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On Reading by Marcel Proust
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Jul 06, 11

Read from June 25 to 30, 2011

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

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.

What great pleasure I derive from now being able to catch the english language pilferers before I get garroted, it's precious time saved for the good stuff. The good kind of heart-ripping truth. Like...Proust.

Ticket for easy interpretation- Admission One

In mia familia, course plots was dreaded drivel. Characters without character got the sack. So if one of us wanted to pick up a Koontz, Harris, or King then we were SOL for a ride back home. Reading was a family affair (was as in the loss of literary drive via loss of childhood. No excuse, but there you have it).

No one was going to back me up in any pursuit of dysfunctional vampires, female outcast protagonists who seemed to have nothing better to do than whine, manical teenage protagonists, clique-chicks, my-boyfriend-turned-into-a-zombie-and-I've-got-to-slay-him.

Ah, the strawberry wine under a summer moon that is an angsty, teenager-dom. And as I navigated my morning miles with Marcel, I fully felt the seductiveness that is social-literary martyrdom. To quote from memory some horrific experiences as a kid when I "stopped" reading trash would be a big fat stretch. But in some corners of the globe, there are some instances where a kid just can't talk books with their friends anymore. M. over there was reading Sara Shepard. I was reading the Complete Emily Dickenson.

It was just a blackberry hill to toss myself down is all. And Monsieur Proust brought that back to me, but in a revelation, not a demnation. And this man touched me with his scenery. I could have sworn that he was not reading a book about a crusade, but about African beetles, and in quick succession, poisonous snakes of Australia. Charm-the-pants-off woodcuts danced across my pages, slow afternoon light doused the floors and walls behind me as my cherub fingers tried to hold the succulent pear away from the page but close to my searching (and missing) mouth.

I was not to be pulled away, fiction or non-fiction. This was an absolute necessity. My sister had her stinging cuts, band-aids, and sand-pit fights. I had my sword to lift to a wyrm's gut, a field that needed tilling, a lynching to prevent. Young, so very young, Proust knew this. And he sprinted with it.
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message 1: by Esteban (new)

Esteban del Mal Nice.

Kelly Tee. Thanks. :)

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