dedicated most of his life to creating a work that pretty much requires reader obsession to achieve reading completion. Proust views reading as a means to an end, and he considers it problematic (or less than ideal) to read just for the sake of reading or for enjoyment. It should be instigation for minds to develop their own original thoughts and produce their own original works. Only then is reading fulfilling its proper function. I found this part provocative, challenging and, as someone so enamored with Proust’s own work, somewhat censuring.

The excerpts from Proust’s work on Sainte-Beuve are so minimal as to be arguably pointless in their inclusion. These do, however, make clear Proust’s feelings about the critic. Essentially, Sainte-Beuve theorized that the best way to approach a literary work is to learn as much as possible about the author’s personal life. Proust thought this was bullshit, and his attacks on Sainte-Beuve and his theory range from lightly humorous to withering.

Finally, we’re left with a short essay of Proust discussing Swann’s Way and his plans for the entire novel (he blames the state of publishing for his having to put out volumes one at a time rather than all at once). I found it interesting that he openly and deftly discusses his major theme of Lost Time, which was obviously well thought-out long before he completed (or almost completed) his entire work. Other specifics are escaping me at this point, but any fans of In Search of Lost Time would find this particular essay illuminating (and mercifully concise), even if they remain uninterested in the rest of this eclectic little collection.

In the end, I’d probably recommend against picking this book up as an introduction to Proust, unless, perhaps, you skip over Ruskin to the essays on reading and to the final essay on his masterwork. There’s nothing here to really sell this guy’s strong points, most of which take time to reveal themselves. Diehards probably don’t need much encouragement, but speaking as a recent convert, this is interesting (although not essential) stuff that will frequently remind you why you fell for that cork-encompassed dilettante in the first place. (less)

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Jul 23, 2011

Andreea rated it

· review of another edition

This tiny book isn't quite what the cover and most readers make it out to be. It's not a beautiful, lyrical eulogy to reading (although the first 10 or so pages are very beautiful and remind one of the beginning of Swann's Way), it's a passionate refutation of the idea that reading classics by itself is the best way to educate yourself - which Ruskin supported in Sesame and Lilies (among many other equally foolish and hideously chauvinistic ideas). I suspect that the book is a bit confusing to r...more

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Jul 06, 2011

Kelly rated it

· review of another edition

Recently I've discovered another joy/time-waster in Google land.

http://books.google.com/books?id=MntRxmw...

No, it's definitely not that story specifically that's the draw. It's the spying factor, scoping out the rotten apples. By gum, there is more than I imagined. Well, I was already on to what this guy was gutsy enough to actually write on a blog.

http://ebv.blogspot.com/2008/05/stepheni...

What great pleasure I derive from now being able to catc...more

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Aug 19, 2010

Ben Loory rated it

· review of another edition

yeah, i don't know... proust. his sentences are so long and flowing and beautiful, i fall asleep every three or four paragraphs. but every now and then i wake up and take notice and he's saying something really cool. of course, it mostly has to do with ruskin or sainte-beuve or somebody else i haven't read, so mostly i just feel dumb and resentful. but then, at the very end, there's this:

Style is not at all an embellishment as certain people think, it is not even a matter of techniqu...more

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Oct 30, 2008

Núria rated it

· review of another edition

Recommends it for: cualquier lector

Shelves: no-ficcion, mios, 4-muy-buenos, literatura-en-frances, siglo-xx

El único libro de Proust que he podido terminar es este librito sobre el placer de la lectura. Una delicia recomendable para todos los que disfrutan de la lectura. La leí en la facultad y me ayudó a entender realmente por qué leía.

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Jun 21, 2010

Laala Alghata rated it

· review of another edition

I left too large a gap between when I finished this book and writing this review, so forgive me, it’s going to be vague.

The book was split into two parts, the first half was on John Ruskin, and the second was on reading.

The minute I turned the page and saw that the first essay was on Ruskin and was really glad I had just finished On Art and Life and had some sort of understanding of what Ruskin was like as a writer and art critic. I loved him. So I was glad someone with...moreI left too large a gap between when I finished this book and writing this review, so forgive me, it’s going to be vague.

The book was split into two parts, the first half was on John Ruskin, and the second was on reading.

The minute I turned the page and saw that the first essay was on Ruskin and was really glad I had just finished On Art and Life and had some sort of understanding of what Ruskin was like as a writer and art critic. I loved him. So I was glad someone with Proust’s genius was writing about Ruskin’s genius. I find it fascinating when men like Proust admire other men. I mean, Ruskin definitely deserved it, but when you think of people you admire, you forget sometimes that they had idols, too. They didn’t crawl out, fully formed, speaking in Latin and Greek and staring down at people.

One thing I took away from reading this is how much deeper I could’ve read Ruskin, and all of the greats I read. I don’t exactly surface-read, I am not so shallow as that, but I rarely really dig into passages any more. I’ve been reading more instead of more intently.

I liked this section and it definitely highlighted some great parts of Ruskin. It was also beautifully written. But all in all, I was glad when I got to the next section, Days of Reading. It is here I found a great affinity with Proust.

Sometimes, as a reader, especially in today’s world, you feel like you might be the last one standing. Other people read, sure, but very few people I know read with the vigour I do, or the vigour I’ve found in others on tumblr. Proust speaks of being completely engrossed in a book, and how one learns from it. He went on for pages about summers where he would fit everything else around his reading, from lunch to bed. The easy way in which he related his childhood habits made me very happy, because it was the exact same for me. There’s a rush that you get when someone you admire took the same course you took.

It’s wonderful, and a great introduction to Proust without having to brave Swann’s Way immediately.
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May 14, 2010

Catherine added it · review of another edition

"Then the last page had been read, the book was finished. The frantic career of the eyes and of the voice which had been following them, noiselessly, pausing only to catch it's breath, had to be halted, in a deep sigh. And then, so as to give the turbulence loose inside me for too long to be able to still itself other movements to control, I would get up and start walking up and down by my bed, my eyes still fixed on some point that might have been looked for in vain either inside the room ...more"Then the last page had been read, the book was finished. The frantic career of the eyes and of the voice which had been following them, noiselessly, pausing only to catch it's breath, had to be halted, in a deep sigh. And then, so as to give the turbulence loose inside me for too long to be able to still itself other movements to control, I would get up and start walking up and down by my bed, my eyes still fixed on some point that might have been looked for in vain either inside the room or without, for it was the distance of a soul away, one of those distances not to be measured in meters or miles, unlike others, and which it is impossible moreover to mistake for them once one sees the 'remote' stare of those whose thoughts are 'elsewhere'. Was there no more to the book than this then? These creatures on whom one had bestowed more attention and affection than on those in real life, not always daring to admit to what extent you loved them, and even, when my parents found me reading and seemed to smile at my emotion, closing the book with studied indifference or a pretence of boredom; never again would one see these people for whom one had sobbed and yearned, never again hear of them. Already in the last few pages, the author himself, in his cruel 'Epilogue', had been careful to 'space them out' with an indifference not to be credited by anyone who knew the interest with which he had followed them hitherto, step by step. The occupation of each hour of their lives had been narrated to us. Then all of a sudden [...:] One would have so much liked for the book to continue or, if that was impossible, to have other fact about all these characters, to learn something of their lives now, to employ our own on things not altogether unconnected with the love they have inspired in us, whose object was now all of a sudden gone from us, not to have loved in vain, for an hour, human beings who tomorrow will be no more than a name on a forgotten page...

...reading cannot be assimilated in this way to a conversation, even with the wisest of men; that the difference essentially between a book and a friend lies not in their greater or lesser wisdom, but in the manner in which we communicate with them, reading being the reverse of conversation, consisting as it does for each one of us in receiving the communication of another's thought while still being on our own, that is, continuing to enjoy the intellectual sway which we have in solitude which conversation dispels instantly, and continuing to be open to inspiration, with our minds still at work hard and fruitfully on themselves. [...:] But although I think that reading, in its original essence, in the fertile miracle of a communication effected in solitude, is something other than what Ruskin says that it is, I do not for all that think that one can alow it the preponderant role in out spiritual lives which he seems to assign it.

Indeed it is one of the great and characteristics of good books (which will give us to see the role at once essential yet limited that reading may play in our spiritual lives) that for the author they may be called 'Conclusions' but for the reader 'Incitements'. We feel very strongly that out own wisdom begins where that of the author leaves off, and we would like him to provide us with answers when all he is able to do is provide us with desires. And he can only awaken these desires by making us contemplate the supreme beauty to which the utmost efforts of his art have enabled him to attain."(less)

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Oct 13, 2010

John Wha rated it

· review of another edition

Intro to Marcel Proust, picked it up on the counter of Strand and got sucked into how he described things.... Launched me into Swann's Way and I still feel like half of what he's saying flies over my head. Love it though.

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Jun 08, 2010

Marielle Jian Aspa rated it

· review of another edition

“In reading, friendship is suddenly brought back to its original purity. There is no false amiability with books. If we spend the evening with these friends, it is because we genuinely want to. We often take leave of them, at least, only with regret.”

Books would remain as my friends for as long as I read them. I would neglect them for a day, take a break off for a week, a month or a year perhaps, but there would always be a time that I would go back through them and join them again in ...more

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Nov 20, 2011

Dave C rated it

· review of another edition

The first essay on Ruskin was slow-going, but gave a decent overview of the man. The Days of Reading essay had bits of genius tucked inside of Proust's flowery language.

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May 10, 2011

pearl marked it as to-read · review of another edition

God, why does this look so good.

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Aug 03, 2011

Steve Mitchell rated it

· review of another edition

The basic conclusion here is that time spent reading is never wasted; I could not agree more!

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Oct 07, 2010

Deb rated it

http://bookconscious.wordpress.com/2010/...

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May 12, 2011

KJ rated it

· review of another edition

A very short (for Proust) essay on why we read, why it is important to read, and why those of us who read find it really annoying when those of you who AREN'T reading interrupt us when we ARE reading. It was worth reading just to find that passage, for me.

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Sep 11, 2010

Burcu rated it

· review of another edition

Read it in Turkish: a nice brief read, perfect for a chilled out evening. Maybe even a warm-up to "À la recherche du temps perdu"

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Apr 25, 2011

Oneflwover rated it

"Reading is on the threshold of the spiritual life; it can introduce us to it: it does not constitute it."

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Feb 07, 2012

Sophia rated it

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Shelves: non-fiction

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About Marcel Proust

French novelist, best known for his 3000 page masterpiece À la recherche du temps perdu (Remembrance of Things Past or In Search of Lost Time), a pseudo-autobiographical novel told mostly in a stream-of-consciousness style. Born in the first year of the Third Republic, the young Marcel, like his narrator, was a delicate child from a bourgeois family. He was active in Parisian high society during t...more

More about Marcel Proust...

Books by Marcel Proust

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

In Search of Lost Time (The Modern Library: complete 6-volume edition)

Remembrance of Things Past: Volume I - Swann's Way & Within a Budding Grove

In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower (In Search of Lost Time, #2)

The Guermantes Way (In Search of Lost Time, #3)

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“Forse non ci sono giorni della nostra adolescenza vissuti con altrettanta pienezza di quelli che abbiamo creduto di trascorrere senza averli vissuti, quelli passati in compagnia del libro prediletto. Tutto ciò che li riempiva agli occhi degli altri e che noi evitavamo come un ostacolo volgare a un piacere divino: il gioco che un amico veniva a proporci proprio nel punto più interessante, l’ape fastidiosa o il raggio di sole che ci costringevano ad alzare gli occhi dalla pagina o a cambiare posto, la merenda che ci avevano fatto portar dietro e che lasciavamo sul banco lì accanto senza toccarla, mentre il sole sopra di noi diminuiva di intensità nel cielo blu, la cena per la quale si era dovuti rientrare e durante la quale non abbiamo pensato ad altro che a quando saremmo tornati di sopra a finire il capitolo interrotto[...]” — 4 people liked it

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