2018: Our Year of Reading Proust discussion

Quotes, excerpts, passages > from volume 1

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message 1: by Lori (last edited Jan 01, 2018 09:34AM) (new)

Lori (lorifw) | 40 comments Mod
two quotes from Combray:
1. un homme qui dort, tient en cercle autour de lui le fil des heures, l'ordre des annees et des mondes." When a man is asleep, he has in a circle round him the chain of the hours, the sequence of the years, the order of the heavenly hosts."
Note: I'm not sure how Lydia Davis translates this- the Moncrief adds in 'chain' and heavenly hosts' which feels a bit heavy- handed, rather than something like 'the thread of hours, the order of years and worlds." But this quote feels elemental. It's like the man is in the center of the clock, watching the hands of the clock ticking, turning around him as he lives his life- encircling him. So it's not like a life envisioned as a straight line, but something that creates the container for the life lived. This feels perfect for the introduction- with the descriptions of rooms- as if time itself is the container, or the space within which we live.

I've also always loved when Marcel's great aunt teases the grandmother- "Bathilde, viens donc empecher ton mari de boire du cognac" (Bathilde! Come in and stop your husband drinking brandy!") Proust's humorous commentary on family.

message 2: by Dan (new)

Dan I'd totally agree that "When a man is asleep . . ." is a core quote. This is from page 3 or 4 in the book. This early section used to be call Overture and goes on for thirty or 40 pages until we get to little Marcel.

You can easily read this as "When a man is unaware. . ."
The character is encircled by the chain of hours and days and the world as it is.

To a large extent, this whole book is about breaking through that circle of plain old memory. Proust has, in fact, completed his search — before beginning to write the book.

message 3: by Kelly (last edited Feb 23, 2018 06:59PM) (new)

Kelly (k_llyi) | 8 comments Made it to the introduction of Bergotte in the Combray chapter today and really loved the few pages before that where Marcel talks about how fiction supplements real experiences because the events & people it depicts are distilled into an essence -- and how reading collapses time such that feelings you'd undergo over a long duration are syncopated into really strong and punctually felt experiences:

none of the feelings which the joys or misfortunes of a 'real' person awaken in us can be awakened except through a mental picture of those joys or misfortunes; and the ingenuity of the first novelist lay in his understanding that, as the picture was the one essential element in the complicated structure of our emotions, so that simplification of it which consisted in the suppression, pure and simple, of 'real' people would be a decided improvement. A 'real' person, profoundly as we may sympathise with him, is in a great measure perceptible only through our senses, that is to say, he remains opaque, offers a dead weight which our sensibilities have not the strength to lift. If some misfortune comes to him, it is only in one small section of the complete idea we have of him that we are capable of feeling any emotion; indeed it is only in one small section of the complete idea he has of himself that he is capable of feeling any emotion either. The novelist's happy discovery was to think of substituting for those opaque sections, impenetrable by the human spirit, their equivalent in immaterial sections, things, that is, which the spirit can assimilate to itself. After which it matters not that the actions, the feelings of this new order of creatures appear to us in the guise of truth, since we have made them our own, since it is in ourselves that they are happening, that they are holding in thrall, while we turn over, feverishly, the pages of the book, our quickened breath and staring eyes. And once the novelist has brought us to that state, in which, as in all purely mental states, every emotion is multiplied ten-fold, into which his book comes to disturb us as might a dream, but a dream more lucid, and of a more lasting impression than those which come to us in sleep; why, then, for the space of an hour he sets free within us all the joys and sorrows in the world, a few of which, only, we should have to spend years of our actual life in getting to know, and the keenest, the most intense of which would never have been revealed to us because the slow course of their development stops our perception of them. It is the same in life; the heart changes, and that is our worst misfortune; but we learn of it only from reading or by imagination; for in reality its alteration, like that of certain natural phenomena, is so gradual that, even if we are able to distinguish, successively, each of its different states, we are still spared the actual sensation of change.

message 4: by Kelly (new)

Kelly (k_llyi) | 8 comments I just finished Swann's Way, and I think this was my favorite passage:

He knew that his memory of the piano falsified still further the perspective in which he saw the music, that the field open to the musician is not a miserable stave of seven notes, but an immeasurable keyboard (still, almost all of it, unknown), on which, here and there only, separated by the gross darkness of its unexplored tracts, some few among the millions of keys, keys of tenderness, of passion, of courage, of serenity, which compose it, each one differing from all the rest as one universe differs from another, have been discovered by certain great artists who do us the service, when they awaken in us the emotion corresponding to the theme which they have found, of shewing us what richness, what variety lies hidden, unknown to us, in that great black impenetrable night, discouraging exploration, of our soul, which we have been content to regard as valueless and waste and void. Vinteuil had been one of those musicians. In his little phrase, albeit it presented to the mind's eye a clouded surface, there was contained, one felt, a matter so consistent, so explicit, to which the phrase gave so new, so original a force, that those who had once heard it preserved the memory of it in the treasure-chamber of their minds. Swann would repair to it as to a conception of love and happiness, of which at once he knew as well in what respects it was peculiar as he would know of the Princesse de Clèves, or of René, should either of those titles occur to him. Even when he was not thinking of the little phrase, it existed, latent, in his mind, in the same way as certain other conceptions without material equivalent, such as our notions of light, of sound, of perspective, of bodily desire, the rich possessions wherewith our inner temple is diversified and adorned. Perhaps we shall lose them, perhaps they will be obliterated, if we return to nothing in the dust. But so long as we are alive, we can no more bring ourselves to a state in which we shall not have known them than we can with regard to any material object, than we can, for example, doubt the luminosity of a lamp that has just been lighted, in view of the changed aspect of everything in the room, from which has vanished even the memory of the darkness. In that way Vinteuil's phrase, like some theme, say, in Tristan, which represents to us also a certain acquisition of sentiment, has espoused our mortal state, had endued a vesture of humanity that was affecting enough. Its destiny was linked, for the future, with that of the human soul, of which it was one of the special, the most distinctive ornaments. Perhaps it is not-being that is the true state, and all our dream of life is without existence; but, if so, we feel that it must be that these phrases of music, these conceptions which exist in relation to our dream, are nothing either. We shall perish, but we have for our hostages these divine captives who shall follow and share our fate. And death in their company is something less bitter, less inglorious, perhaps even less certain.

So Swann was not mistaken in believing that the phrase of the sonata did, really, exist. Human as it was from this point of view, it belonged, none the less, to an order of supernatural creatures whom we have never seen, but whom, in spite of that, we recognise and acclaim with rapture when some explorer of the unseen contrives to coax one forth, to bring it down from that divine world to which he has access to shine for a brief moment in the firmament of ours. This was what Vinteuil had done for the little phrase. Swann felt that the composer had been content (with the musical instruments at his disposal) to draw aside its veil, to make it visible, following and respecting its outlines with a hand so loving, so prudent, so delicate and so sure, that the sound altered at every moment, blunting itself to indicate a shadow, springing back into life when it must follow the curve of some more bold projection. And one proof that Swann was not mistaken when he believed in the real existence of this phrase, was that anyone with an ear at all delicate for music would at once have detected the imposture had Vinteuil, endowed with less power to see and to render its forms, sought to dissemble (by adding a line, here and there, of his own invention) the dimness of his vision or the feebleness of his hand.

The phrase had disappeared. Swann knew that it would come again at the end of the last movement, after a long passage which Mme. Verdurin's pianist always 'skipped.' There were in this passage some admirable ideas which Swann had not distinguished on first hearing the sonata, and which he now perceived, as if they had, in the cloakroom of his memory, divested themselves of their uniform disguise of novelty. Swann listened to all the scattered themes which entered into the composition of the phrase, as its premises enter into the inevitable conclusion of a syllogism; he was assisting at the mystery of its birth. "Audacity," he exclaimed to himself, "as inspired, perhaps, as a Lavoisier's or an Ampere's, the audacity of a Vinteuil making experiment, discovering the secret laws that govern an unknown force, driving across a region unexplored towards the one possible goal the invisible team in which he has placed his trust and which he never may discern!" How charming the dialogue which Swann now heard between piano and violin, at the beginning of the last passage. The suppression of human speech, so far from letting fancy reign there uncontrolled (as one might have thought), had eliminated it altogether. Never was spoken language of such inflexible necessity, never had it known questions so pertinent, such obvious replies. At first the piano complained alone, like a bird deserted by its mate; the violin heard and answered it, as from a neighbouring tree. It was as at the first beginning of the world, as if there were not yet but these twain upon the earth, or rather in this world closed against all the rest, so fashioned by the logic of its creator that in it there should never be any but themselves; the world of this sonata. Was it a bird, was it the soul, not yet made perfect, of the little phrase, was it a fairy, invisibly somewhere lamenting, whose plaint the piano heard and tenderly repeated? Its cries were so sudden that the violinist must snatch up his bow and race to catch them as they came. Marvellous bird! The violinist seemed to wish to charm, to tame, to woo, to win it. Already it had passed into his soul, already the little phrase which it evoked shook like a medium's the body of the violinist, 'possessed' indeed. Swann knew that the phrase was going to speak to him once again. And his personality was now so divided that the strain of waiting for the imminent moment when he would find himself face to face, once more, with the phrase, convulsed him in one of those sobs which a fine line of poetry or a piece of alarming news will wring from us, not when we are alone, but when we repeat one or the other to a friend, in whom we see ourselves reflected, like a third person, whose probable emotion softens him. It reappeared, but this time to remain poised in the air, and to sport there for a moment only, as though immobile, and shortly to expire. And so Swann lost nothing of the precious time for which it lingered. It was still there, like an iridescent bubble that floats for a while unbroken. As a rainbow, when its brightness fades, seems to subside, then soars again and, before it is extinguished, is glorified with greater splendour than it has ever shewn; so to the two colours which the phrase had hitherto allowed to appear it added others now, chords shot with every hue in the prism, and made them sing. Swann dared not move, and would have liked to compel all the other people in the room to remain still also, as if the slightest movement might embarrass the magic presence, supernatural, delicious, frail, that would so easily vanish. But no one, as it happened, dreamed of speaking. The ineffable utterance of one solitary man, absent, perhaps dead (Swann did not know whether Vinteuil were still alive), breathed out above the rites of those two hierophants, sufficed to arrest the attention of three hundred minds, and made of that stage on which a soul was thus called into being one of the noblest altars on which a supernatural ceremony could be performed. It followed that, when the phrase at last was finished, and only its fragmentary echoes floated among the subsequent themes which had already taken its place, if Swann at first was annoyed to see the Comtesse de Monteriender, famed for her imbecilities, lean over towards him to confide in him her impressions, before even the sonata had come to an end; he could not refrain from smiling, and perhaps also found an underlying sense, which she was incapable of perceiving, in the words that she used. Dazzled by the virtuosity of the performers, the Comtesse exclaimed to Swann: "It's astonishing! I have never seen anything to beat it..." But a scrupulous regard for accuracy making her correct her first assertion, she added the reservation: "anything to beat it... since the table-turning!"

message 5: by Elizabeth (new)

Elizabeth | 232 comments How old is the Narrator when he plays with Gilberte in the Champs-Elysees? Throughout the novel his age is never stated except is the vaguest terms...

message 6: by April (new)

April | 290 comments Elizabeth wrote: "How old is the Narrator when he plays with Gilberte in the Champs-Elysees? Throughout the novel his age is never stated except is the vaguest terms..."

as old as he could work out an ejaculation when playing with Gilberte there.

Sorry for the language, but it is true.

message 7: by April (new)

April | 290 comments Lori wrote: "two quotes from Combray:
1. un homme qui dort, tient en cercle autour de lui le fil des heures, l'ordre des annees et des mondes." When a man is asleep, he has in a circle round him the chain of t..."

“I've also always loved when Marcel's great aunt teases the grandmother- "Bathilde, viens donc empecher ton mari de boire du cognac" (Bathilde! Come in and stop your husband drinking brandy!") Proust's humorous commentary on family.”

is Aunt Léonie Marcel's aunt or great aunt? I saw both, and confused.

message 8: by Elizabeth (new)

Elizabeth | 232 comments Tante Leonie is no kind of aunt at all: the Narrator (in "Combray") says "My grandfather's cousin--by courtesy my great-aunt, with whom we used to stay, was the mother of that Aunt Leonie..."

Now, there are two real great-aunts; the Narrator's Grandmother's batty sisters, but Tante Leonie is sort of a cousin-how-many-times-removed...

I assume that he is taught to call her (as well as her mother) "Aunt" to avoid the scandal of (ghasp) calling them by their first names, as one usually does with cousins...they being older ladies, and he being a child.

Actually, I had the same problem as a child. My father was 53 when I was born, and as a result, most of my cousins were middle-aged when I was a child, and people were scandalized when they heard me address them familiarly...(this was the 50's).

message 9: by April (new)

April | 290 comments Elizabeth wrote: "Tante Leonie is no kind of aunt at all: the Narrator (in "Combray") says "My grandfather's cousin--by courtesy my great-aunt, with whom we used to stay, was the mother of that Aunt Leonie..."


Oh! Thanks!

Like your story too. Behind some of the small things, at least appearing so, there are stories.

message 10: by Elizabeth (new)

Elizabeth | 232 comments Colette--herself a great writer--awaited the publishing of each volume of ISOLT and read them avidly, saying (as it were) "Boy, I wish I could do this!" She also has a vivid portrait of Proust one or two years (or less) before his death; it's...deathless.

message 11: by Lori (last edited Jun 16, 2018 11:46AM) (new)

Lori (lorifw) | 40 comments Mod
In the book Proust's Cup of Tea: Homoeroticism and Victorian Culture the author talks about the meaning of tante as 'queen' or gay man. And the taking of tea as follows in the citation /explanation below (all of which I find quite interesting)


"This "avuncular" aesthetic lineage, which also includes a shady uncle and the elusive figure of Charles Swann, is established in the famous dipping of the madeleine in the tea, a sort of mnemonic "open sesame" that sets the novel in motion when, one day, Marcel suddenly recalls the flavor of herbal infusions of his childhood and, by extension, the lost paradise of his aunt's house. According to queer theorists such as Jarrod Hayes--a young scholar whose essay "Proust in the Tearoom" appeared in 1995 in the Proceedings of the Modern Language Association, suggesting that even tea can acquire a gay meaning in Proust--"the paradise regained by Proustian memory could be Sodom." Tea parties, teacups, teapots, and tearooms turn out to have a decidedly gay inflection. Secondary sources such as Paris Gay 1925 and Colin and Mevel's Dictionnaire de l'argot reveal that the word theiere (teapot) "first appeared in print with a homosexual connotation in 1890, prendre le the (to have tea) in 1910 and tasse (teacup)." Put it all together, and voila: every time Proust mentions the signifiant tea, he is of course thinking of its gay signifie."

Note to qualify my comment: I'm not a fan of reductive reading, so I take all this as just one part of the whole. Clearly Tante Leonie as a character embodies so much more than this one aspect. There is so much humor and love in the depiction of Leonie.

And the parallels between the narrator as little boy in his room on an upper floor and Leonie in hers -- and Francoise taking care of both-- are wonderful.

message 12: by FEDERICO TREJOS (new)

FEDERICO TREJOS | 3 comments I have found finishing Swann’s way a quite unique esoteric world of memory in which Proust is intoxicated with memory in a parallel universe. So many micro events & sensibilities, one feels lost in the magic hands of time, what it takes or leaves or transforms, and makes in the wake a series of possibilities of experience being recreated in the memory as if still present in a true transcendental cues of taste.

message 13: by Elizabeth (new)

Elizabeth | 232 comments Memory, time, transformations...it's all there.

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