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بروست
كتاب "بروست" هو فعل فهم حيث يَبرزُ، في الوقت ذاته، العملُ الأدبي المفهوم والذي فهمه، في هذا الفهم يشاركُ الإدراك، كلّهُ، الحساسيّةُ، الحدْسُ والفكاهة. تتدخّل الفكاهةُ تحديداً في الأسلوب، بكونها محمولة على محيط البحث. يترك صمويل بيكيت الاضطرابَ يُهدهدُ جملتَه، بالوتيرة ذاتها التي لدى بروست: في الوقت ذاته إشارة وطريقة في فهم ما يتحدّث عنه بشكل أفضل. ثمة فهمٌ أيضاً في الانتقاء الذي يقوم به بيكيت بالترجمة الشخصية لاقتباسات بروست، بالرغم من توفّر ترجمات سكوت مونكريف (Scott Moncrieff) منذ 1922. و يبرز صمويل بيكيت هنا كممرّر للكلمات غير الاعتيادية التي سيُعترفُ له بها لاحقاً.
سنستغرب لكون صمويل بيكيت، الذي صار الكاتب المزدوج الذي نعرفه، مترجماً ومبدعاً جديداً لأعماله بهذه أو بتلك اللّغة، لم يترجم هو ذاته كتابه عن "بروست" إلى الفرنسيّة. قيل مراراً إنه كان ينكر دائماً هذا العمل الذي أنجزه في شبيبته. في الحقيقة، إن هذا الترفّع تجاه عمله ثابت لديه. فبمجرّد انفصالها عنه، تصبحُ هذه الأعمال مزعجة له: صفحاتٍ مطويّة، آثارَ زوبعةٍ رمليّة.
سنستغرب لكون صمويل بيكيت، الذي صار الكاتب المزدوج الذي نعرفه، مترجماً ومبدعاً جديداً لأعماله بهذه أو بتلك اللّغة، لم يترجم هو ذاته كتابه عن "بروست" إلى الفرنسيّة. قيل مراراً إنه كان ينكر دائماً هذا العمل الذي أنجزه في شبيبته. في الحقيقة، إن هذا الترفّع تجاه عمله ثابت لديه. فبمجرّد انفصالها عنه، تصبحُ هذه الأعمال مزعجة له: صفحاتٍ مطويّة، آثارَ زوبعةٍ رمليّة.
63 pages, ebook
First published January 1, 1931
35 people are currently reading
2581 people want to read
About the author
Samuel Beckett
918 books6,559 followersNovels of Samuel Barclay Beckett, Irish writer, include
Murphy
in 1938 and
Malone Dies
in 1951; a wider audience know his absurdist plays, such as
Waiting for Godot
in 1952 and
Krapp's Last Tape
in 1959, and he won the Nobel Prize of 1969 for literature.
Samuel Barclay Beckett, an avant-garde theater director and poet, lived in France for most of his adult life. He used English and French. His work offers a bleak, tragicomic outlook on human nature, often coupled with black gallows humor.
People regard most influence of Samuel Barclay Beckett of the 20th century. James Augustine Aloysius Joyce strongly influenced him, whom people consider as one modernist. People sometimes consider him as an inspiration to many later first postmodernists. He is one of the key in what Martin Esslin called the "theater of the absurd". His later career worked with increasing minimalism.
People awarded Samuel Barclay Beckett "for his writing, which—in new forms for the novel and drama—in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation".
In 1984, people elected Samuel Barclay Bennett as Saoi of Aosdána.
Samuel Barclay Beckett, an avant-garde theater director and poet, lived in France for most of his adult life. He used English and French. His work offers a bleak, tragicomic outlook on human nature, often coupled with black gallows humor.
People regard most influence of Samuel Barclay Beckett of the 20th century. James Augustine Aloysius Joyce strongly influenced him, whom people consider as one modernist. People sometimes consider him as an inspiration to many later first postmodernists. He is one of the key in what Martin Esslin called the "theater of the absurd". His later career worked with increasing minimalism.
People awarded Samuel Barclay Beckett "for his writing, which—in new forms for the novel and drama—in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation".
In 1984, people elected Samuel Barclay Bennett as Saoi of Aosdána.
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May 28, 2021
Il est curieux de lire le texte de l’un des plus grands auteurs irlandais du XXème siècle sur l’un des plus grands auteurs français de la génération précédente. Deux auteurs, en outre, dont les styles sont absolument à l’opposé l’un de l’autre. Curieux également que ce texte, écrit en anglais, soit pratiquement introuvable dans sa langue d’origine… (Fort heureusement, on peut encore assez facilement en obtenir la traduction française, aux Éditions de Minuit). Proust est un texte de jeunesse, écrit en 1930, alors que Beckett était lecteur d’anglais à la rue d’Ulm. A l’évidence, il s’agit d’une monographie sur l’auteur de la Recherche du temps perdu, commandée par l’éditeur anglais de la traduction de Scott Moncrieff.
L’essentiel de l’analyse de Beckett porte sur les dichotomies métaphysiques présentes dans le récit proustien. L’opposition entre mémoire volontaire et mémoire involontaire, illustrée, entre autres, par l’épisode de la madeleine dans Du côté de chez Swann – tellement célèbre qu’il a désormais la dimension d’un poncif. Autre tension, parallèle à la première, que Beckett identifie chez Proust : l’Idée opposée au concept, qui fait de Proust une sorte de romancier platonicien – argument qui sera repris par la suite par Gilles Deleuze dans Proust et les signes. Sont intéressantes également les réflexions de Beckett sur le temps et l’habitude – qui renvoient sans doute, sans le citer, au De l'habitude de Félix Ravaisson.
Beckett décrit également et éclaire avec acuité certains épisodes ou trames essentielles de la Recherche, notamment la relation tragique entre le narrateur et l’Albertine multiple, ou celle entre le narrateur et sa grand-mère. Tristes duos qui ont peut-être été des sources d’inspiration pour Vladimir et Estragon (En attendant Godot) ou pour Hamm et Clov (Fin de partie). En tout cas, ça mériterait d’être examiné…
Le plus frappant dans tout ça, ce ne sont pas tellement les observations littéraires de Beckett au sujet de Proust. Le plus étonnant c’est de voir le jeune Beckett a l’ouvrage, se faisant les dents sur Proust, et d’observer la genèse d’une œuvre ultérieure. D’une part, Beckett n’hésite pas à choisir (provisoirement) son camp littéraire – plutôt du côté de Baudelaire, de Dostoïevski et des poètes symbolistes – et à se faire des ennemis : le naturalisme en général, André Gide ou Jean Cocteau, plus particulièrement, qui prennent un ou deux camouflets au passage.
D’autre part et surtout, le style de Beckett est ici à l’opposé de l’austérité narrative et de l’écriture minimaliste de son œuvre plus tardive (en français, cette fois, traduit en anglais par ses soins). Les phrases longues et les descriptions exubérantes abondent, ainsi que les références obscures et érudites – Dante et Schopenhauer sont cités, dans le texte, une page sur deux. On sent que Beckett est encore un jeune homme bouillonnant, qui se cherche dans l’imitations de ses ainés : Proust sans doute, mais aussi et peut-être surtout Joyce, qu’il connaissait bien. Son sens de l’humour et ses phrases mordantes comportent des notations souvent triviales et peu ragoutantes : « L’habitude est l’ancre qui enchaîne le chien à son vomi » (p. 29). Bref, les traits spécifiques de l’œuvre de Beckett sont là, en germe, et font le charme essentiel de ce livre.
L’essentiel de l’analyse de Beckett porte sur les dichotomies métaphysiques présentes dans le récit proustien. L’opposition entre mémoire volontaire et mémoire involontaire, illustrée, entre autres, par l’épisode de la madeleine dans Du côté de chez Swann – tellement célèbre qu’il a désormais la dimension d’un poncif. Autre tension, parallèle à la première, que Beckett identifie chez Proust : l’Idée opposée au concept, qui fait de Proust une sorte de romancier platonicien – argument qui sera repris par la suite par Gilles Deleuze dans Proust et les signes. Sont intéressantes également les réflexions de Beckett sur le temps et l’habitude – qui renvoient sans doute, sans le citer, au De l'habitude de Félix Ravaisson.
Beckett décrit également et éclaire avec acuité certains épisodes ou trames essentielles de la Recherche, notamment la relation tragique entre le narrateur et l’Albertine multiple, ou celle entre le narrateur et sa grand-mère. Tristes duos qui ont peut-être été des sources d’inspiration pour Vladimir et Estragon (En attendant Godot) ou pour Hamm et Clov (Fin de partie). En tout cas, ça mériterait d’être examiné…
Le plus frappant dans tout ça, ce ne sont pas tellement les observations littéraires de Beckett au sujet de Proust. Le plus étonnant c’est de voir le jeune Beckett a l’ouvrage, se faisant les dents sur Proust, et d’observer la genèse d’une œuvre ultérieure. D’une part, Beckett n’hésite pas à choisir (provisoirement) son camp littéraire – plutôt du côté de Baudelaire, de Dostoïevski et des poètes symbolistes – et à se faire des ennemis : le naturalisme en général, André Gide ou Jean Cocteau, plus particulièrement, qui prennent un ou deux camouflets au passage.
D’autre part et surtout, le style de Beckett est ici à l’opposé de l’austérité narrative et de l’écriture minimaliste de son œuvre plus tardive (en français, cette fois, traduit en anglais par ses soins). Les phrases longues et les descriptions exubérantes abondent, ainsi que les références obscures et érudites – Dante et Schopenhauer sont cités, dans le texte, une page sur deux. On sent que Beckett est encore un jeune homme bouillonnant, qui se cherche dans l’imitations de ses ainés : Proust sans doute, mais aussi et peut-être surtout Joyce, qu’il connaissait bien. Son sens de l’humour et ses phrases mordantes comportent des notations souvent triviales et peu ragoutantes : « L’habitude est l’ancre qui enchaîne le chien à son vomi » (p. 29). Bref, les traits spécifiques de l’œuvre de Beckett sont là, en germe, et font le charme essentiel de ce livre.
June 13, 2025
'One only loves that which is not possessed, one only loves that in which one pursues the inaccessible.'
The first part of this book which focuses on Proust’s ‘In Search of Lost Time’, is an abstract philosophical essay or more like an interpretation à la Beckett.
In Proust, Beckett examines the themes of memory, time and 'self' and studies Proust’s and through Proust his own frame of mind and perspective on life and art.
Time-a condition of resurrection because an instrument of death;
Habit-an infliction in so far as it opposes the dangerous exaltation of the one and a blessing in so far as it palliates the cruelty of the other;
Memory -a clinical laboratory stocked with poison and remedy, stimulant and sedative : from Him the mind turns to the one compensation and miracle of evasion tolerated by His tyranny and vigilance. This accidental and fugitive salvation in the midst of life may supervene when the action of involuntary memory is stimulated by the negligence or agony of Habit, and under no other circumstances, not necessarily then. Proust has adopted this mystic experience as the Leitmotiv of his composition.
The second part of the book consists of Beckett’s 3 dialogues with the French author Georges Duthuit and revolves around modern art, its purpose and meaning and the modern artist’s dilemma regarding 'too much expression and not expressing enough'.
These imaginary dialogues focus on the painters Pierre Tal Coat, André Masson and Bram van Velde.
The expression that there is nothing to express, nothing with which to express, nothing from which to express, no power to express, no desire to express, together with the obligation to express.
The first part of this book which focuses on Proust’s ‘In Search of Lost Time’, is an abstract philosophical essay or more like an interpretation à la Beckett.
In Proust, Beckett examines the themes of memory, time and 'self' and studies Proust’s and through Proust his own frame of mind and perspective on life and art.
Time-a condition of resurrection because an instrument of death;
Habit-an infliction in so far as it opposes the dangerous exaltation of the one and a blessing in so far as it palliates the cruelty of the other;
Memory -a clinical laboratory stocked with poison and remedy, stimulant and sedative : from Him the mind turns to the one compensation and miracle of evasion tolerated by His tyranny and vigilance. This accidental and fugitive salvation in the midst of life may supervene when the action of involuntary memory is stimulated by the negligence or agony of Habit, and under no other circumstances, not necessarily then. Proust has adopted this mystic experience as the Leitmotiv of his composition.
The second part of the book consists of Beckett’s 3 dialogues with the French author Georges Duthuit and revolves around modern art, its purpose and meaning and the modern artist’s dilemma regarding 'too much expression and not expressing enough'.
These imaginary dialogues focus on the painters Pierre Tal Coat, André Masson and Bram van Velde.
The expression that there is nothing to express, nothing with which to express, nothing from which to express, no power to express, no desire to express, together with the obligation to express.
June 13, 2025
I gave this book to my Mom in the twilight of her life when, overburdened by the sheer stress of taking on the entire work of managing a large public library with minimal delegation of its knotty problems to her subordinates, she needed relief.
I thought this would help, but it didn't.
No, for my Mom never grasped the raison d'etre of its existentialism, which was for her only utter hopelessness.
She refused to go there.
But Beckett did - oh, did he ever! And so did I at first. For, broken into depressive pieces by the Nazi occupation of France, he saw bleakness everywhere, in spades. And I did at my breakdown.
But - and this is key - we had learned a lesson from the Search for Lost Time: how to REGAIN time, and so to STOP IT.
Carlos Castaneda and Proust both discovered that way: to live (or relive, as Proust does) our life through our experiences as intensely as possible!
But Beckett hadn't done that completely. He was like I, a broken old Aspie, have been: a casualty of the Via Negativa.
Beckett - like Bachelard - chose the Philosophy of No.
Not Proust, though. He sorted through his life experiences gently and sensitively, like an archaeologist of the deeper historical strata of Time.
He didn't get frustrated like me and Beckett.
To paraphrase Eliot, we can only make sense of our (or the world's) past, through the experience of its timeless moments: "only through time, time is conquered."
And STOPPED.
But Beckett never understood that (though came close in Murphy, contemporaneous with this) and so misunderstood Temps Perdu -
And I am still learning how to live my life as a life redeemed, and so to read Proust's Lost Time in its redeeming plenitude.
Did Beckett get that far?
Perhaps, though even his answer - like this book - would be cryptic, alas.
Samuel Beckett must forever remain a mystery!
But for the rest of us, while Time forever marches on ceaselessly -
It will always be Redeemed by its wonderful Timeless Moments.
I thought this would help, but it didn't.
No, for my Mom never grasped the raison d'etre of its existentialism, which was for her only utter hopelessness.
She refused to go there.
But Beckett did - oh, did he ever! And so did I at first. For, broken into depressive pieces by the Nazi occupation of France, he saw bleakness everywhere, in spades. And I did at my breakdown.
But - and this is key - we had learned a lesson from the Search for Lost Time: how to REGAIN time, and so to STOP IT.
Carlos Castaneda and Proust both discovered that way: to live (or relive, as Proust does) our life through our experiences as intensely as possible!
But Beckett hadn't done that completely. He was like I, a broken old Aspie, have been: a casualty of the Via Negativa.
Beckett - like Bachelard - chose the Philosophy of No.
Not Proust, though. He sorted through his life experiences gently and sensitively, like an archaeologist of the deeper historical strata of Time.
He didn't get frustrated like me and Beckett.
To paraphrase Eliot, we can only make sense of our (or the world's) past, through the experience of its timeless moments: "only through time, time is conquered."
And STOPPED.
But Beckett never understood that (though came close in Murphy, contemporaneous with this) and so misunderstood Temps Perdu -
And I am still learning how to live my life as a life redeemed, and so to read Proust's Lost Time in its redeeming plenitude.
Did Beckett get that far?
Perhaps, though even his answer - like this book - would be cryptic, alas.
Samuel Beckett must forever remain a mystery!
But for the rest of us, while Time forever marches on ceaselessly -
It will always be Redeemed by its wonderful Timeless Moments.
February 19, 2010
Later in life, Beckett spoke disparagingly of this essay, dismissing its “cheap flashy philosophical jargon.” He was right to give this depiction of the prose, and perhaps even too gentle with his wording. But the ideas are still good. Very, very good, in fact.
This little book is simultaneously one of the most difficult I've ever read and one of the most rewarding*. But its mixed blessings go beyond this experience. The very existence of this book in my library will almost certainly delay my next reading of In Search of Lost Time for the simple reason that it can reconjure some of the most evocative, miraculous parts of the book while fully and ingeniously discussing the novel's primary themes of Time, Habit, and Memory. I feel as though I’ve relived a majority of Proust’s novel in this book’s scant 72 pages. And although this was my first exposure to Beckett's short critical work, I've read it about three times now due to the number of sentences I had to reread (over and over) even while absorbing maybe half of the book's mysterious insights. Ultimately I can't give Beckett too much credit for the perspicacity contained within, as he's mainly recapitulating Proust's own well-elucidated themes while also making them more difficult to excavate and therefore to scrutinize.
Much of the writing here is what David Foster Wallace would pejoratively call ‘academic writing’. Wallace sums up his feelings on the subject nicely with a criticism that likely mirrors Beckett’s own retrospective feelings: As someone who has a lot of felt trouble being clear, concise, and/or cogent, I tend to be allergic to academic writing, most of which seems to me willfully opaque and pretentious. I could probably include five or six examples more staggering than the quotation below, which is from the first couple pages of the book, but it will give you an idea of what you’re up against here:
But the poisonous ingenuity of Time in the science of affliction is not limited to its action on the subject, that action, as has been shown, resulting in an unceasing modification of his personality, whose permanent reality, if any, can only be apprehended as a retrospective hypothesis.
But then again, there are also gems like this:
Surely in the whole of literature, there is no study of that desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love posed and developed with such diabolical unscrupulousness.
In the end, much of this book’s obliquity and lack of comprehensiveness is mitigated by an imaginative and potent reading of Proust’s major themes, which are served up as worthy of study not only for intellectual or literary purposes, but for a fuller understanding of life itself. And that’s what Proust is all about.
*I should make the point that this is due mostly to the fact that Proust’s revelations on Time, Habit, and Memory are probably the most important and meaningful that I’ve ever encountered in literature. Some of the most meaningful that I’ve ever encountered, period. Point being, this book’s probably only worth your time if you’re very invested in the themes of In Search of Lost Time, even though Beckett apparently meant this book as a critical introduction to Proust’s work.
This little book is simultaneously one of the most difficult I've ever read and one of the most rewarding*. But its mixed blessings go beyond this experience. The very existence of this book in my library will almost certainly delay my next reading of In Search of Lost Time for the simple reason that it can reconjure some of the most evocative, miraculous parts of the book while fully and ingeniously discussing the novel's primary themes of Time, Habit, and Memory. I feel as though I’ve relived a majority of Proust’s novel in this book’s scant 72 pages. And although this was my first exposure to Beckett's short critical work, I've read it about three times now due to the number of sentences I had to reread (over and over) even while absorbing maybe half of the book's mysterious insights. Ultimately I can't give Beckett too much credit for the perspicacity contained within, as he's mainly recapitulating Proust's own well-elucidated themes while also making them more difficult to excavate and therefore to scrutinize.
Much of the writing here is what David Foster Wallace would pejoratively call ‘academic writing’. Wallace sums up his feelings on the subject nicely with a criticism that likely mirrors Beckett’s own retrospective feelings: As someone who has a lot of felt trouble being clear, concise, and/or cogent, I tend to be allergic to academic writing, most of which seems to me willfully opaque and pretentious. I could probably include five or six examples more staggering than the quotation below, which is from the first couple pages of the book, but it will give you an idea of what you’re up against here:
But the poisonous ingenuity of Time in the science of affliction is not limited to its action on the subject, that action, as has been shown, resulting in an unceasing modification of his personality, whose permanent reality, if any, can only be apprehended as a retrospective hypothesis.
But then again, there are also gems like this:
Surely in the whole of literature, there is no study of that desert of loneliness and recrimination that men call love posed and developed with such diabolical unscrupulousness.
In the end, much of this book’s obliquity and lack of comprehensiveness is mitigated by an imaginative and potent reading of Proust’s major themes, which are served up as worthy of study not only for intellectual or literary purposes, but for a fuller understanding of life itself. And that’s what Proust is all about.
*I should make the point that this is due mostly to the fact that Proust’s revelations on Time, Habit, and Memory are probably the most important and meaningful that I’ve ever encountered in literature. Some of the most meaningful that I’ve ever encountered, period. Point being, this book’s probably only worth your time if you’re very invested in the themes of In Search of Lost Time, even though Beckett apparently meant this book as a critical introduction to Proust’s work.
January 17, 2022
'The Proustian equation is never simple'.
This book can fulfill two purposes together. A glimpse of the writing of Samuel Beckett and, a thought on Marcel Proust! Is not this a great idea for those who do not know anything about the two masters? Something similar to killing two birds from one stone!
Proust's The Captive, I had started last year and I could not move beyond a few pages, So I know nothing about Proust writing so far, Neither I have been able to properly start Waiting for Godot. I started reading both these books, but time failed me in both cases and both were kept dangling in my list.
But today I got in my hand, this book. Eager to know what one thinks about the other, I read it and it was quite a pleasing experience. It shaped my understanding of Proust. The beginning was like a typical essay. He talks about Proust's memory and habits and writes,
It has multiple references to Proust's works. And the themes and philosophy, woven around all this make this reading not easy for a novice reader, but those who have read the majority of Proust's novels will definitely find the critical take of Samuel Beckett on Proust very enlightening.
Though I have not yet read Proust, this short book has given me some idea. I also saw Beckett's capabilities as a critic.
His precision, in the scrutiny and breakdown of themes and notions, present in Proust's work is commendable. I will recommend the book to those who are interested in reading a critical essay on one master's work by another master!
This book can fulfill two purposes together. A glimpse of the writing of Samuel Beckett and, a thought on Marcel Proust! Is not this a great idea for those who do not know anything about the two masters? Something similar to killing two birds from one stone!
Proust's The Captive, I had started last year and I could not move beyond a few pages, So I know nothing about Proust writing so far, Neither I have been able to properly start Waiting for Godot. I started reading both these books, but time failed me in both cases and both were kept dangling in my list.
But today I got in my hand, this book. Eager to know what one thinks about the other, I read it and it was quite a pleasing experience. It shaped my understanding of Proust. The beginning was like a typical essay. He talks about Proust's memory and habits and writes,
Proust had a bad memory- as he had an insufficient habit, the man with a good memory does not remember anything, because he doesn't forget anything."
It has multiple references to Proust's works. And the themes and philosophy, woven around all this make this reading not easy for a novice reader, but those who have read the majority of Proust's novels will definitely find the critical take of Samuel Beckett on Proust very enlightening.
Though I have not yet read Proust, this short book has given me some idea. I also saw Beckett's capabilities as a critic.
His precision, in the scrutiny and breakdown of themes and notions, present in Proust's work is commendable. I will recommend the book to those who are interested in reading a critical essay on one master's work by another master!
January 10, 2020
Sanatçı için, yüzeylerle uğraşmayan sanatçı için, dostluğu reddetmek sadece makul değil zorunludur da. Çünkü tek mümkün tinsel gelişme derinlik duygusundadır. Sanatsal eğilim, genişlemeyle değil, büzüşme ve daralmayla ilgilidir. Ve sanat da yalnızlığın tamamlanışıdır. İletişim yoktur çünkü iletişim kanalları yoktur. Söz de jest de kişiliğin kataraktından geçerken anlamlarını yitirirler. Ya kendimiz için konuşuyor ve davranıyoruzdur ki bu durumda da söylediğimiz ve yaptığımız şey bir yalandır.
September 13, 2021
Beckett'in Proust'un Kayıp Zamanın İzinde eserindeki zaman mevhumu üzerine derinlikli bir incelemesi. Eserin kendisi kadar muazzam. Tıpkı eserdeki çaya batırılan bisküvi ile canlanan tüm bir geçmiş gibi bu kitabı okumak da bilincime getirdiği çağrışımlar ile benim çaya batırılmış bir parça bisküvim oldu.
December 11, 2024
Maybe Beckett’s greatest coup, this. He managed to get his first non-poetic longform published by throwing Proust’s name on the sumbitch. It has about as much to do with Proust as I do, ie not much. It’s effectively a polemic by Sam on the nature of art and temporality that, when functionally required, mentions Proust. It’s brilliant. Young, sure, but with the fire that brings.
Read
September 1, 2016I ought to have read this in English. Apparently, Beckett translated all the Proust passages he tries to analyse understand himself (I don't think he likes the word 'analyse' or anything related to academic criticism, and for that I love him). i'd really like to have read his versions of Proust's words - he could have just taken passages from Scott Moncreiff's English translation of the first volume but he chose to render everything in English himself. And because he didn't use footnotes or page notes for the citations, every translation of Beckett's Proust involves translating Beckett's version of Proust's words into that language, even back into French, as in this version!
February 4, 2017
Il tempo non esiste
Achille Bonito Oliva ritiene che il tempo abbia fatto fatto deragliare tutti i linguaggi del Novecento e la filosofia contemporanea si interroga se il tempo esista, almeno per come lo abbiamo inteso fino ad oggi. Il saggio scritto da Samuel Beckett si inscrive bene in questa dialettica poiché lo scrittore analizza non solo l'opera letteraria di Marcel Proust, ma anche le categorie temporali.
non è dato sfuggire alle ore e ai giorni, neppure al domani e allo ieri perché quest'ultimo ci ha giá deformati. Noi siamo altri.
La nostra infelicità, scrive Beckett, deriva dalla nostra volontà di perseguire delle aspirazioni che magari erano valide ieri, oggi sono già state superate. La realtà tende all'anamorfosi in un spazio cronologico dilatato e personale.
Ciascuno vive in sè un suo tempo, quindi il tempo come unità non esiste: il tempo non è ritrovato, è cancellato.
La realtà nella quale ogni giorno intessiamo la nostra intricata rete di paure, ossessioni e felicità è, dunque, solo una nostra proiezione.
Scriveva Proust:
Chi non ha la forza di uccidere la realtà, non ha la forza di crearla.
Achille Bonito Oliva ritiene che il tempo abbia fatto fatto deragliare tutti i linguaggi del Novecento e la filosofia contemporanea si interroga se il tempo esista, almeno per come lo abbiamo inteso fino ad oggi. Il saggio scritto da Samuel Beckett si inscrive bene in questa dialettica poiché lo scrittore analizza non solo l'opera letteraria di Marcel Proust, ma anche le categorie temporali.
non è dato sfuggire alle ore e ai giorni, neppure al domani e allo ieri perché quest'ultimo ci ha giá deformati. Noi siamo altri.
La nostra infelicità, scrive Beckett, deriva dalla nostra volontà di perseguire delle aspirazioni che magari erano valide ieri, oggi sono già state superate. La realtà tende all'anamorfosi in un spazio cronologico dilatato e personale.
Ciascuno vive in sè un suo tempo, quindi il tempo come unità non esiste: il tempo non è ritrovato, è cancellato.
La realtà nella quale ogni giorno intessiamo la nostra intricata rete di paure, ossessioni e felicità è, dunque, solo una nostra proiezione.
Scriveva Proust:
Chi non ha la forza di uccidere la realtà, non ha la forza di crearla.
Read
April 8, 2023Video review forthcoming along with Céleste Albaret's
Monsieur Proust
and Józef Czapski's
Lost Time: Lectures on Proust in a Soviet Prison Camp
.
November 9, 2009
This book was much harder than the sort of thing I usually read voluntarily, but the few parts of it that didn't fly entirely over my head -- that sort of thwacked into my forehead and then dribbled down into my eyes -- those parts were great. Unlike ISoLT, this was short and difficult, though not necessarily in a bad way. Reading it gave me something to do while waiting for some time to pass by so I can start Proust fresh again.
This is a great book to read in public if you want everyone to know beyond a shadow of doubt that you're a total douchebag. I even had an attorney flip me shit for this while sitting in court with it, but I defended myself by assuring him that I didn't understand most of what Beckett was talking about. Between you and me, the parts I did get were excellent, and threw light on Proust's writing in a way I found, um.... illuminating? But a lot of the rest of it was basically Greek. I've heard this guy also wrote some plays, though I wouldn't know anything about that. If he was indirectly responsible for this, though, I guess he's okay in my book.
Anyway, if you've recently read Proust and are interested in a response to his writing that's a) more intellectual than the book reports on here and b) more difficult to read than Proust himself but still well-written and good, this could be your ticket. And did I mention it's under a hundred pages?
This is a great book to read in public if you want everyone to know beyond a shadow of doubt that you're a total douchebag. I even had an attorney flip me shit for this while sitting in court with it, but I defended myself by assuring him that I didn't understand most of what Beckett was talking about. Between you and me, the parts I did get were excellent, and threw light on Proust's writing in a way I found, um.... illuminating? But a lot of the rest of it was basically Greek. I've heard this guy also wrote some plays, though I wouldn't know anything about that. If he was indirectly responsible for this, though, I guess he's okay in my book.
Anyway, if you've recently read Proust and are interested in a response to his writing that's a) more intellectual than the book reports on here and b) more difficult to read than Proust himself but still well-written and good, this could be your ticket. And did I mention it's under a hundred pages?
December 23, 2020
Μια κριτική ανάλυση του Αναζητώντας τον χαμένο χρόνο από τον απαράμιλλης ευφυΐας, διεισδυτικής ικανότητας ανατομής και συγγραφικής δεινότητας Μπέκετ.
Κατά τη γνώμη μου καλύτερα να διαβαστεί μετά το Αναζητώντας τον χαμένο χρόνο από όσους σκοπεύουν να διαβάσουν αυτό το έργο του Προύστ και δεν θέλουν να επηρεαστούν.
Κατά τη γνώμη μου καλύτερα να διαβαστεί μετά το Αναζητώντας τον χαμένο χρόνο από όσους σκοπεύουν να διαβάσουν αυτό το έργο του Προύστ και δεν θέλουν να επηρεαστούν.
August 28, 2024
::انطباع عام::
========
لا أشك في أمانة الترجمة، لكنني لم أفهم شيئًا! أو ربما لكي تتم عملية فهم كاملة لابد من هضم المسألة البروستية بالكامل من قبل وقراءة أعماله بشكل متعمق حتى يتمكن القارئ من عيش الحالة الذهنية نفسها التي كتبها صمويل بيكيت. إلا أن هناك جزئية تطمئن قليلاً أن بيكيت نفسه رفض لفترة ترجمة هذا الكتاب للفرنسية أصلاً وكان ينساه ولا يعدّه من ضمن كتبه إذ كتبه في شبابه أثناء تأثره الشديد ببروست، فقد يكون في ذلك بعض العزاء لقارئ يرى هذا التفكك في المقالات وعدم وضوح كامل للفكرة.
***
::في سطور::
========
كتب بيكيت هذه المقالات عن بروست في صيف عام 1930، كاستجابة لتكليف من توماس ماكجريفي، وتشارلز برنتيس، وريتشارد ألدينجتون، أثناء إقامته في المدرسة العليا في باريس. وبحلول نهاية شهر سبتمبر، سلمها باليد إلى تشارلز برنتيس في دار نشر تشاتو آند ويندوس. تنصل بيكيت من المقالات باعتبارها مكتوبة بمصطلحات فلسفية رخيصة براقة.
***
::الكتاب::
=======
ربما تقدم تلك المقالات وظيفتين، فهي بمثابة بيان جمالي ومعرفي لمؤلفه، حيث يعلن نيابة عن موضوعه الظاهري: "لا نستطيع أن نَعرف ولا نستطيع أن نُعرف". وفي لغة كثيفة وموحية، يعزو بيكيت الفضل إلى من أثروا به ولا سيما شوبنهاور وكالديرون، ويتنبأ بانشغالاته المستقبلية، ويتصفح في نثر مارسيل بروست:
"إن قوانين الذاكرة تخضع لقوانين العادة الأكثر عمومية. فالعادة هي حل وسط يتم بين الفرد وبيئته، أو بين الفرد وغرائبه العضوية، وضمانة لحرمة باهتة، ومانع الصواعق لوجوده. والعادة هي الثقل الذي يقيد الكلب بقيئه. والتنفس عادة. والحياة عادة. أو بالأحرى الحياة عبارة عن سلسلة من العادات، لأن الفرد عبارة عن سلسلة من الأفراد؛ إن العالم عبارة عن إسقاط لوعي الفرد (أو تجسيد لإرادة الفرد، كما يقول شوبنهاور)، لذا فإن العهد لابد وأن يتجدد باستمرار، وأن يتم تحديث خطاب السلامة. إن خلق العالم لم يحدث مرة واحدة وإلى الأبد، بل إنه يحدث كل يوم. والعادة إذن هي المصطلح العام للمعاهدات التي لا تعد ولا تحصى التي أبرمت بين عدد لا يحصى من الكيانات التي تشكل الفرد وأشياءها المرتبطة التي لا تعد ولا تحصى. إن فترات الانتقال التي تفصل بين التكيفات المتتالية (لأنه لا يمكن لأي وسيلة من وسائل التحول المروع أن تخدم ملاءات القبر كأقمطة) تمثل المناطق الخطرة في حياة الفرد، والخطيرة، والمحفوفة بالمخاطر، والمؤلمة، والغامضة، والخصبة، عندما يتم استبدال الملل من الحياة للحظة بمعاناة الوجود (في هذه المرحلة، وبقلب ثقيل ولإرضاء أو استياء الجيديين، شبه الكامل والمتكامل، ألهمني أن أتنازل عن قوسين قصيرين لجميع المتشابهين، القادرين على تفسير العيش بخطر، ذلك الفواق المنتصر في الفراغ، على أنه النشيد الوطني للأنا الحقيقية المنفية في العادة. يدافع الجيديين عن عادة العيش - ويبحثون عن لقب. عبارة دنيئة لا معنى لها. إن التكيف التلقائي للكائن البشري مع ظروف وجوده له أهمية أخلاقية قليلة مثل إلقاء النفوذ عندما يكون شهر حزيران أو لا يكون؛ إن الحث على تنمية عادة لا معنى لها مثل الحث على تنمية الزكام. معاناة الوجود: أي اللعب الحر لكل قدرة. لأن التفاني الخبيث للعادة يشل انتباهنا، ويخدر خادمات الإدراك اللواتي لا يشكل تعاونهن ضرورة مطلقة."
يواصل بيكيت تحديد تركيزه الأخلاقي على المعضلات الأساسية للوجود البشري، متخليًا عن أي تورط في القضايا الاجتماعية:
"هنا، كما هو الحال دائمًا، ينفصل بروست تمامًا عن جميع الاعتبارات الأخلاقية. لا يوجد صواب وخطأ في بروست ولا في عالمه (باستثناء ربما تلك المقاطع التي تتعامل مع الحرب، عندما يتوقف لفترة عن كونه فنانًا ويرفع صوته مع العامة، والغوغاء، والرعاع). لا تهتم المأساة بالعدالة الإنسانية. المأساة هي بيان للتكفير، ولكنها ليست التكفير البائس عن خرق مدون لترتيب م��لي، نظمه الأشرار لصالح الحمقى. إن الشكل المأساوي يمثل تكفير الخطيئة الأصلية، الخطيئة الأصلية والأبدية التي ارتكبها هو وكل أخطائه الاجتماعية، خطيئة ولادته."
****
::الخلاصة::
========
"الخطيئة الوحيدة هي خطيئة الولادة."
في الواقع، إن الاقتناع بأن العالم والإنسان شيء كان من الأفضل ألا يكونا، من النوع الذي يملأنا بالتساهل تجاه بعضنا البعض. بل ومن وجهة النظر هذه، قد نعتبر أن الشكل المناسب للخطاب بين الإنسان والآخر ليس "سيدي"، بل "رفيقي في المعاناة"!
*.*.*.*
========
لا أشك في أمانة الترجمة، لكنني لم أفهم شيئًا! أو ربما لكي تتم عملية فهم كاملة لابد من هضم المسألة البروستية بالكامل من قبل وقراءة أعماله بشكل متعمق حتى يتمكن القارئ من عيش الحالة الذهنية نفسها التي كتبها صمويل بيكيت. إلا أن هناك جزئية تطمئن قليلاً أن بيكيت نفسه رفض لفترة ترجمة هذا الكتاب للفرنسية أصلاً وكان ينساه ولا يعدّه من ضمن كتبه إذ كتبه في شبابه أثناء تأثره الشديد ببروست، فقد يكون في ذلك بعض العزاء لقارئ يرى هذا التفكك في المقالات وعدم وضوح كامل للفكرة.
***
::في سطور::
========
كتب بيكيت هذه المقالات عن بروست في صيف عام 1930، كاستجابة لتكليف من توماس ماكجريفي، وتشارلز برنتيس، وريتشارد ألدينجتون، أثناء إقامته في المدرسة العليا في باريس. وبحلول نهاية شهر سبتمبر، سلمها باليد إلى تشارلز برنتيس في دار نشر تشاتو آند ويندوس. تنصل بيكيت من المقالات باعتبارها مكتوبة بمصطلحات فلسفية رخيصة براقة.
***
::الكتاب::
=======
ربما تقدم تلك المقالات وظيفتين، فهي بمثابة بيان جمالي ومعرفي لمؤلفه، حيث يعلن نيابة عن موضوعه الظاهري: "لا نستطيع أن نَعرف ولا نستطيع أن نُعرف". وفي لغة كثيفة وموحية، يعزو بيكيت الفضل إلى من أثروا به ولا سيما شوبنهاور وكالديرون، ويتنبأ بانشغالاته المستقبلية، ويتصفح في نثر مارسيل بروست:
"إن قوانين الذاكرة تخضع لقوانين العادة الأكثر عمومية. فالعادة هي حل وسط يتم بين الفرد وبيئته، أو بين الفرد وغرائبه العضوية، وضمانة لحرمة باهتة، ومانع الصواعق لوجوده. والعادة هي الثقل الذي يقيد الكلب بقيئه. والتنفس عادة. والحياة عادة. أو بالأحرى الحياة عبارة عن سلسلة من العادات، لأن الفرد عبارة عن سلسلة من الأفراد؛ إن العالم عبارة عن إسقاط لوعي الفرد (أو تجسيد لإرادة الفرد، كما يقول شوبنهاور)، لذا فإن العهد لابد وأن يتجدد باستمرار، وأن يتم تحديث خطاب السلامة. إن خلق العالم لم يحدث مرة واحدة وإلى الأبد، بل إنه يحدث كل يوم. والعادة إذن هي المصطلح العام للمعاهدات التي لا تعد ولا تحصى التي أبرمت بين عدد لا يحصى من الكيانات التي تشكل الفرد وأشياءها المرتبطة التي لا تعد ولا تحصى. إن فترات الانتقال التي تفصل بين التكيفات المتتالية (لأنه لا يمكن لأي وسيلة من وسائل التحول المروع أن تخدم ملاءات القبر كأقمطة) تمثل المناطق الخطرة في حياة الفرد، والخطيرة، والمحفوفة بالمخاطر، والمؤلمة، والغامضة، والخصبة، عندما يتم استبدال الملل من الحياة للحظة بمعاناة الوجود (في هذه المرحلة، وبقلب ثقيل ولإرضاء أو استياء الجيديين، شبه الكامل والمتكامل، ألهمني أن أتنازل عن قوسين قصيرين لجميع المتشابهين، القادرين على تفسير العيش بخطر، ذلك الفواق المنتصر في الفراغ، على أنه النشيد الوطني للأنا الحقيقية المنفية في العادة. يدافع الجيديين عن عادة العيش - ويبحثون عن لقب. عبارة دنيئة لا معنى لها. إن التكيف التلقائي للكائن البشري مع ظروف وجوده له أهمية أخلاقية قليلة مثل إلقاء النفوذ عندما يكون شهر حزيران أو لا يكون؛ إن الحث على تنمية عادة لا معنى لها مثل الحث على تنمية الزكام. معاناة الوجود: أي اللعب الحر لكل قدرة. لأن التفاني الخبيث للعادة يشل انتباهنا، ويخدر خادمات الإدراك اللواتي لا يشكل تعاونهن ضرورة مطلقة."
يواصل بيكيت تحديد تركيزه الأخلاقي على المعضلات الأساسية للوجود البشري، متخليًا عن أي تورط في القضايا الاجتماعية:
"هنا، كما هو الحال دائمًا، ينفصل بروست تمامًا عن جميع الاعتبارات الأخلاقية. لا يوجد صواب وخطأ في بروست ولا في عالمه (باستثناء ربما تلك المقاطع التي تتعامل مع الحرب، عندما يتوقف لفترة عن كونه فنانًا ويرفع صوته مع العامة، والغوغاء، والرعاع). لا تهتم المأساة بالعدالة الإنسانية. المأساة هي بيان للتكفير، ولكنها ليست التكفير البائس عن خرق مدون لترتيب م��لي، نظمه الأشرار لصالح الحمقى. إن الشكل المأساوي يمثل تكفير الخطيئة الأصلية، الخطيئة الأصلية والأبدية التي ارتكبها هو وكل أخطائه الاجتماعية، خطيئة ولادته."
****
::الخلاصة::
========
"الخطيئة الوحيدة هي خطيئة الولادة."
في الواقع، إن الاقتناع بأن العالم والإنسان شيء كان من الأفضل ألا يكونا، من النوع الذي يملأنا بالتساهل تجاه بعضنا البعض. بل ومن وجهة النظر هذه، قد نعتبر أن الشكل المناسب للخطاب بين الإنسان والآخر ليس "سيدي"، بل "رفيقي في المعاناة"!
*.*.*.*
October 31, 2025
Antes de Thomas Mann ou Faulkner tomarem o tempo como elemento indiscutível e fundamental de suas obras, Proust o fez, uma vez que seus personagens são vítimas de uma circunstância e condição predominante: o Tempo.
É, portanto, acerca desse elemento que Beckett toma como ponto fundamental de seu ensaio; observando que na obra de Proust a ação do tempo não se limita sobre o sujeito, já que ele está esperando por nós e não esperando em nós, cabendo ao escritor escrever como vive: no Tempo.
Dessa maneira, "tudo o que se der no Tempo, seja na Arte ou na Vida, só poderá ser possuído sucessivamente, por uma série de anexações parciais — e nunca integralmente, de uma só vez”, descortinando, assim, o maior temor do escritor durante sua saga monumental.
Além disso, Beckett aborda a visão de Proust acerca da vida, que é uma sucessão de Paraísos sucessivamente negados e perdidos, enquanto traz de volta as figuras tão emblemáticas da obra, como Swann e Albertine e seus impactos na paixão, inteligência e escuridão que rondam Proust, que somente ao fim, após se livrar da escuridão do tempo, consegue compreender a necessidade da arte.
Diante de tudo que expus, essa é uma boa obra quanto ao seu conteúdo, mas a forma pouco clara não é tão agradável de acompanhar. Acho que vou evitar Beckett, embora nunca vá evitar Proust.
Ademais, fiquei feliz ao ler sobre os personagens de Em Busca do Tempo Perdido, que é uma obra que tenho saudade e que foi um projeto de leitura especial com grandes amigos.
É, portanto, acerca desse elemento que Beckett toma como ponto fundamental de seu ensaio; observando que na obra de Proust a ação do tempo não se limita sobre o sujeito, já que ele está esperando por nós e não esperando em nós, cabendo ao escritor escrever como vive: no Tempo.
Dessa maneira, "tudo o que se der no Tempo, seja na Arte ou na Vida, só poderá ser possuído sucessivamente, por uma série de anexações parciais — e nunca integralmente, de uma só vez”, descortinando, assim, o maior temor do escritor durante sua saga monumental.
Além disso, Beckett aborda a visão de Proust acerca da vida, que é uma sucessão de Paraísos sucessivamente negados e perdidos, enquanto traz de volta as figuras tão emblemáticas da obra, como Swann e Albertine e seus impactos na paixão, inteligência e escuridão que rondam Proust, que somente ao fim, após se livrar da escuridão do tempo, consegue compreender a necessidade da arte.
Diante de tudo que expus, essa é uma boa obra quanto ao seu conteúdo, mas a forma pouco clara não é tão agradável de acompanhar. Acho que vou evitar Beckett, embora nunca vá evitar Proust.
Ademais, fiquei feliz ao ler sobre os personagens de Em Busca do Tempo Perdido, que é uma obra que tenho saudade e que foi um projeto de leitura especial com grandes amigos.
October 20, 2020
ma cheri Odette....
EARLIER THIS SUMMER I completed the yearlong project of getting into Proust.
This took the form of listening to the 30-odd hours of Swann’s Way on Audible.com®, snatched in 30-minute segments on the way to the grocery store, or the occasional hour or more on long aimless drives through the city. I knew it was going to be long. SW is but the first volume in the series À la recherche du temps perdu which in English is often called Remembrance of Things Past as well as my preferred translated title In Search of Lost Time. The length is well known; indeed, unfortunately, it is usually the thing people talk about most when they refer to Proust. The total project clocks in at over 3,000 pages, and for most people that’s just taking the piss. I can understand why Ottessa Moshfegh makes fun of the lit bros who claim to have read the whole thing, cuz usually that’s the only reason why they do in the first place. They finish their fifteenth triathlon and then read Proust, or something, and yet there was a time long ago, back in the twentieth centch, when Prouprou was considered THE BEST writer of all time. How? Surely it’s all part of the piss take. It could only be a massive pat on the back to say you’ve gotten through Proust; that you’ve climbed the Kilimanjaro of books. Who gives a fuck what it’s actually about.
I was leery, but I figured I had to take a crack. Proust and Joyce are the twin pillars of pretentious dooshbaggery (which may be true of Joyce….) but I’ve come to the point where I don’t give a fuck about what people say when they complain. I’m more interested in people’s opinions when they love something, and there were some interesting cats who seem to really love the lad with the name that means God of War but who was rather sensitive, shy even, and who loved writing while snug in bed with some leche calentita close by. I was determined to suss out this sneaky French bastard.
And turns out….. “I tried it and I liked it!”™
Now I’m not gunna empty tear duct nor seminal vesicle when describing the beauty of Marcel; but I did realize somewhere around hour 15 that I hadn’t been rolling my eyes. Proust is called wisdom literature by some, and he does drop a lot of axioms of so-called knowledge—bits of observation that a writer will risk inserting into a “plot” that one either finds painfully lame or spot on. I don’t remember a time when one of these nuggets made me scoff. OK, points awarded. But I wasn’t blown away necessarily either; I knew there must be more, and I readily admit I was not paying 1000% attention to every word.
SO I WENT TO SEE what other cats had said about the dude. The people who liked him. What really is the point of reading reviews that are merely takedowns (beside the myriad joys of hatereading…)? More brilliant people than I have read the man, and thoroughly; surely they’d be able to lead me in the right direction. I went to Bloom, an endless proponent of Proust (PoP); he focuses a lot on the theme of jealousy and while that’s valid I asked myself: Can jealousy be enough to qualify someone as the best writer of the 20th Centchury Flox©? Jealousy is a legit concept—but what about war, peace, death, transcendence, etc? I had to keep looking.
And I found this. Proust by Samuel Beckett. I looked it up on that fucking travesty called Eugooglize Books©, which previewed me the first three pages and then cut me off and didn’t give me the option to pay for it. FUCKING A. Next over to Amazon®: but no, only used copies in stock, with a paperback runnin north of $125+. Are you mad?!
I ended up—through a series of hookups—procuring it from my local uni library. USE YOUR LOCAL STATE UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES. They are PUBLIC INSTITUTIONS and you have the RIGHT to their truly amazing book stacks.
Anyway, I peeped and HOLY FUCK if this isn’t my fav Beckett-boy ever! #FBBE :)
I still remember my first experience with his books, his first novel Murphy, which is his only real book-y book. Samuel L. Beckett can be brutal and everything else for the non-serious reader is going to be tough. The main thing I had gotten from reading everything post Murph was that after his first foray into novel writing he couldn’t manufacture falsity anymore, couldn’t stomach having to write “So-and-so got up and walked over to the window,” etc, and this happens sometimes when you delve deep into literature. Everything seems so contrived and the suspension of disbelief cannot for the love of God be forced, or even faked. This is where Beckett found himself because, like Hamlet, he’s too smart. All he sees is artifice. He has to write but he cannot write another pre-modern “story.” So why the fuck would a guy like that dig Proust?!
Well, turns out this book helped to explain not only Proust, but Beckett as well. This was a truly special 90-pager (see size doesn’t matter…), totally worth every line and this is precisely because of the language. The language is fucking sick. Dude is spitting winners, constantly, so that this is the most accessible read since Murph , and such a pleasant return to straightforward writing after such labors as Godot and Molloy. Indeed the language was so tight I’m tempted to go back to The Trilogy and his other works and see if I can’t appreciate it more just for the mere ring of the Irishman’s words. Some examples from the list I started making, which included 16 quotes in the final third alone:
“Tragedy is not concerned with human justice. Tragedy is the statement of an expiation, but not the miserable expiation of a codified breach of a local arrangement, organised by the knaves for the fools. The tragic figure represents the expiation of original sin, of the original and eternal sin of him and all his ‘socii malorum’, the sin of having been born.
Yowza. Proust makes you come up with lines like that?? Sign me up, dag. Or this:
“And the dirge of his sepulchral whisper falls like clay from the spade of a gravedigger.”
Damn. Gothic as fuck. #GAF. Not to mention tons of truth bombs like:
“And as before wisdom consists in obliterating the faculty of suffering rather than in the vain attempt to reduce the stimuli that exasperate that faculty.”
And:
“An impression for the writer is like an experiment for the scientist."
Sick. Longer time would be needed to dig into the meat of the philosophies here, but plenty of it can be enjoyed purely on its own merit, and I can’t help thinking that Beckett had a little bit of that creative-writing sense of joy when composing some of these lines (a joy that seemed later in his career to make his nauseous). Of course, if you haven’t acquainted yourself with Proust at all then from start to finish this is going to be gibberish. The point is that once you sort out each guy—Proust and the writer of Proust, that is, Beckett—there’s a lot of joy to be had. It is an odd joy to try and explain at halftime of the big game, but it’s a strangely satisfying inner joy. You know, the kind that other people think makes you a cunt!
I think part of the reason Prouey-boy gets a bad rap nowadays (although apparently he wasn’t totally loved in his day either, bit of an acquired taste even then….) is cuz so many wankers get labelled “just like Proust©” or “Pluperfectly Proustiesque” or “Like OMG he’s the noo noo Prou!!” I’ll cite two examples and then wrap up this review, before it turns into another À la recherche….
First is a guy I don’t know but who I already don’t like, so I admit I could be wrong but tbh I don’t want to spend the time to find out, esp with my prejudiced view of looking for openings to beat the lad down like I was some literary Mayweather… and that dude is Karl’s Jr. Knussnuss. I hear about this guy that he’s “so good” and that “he writes about nothing” and that this latter quality somehow makes him like Marcel Proust. He’s been asked about it himself and says that he read Recherche over a single summer and that “of course my book is not as good” (WTF does that mean, vaugue-ass motherfucker….). Beckett would heartily disagree—at least in the statement that Proust writes about nothing. Beckett believes that for Proust symbol and subject are one, which means that his overall aim is total reality. Now, he doesn’t always succeed; but there are moments of what Beckett calls “involuntary memory”, which are moments of transcendence when the “Goddess of Time” is defeated, when tastes and smells and the sound of a fork against a plate can take you back to a moment of sublimity greater than any feeling you’ve ever felt (before and again). It’s these feelings Proust lives for; this is the lost time for which he searches. Karl’s Jr. seems to be infested with totally voluntary memories, and that he’s made the choice to re-live his entire life on the page line by garrulous line. I don’t know, I could be wrong. Fight me.
Wanker #2 is a dude I actually like a lot: Roberto Bolaño. Some critics called 2666 “Proustian”. I have to sit on that one a little bit longer, but I think it’s possibly more true in that Bolaño was concerned with the novel’s “secret center”, that invisible prana circulating through time and space, the logos spermatikos over which we have no control but which matters so much, which is everything (if you’ve felt it before…..) Unfortunately, I think RB gets the nod that he’s like Marcelo because he also wrote a book that most people think is so long it can only be a pisstake. Go figure.
In sum, Proust is tight. And so is Beckett. If you’re already a Beckett fan then you’re gunna love this but read Proust first, and if you aren’t a Proust fan already then you need to take a fuckin look in the mirror, bro. JK.
July 31, 2021
This book came about from a commission, when Beckett was only 25 years old. It remains a formalist analysis of some scenes and a few blunt observations that show unfamiliarity with human empathy.
Beckett does not seem to have any motivation for writing this essay, nor does he seem to understand once he has started it where he wants to take it. It feels short.
I've written about this book when writing about "Molloy" in my Portuguese blog:
https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.com...
Beckett does not seem to have any motivation for writing this essay, nor does he seem to understand once he has started it where he wants to take it. It feels short.
I've written about this book when writing about "Molloy" in my Portuguese blog:
https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.com...
September 13, 2009
When I was a student, Harold Bloom instructed us to read this in the following manner: Whenever Beckett mentions the name of Proust, substitute that of Wordsworth. Reading it again now, I prefer to re-insert "Proust".
September 12, 2016
Sofrendo do mesmo mal que acometeu o trabalho de Deleuze sobre Proust, Em Busca do Tempo perdido é tão obra prima que qualquer coisa dita sobre ele se torna redundante.
October 3, 2019
Two stars for pompous writing; three stars for some good ideas; four stars for writing about my beloved Proust. Proust wins!
May 8, 2023
What more do you need when you have Beckett analysing Proust!?
February 21, 2016
Took a little break from reading Proust (and added to my reading of the complete works of Beckett in order) to peruse this longish essay by Mr. Becket on M. Proust. It's very off-putting at first with dear, very young Sammy getting all high and mighty with the erudite words to prove he's up to the task of taking on the French monolith's magnum opus. After 10 or so pages he calms down enough to get his point across without infuriating. Then there's a long middle section that's mostly a commentary--synopsis with proofs of his opening remarks emphasized--and then a pretty rousing conclusion re-iterating his interpretation of La Recherche as an obliteration of time through processes outside of voluntary memory in which art is accessory but not totally germinal. All-in-all well done. I agree with his reading in the main, although I might ascribe it to other reasons. But, shit--spoilers! (I'm only as far as The Captive so the end was indeed ruined for me. Sigh. Wait until you've finished La Recherche to read this one.
May 13, 2021
Samuel Beckett'in yayımlanmış ilk kitabı. Öğretmenlik yaparken 24 yaşında yazmış Proust üzerine olan bu kısa eseri. Bence Proust üzerine yazılmış en iyi metinlerden biri. Neredeyse paragraf olmaksızın akan metin Kayıp Zamanın İzinde serisi üzerine derinlemesine bir analiz sunuyor. Benim gibi Beckett'in de başlarda Kayıp Zamanın İzinde serisini sevmemiş olduğu bilmek benim adıma ilginç bir ayrıntı. Çünkü serinin okurda yarattığı bu tarz bir dönüşüm bence çok daha ilginç bir okuma serüveni sunuyor. O yüzden Proust dünyasıyla aramda gelişen gelgitli ilişkiyi Beckett'in de yaşamış olduğu öğrenmek ve Proust incelemesini bu doğrultuda okumak bana daha geniş bir çerçeve sundu.
August 11, 2021
Surprisingly good, actually might be the best thing I've read by Beckett (certainly better than his fiction/plays). Amazed that he got there as early as 1931 (and at age 25); one thing that is often overlooked about critical essays is that they usually build on the work of others, but that was certainly not the case here. (This is especially true in philosophy; I can only imagine that the first commentators on Kant and Hegel felt like they were taking their life into their hands.) Beckett later dismissed this essay's “cheap flashy philosophical jargon," which is fair, but I prefer when authors risk pretentiousness.
Beckett is especially good on Proust's complete lack of morality (that the narrator is somehow pre-moral) and on Proust as barely modernist and really more reminiscent of Hugo (I would add Eliot -- Proust's favorite author -- as well as Stendhal and Tolstoy). Beckett also perfectly conveys the experience of reading Proust:
And this is a positive review of Proust, lol. Exhausted and angry after an hour is precisely right; yet one keeps going back.
Beckett is especially good on Proust's complete lack of morality (that the narrator is somehow pre-moral) and on Proust as barely modernist and really more reminiscent of Hugo (I would add Eliot -- Proust's favorite author -- as well as Stendhal and Tolstoy). Beckett also perfectly conveys the experience of reading Proust:
It is a tiring style, but it does not tire the mind. One's fatigue is a fatigue of the heart, a blood fatigue. One is exhausted and angry after an hour, submerged, dominated by the crest and break of metaphor after metaphor.
And this is a positive review of Proust, lol. Exhausted and angry after an hour is precisely right; yet one keeps going back.
March 30, 2021
Samuel Beckett - Proust, Bokförlaget Faethon 2020 (utgiven 2021). Översättning av Erik Sandin, reviderad av Daniel Pedersen. Efterord av Johan Sehlberg. Serie alpha nr 06. Tryckt i 25 exemplar ”hors commerce”, I-XXV och 475 exemplar, numrerade 1-475.
Med stor ambivalens — och förmodligen mer av plikt än lust — åtar sig Beckett i juli 1930 att skriva en monografi över Proust. I brev beklagar han sig över att inte kunna komma igång med skrivandet, men att han åtminstone har lyckats läsa ut ”the bastard”. Han hade läst första volymen av A la recherche du temps perdu i en ”gräslig” fransk 16-bandsutgåva först sommaren innan (”tänk att jag måste sitta på skithuset och begrunda honom 16 volymer igenom”) och funnit den ”märkligt ojämn”. Förvisso med ”ojämförbara stycken” och, som han ska komma att skriva i boken, med en ”skattkammare av slående formuleringar”. Så sent som 25 augusti 1930 skriver han till vännen Thomas McGreevy att ”I can’t do the fucking thing”, men mindre än en månad senare har han personligen överlämnat ett råmanuskript till sin förläggare Charles Prentice på Chatto & Windus i London.
Beckett var vid den här tiden en ung och okänd författare. Knappt en fotnot i litteraturhistorien. Han hade kommit till Paris hösten 1928 för att tillträda en tvåårig tjänst som ”lecteur d’anglais” vid Ecole Normale Supériure och hängde i kretsen kring James Joyce. Han hjälpte den svårt synskadade landsmannen med ärenden, läste bland annat för honom, och försökte hålla dennes dotter Lucia, som var svårt förälskad i Beckett, på värdigt avstånd. Han hade bara publicerat en novell och ett par essäer, samt debuterat som poet 1930 med den märkvärdiga långdikten om René Descartes, Whoroscope, utgiven i bara 300 ex.
Proust kom slutligen ut 5 mars 1931 och sålde förvånansvärt bra (679 exemplar redan första veckan). Boken inleds med ett citat av den italienske pessimisten Giacomo Leopardi (1798-1837): ”E fango e il mondo”, ungefär: ”och dy är världen”. Med detta är även Becketts egen filosofi fastslagen. Hans pessimistiska övertygelse är i denna essä avgörande för förståelsen av inte bara Prousts författarskap utan själva tillvarons (brist på) mening: ”[m]ellan denna död och denna födelse: den outhärdliga verkligheten”. Pendeln svänger mellan två punkter: lidandet och ledan. Att han vid sidan om Proust — förutom Keats och D’Annunzio — vid den här tiden också flitigt läste Arthur Schopenhauer kommer alltså knappast som någon överraskning.
Prousts stora teman är, enligt Beckett, Tiden, Vanan och Minnet (och som fjärde, möjligtvis jokern Döden). Tiden, ”dödens instrument”, ”fördömelsens och frälsningens tvehövdade monster”, är ovedersägligen av central betydelse för Prousts stora romanverk. Dess varelser är i många hänseenden offer för tiden. Beckett poängterar att gårdagen inte är något som passeras utan en oåterkallelig del av oss, inte en milstolpe utan en ”dagsten” som finns inom oss, ”tung och farlig”. Liksom världens skapelse inte skedde ”en gång för alla utan sker varje dag”. Tiden är inte någonting som ”återvinns” utan istället utplånas och individen är ”skådeplatsen för en ständigt fortgående dekantering från det kärl, som är fyllt med kommande tid”.
Vanan är en ballast som står över minnets lagar: ”Att andas är en vana. Att leva är en vana”. Här tar han hjälp av Schopenhauer, som säger att medvetandet — och därmed världen — är en objektivering av individens vilja. Livet är en följd av vanor eftersom ”världen är en projektion av individens medvetande”. Vanans uppgift är att förlama vår uppmärksamhet och bedöva våra ”perceptionsorgan”. Här hänvisar Beckett till kokerskan Francoise i På spaning... och ”berättaren”, som inte kunde sova i främmande rum (med högt i tak): ”Vanan att tycka om rum för det är lågt i tak fungerar inte längre och måste dö så att en vana att tycka om rum där det är högt i tak kan födas. Mellan denna död och denna födelse: den outhärdliga verkligheten”. Pessimismen igen.
Proust hade dåligt minne, skriver Beckett, och tillägger förnumstigt att en man med gott minne ”kommer inte ihåg någonting eftersom han inte glömmer någonting”. Minnet är ett ”kliniskt laboratorium ”, ett ”vanedjur”, ett ”klädstreck” där gamla smutskläder (”i går”) nu hänger ”tvagna vita” som ”nöjda tjänare”, redo att användas när lusten faller på. Med hjälp av nyfikenhet och sinnesfrånvaro (det undermedvetna, skulle väl en freudian säga) når minnet ”vårt väsens djupaste och mest oåtkomliga valv, dit vanan inte har någon nyckel”. Det frivilliga minnet är som en ”konkordans till individens Gamla Testamente”; godtyckligt valda bilder fjärran från verkligheten. Ett ”ingenting” rentav. Det ofrivilliga minnet däremot är explosivt, med Prousts egna ord (och i Becketts något förvanskade översättning), ”en ögonblicklig, total och hänryckande förbränning” (ur IV: Albertine disparue, ett stycke som saknas i den svenska översättningen). Men Beckett misstror Prousts idéer om frälsning via ofrivilliga minnen. Han kallar dem ”fetischer” och listar elva sådana (listan ”är inte fullständig”), med start i den berömda madeleinekakan. Han fnyser att det ofrivilliga minnet trollas fram ur en grund källa — ”en tekopps outgrundliga banalitet” — ja, hela ”Prousts värld kommer ur en tekopp”.
Döden behöver vi inte orda så mycket om: ”Vad vi än kan råka anse om döden, så kan vi vara säkra på att vår åsikt är meningslös och värdelös”. Den är Tidens instrument, presenterad som berättarens mormor i Prousts roman, ett spöke som han ser läsande ”sin älskade Mme de Sévigné”, trots att hon är död sedan länge. Hon, mormodern, ”den älskade gestalten inom honom”, är bara återskapad av ”vaneminnets omsorger”. Men vårt liv ”är en följd av förnekade paradis”, och ”döden kommer att bota många från deras längtan efter odödlighet”.
Beckett tar förstås här och var exempel ur Prousts stora verk, men jag vill ändå påstå att man kan få lika mycket ut av den här boken även om man inte läst en rad av den hypokondriske fransmannen. Jag har själv aldrig har kommit längre än till första bandet, Swanns värld (there, I said it!). För likt Michel Houellebecqs bok om H. P. Lovecraft säger Becketts monografi mer om författaren själv än om själva ämnet. Ett uppenbart faktum som noterats av snart nog varje beckettolog. Till exempel skriver A. Alvarez i sin Beckettbok (Fontana 1973) att ”Proust är, framför allt, en ursäkt för Beckett att diagnosticera sina egna besvär”. Jag vill gå så långt som att påstå att vi här, åtminstone bitvis, får se in i den 24-åriga framtida nobelpristagarens hjärna.
Det är också tydligt att Proust är skriven av en ung intellektuell, ivrig att visa vad han går för. Som John Calder skriver i The Philosophy of Samuel Beckett (Calder Publications 2001) är boken bitvis märkt av en ”over-cleverness, a tendency to show off, that Beckett did not wholly overcome until after the war”. Det gör nu inte boken mindre läsvärd. Tvärtom är det inte bara underhållande utan också berikande att ta del av en författare som står på tå såväl språkligt som intellektuellt. Och precis som i fallet Houellebecq (inte bara i H. P. Lovecraft - emot världen, emot livet, utan även och kanske till och med i ännu högre grad i Hålla sig vid liv) läser jag en filosofisk programförklaring, ett pessimistiskt fundament mot vilket ett livslångt författarskap ska komma att vila.
Spår av Becketts Proustläsning ska dyka upp i flera av hans senare verk. Redan i Dream of Fair to Middling Women (1932) skriver han om ”the zone of evaporation” (avdunstningszonen) och tillägger lekfullt i en parentes: ”We stole that one. Guess from where”. Svaret är Swanns värld. I En attendant Godot (1952) finner vi exempelvis proustska funderingar om vanans makt och i Endgame (1957) om minnet. Etcetera.
Jag såg en elak tunga tala illa om omslaget till den här boken någonstans. Jag protesterar å det bestämdaste och tycker tvärtom förlagets serie alpha är oerhört smakfull. Rejäla små trådbundna klotband med strama grå stilrena skyddsomslag. Det är lika genialt enkelt som det är snyggt och värdigt.
Skrivandet var för Samuel Beckett det enda sättet att söka nå fram till det han någonstans kallar ”varats autentiska svaghet”. Man kan säga att det var med boken Proust som detta sökande på allvar inleddes.
Med stor ambivalens — och förmodligen mer av plikt än lust — åtar sig Beckett i juli 1930 att skriva en monografi över Proust. I brev beklagar han sig över att inte kunna komma igång med skrivandet, men att han åtminstone har lyckats läsa ut ”the bastard”. Han hade läst första volymen av A la recherche du temps perdu i en ”gräslig” fransk 16-bandsutgåva först sommaren innan (”tänk att jag måste sitta på skithuset och begrunda honom 16 volymer igenom”) och funnit den ”märkligt ojämn”. Förvisso med ”ojämförbara stycken” och, som han ska komma att skriva i boken, med en ”skattkammare av slående formuleringar”. Så sent som 25 augusti 1930 skriver han till vännen Thomas McGreevy att ”I can’t do the fucking thing”, men mindre än en månad senare har han personligen överlämnat ett råmanuskript till sin förläggare Charles Prentice på Chatto & Windus i London.
Beckett var vid den här tiden en ung och okänd författare. Knappt en fotnot i litteraturhistorien. Han hade kommit till Paris hösten 1928 för att tillträda en tvåårig tjänst som ”lecteur d’anglais” vid Ecole Normale Supériure och hängde i kretsen kring James Joyce. Han hjälpte den svårt synskadade landsmannen med ärenden, läste bland annat för honom, och försökte hålla dennes dotter Lucia, som var svårt förälskad i Beckett, på värdigt avstånd. Han hade bara publicerat en novell och ett par essäer, samt debuterat som poet 1930 med den märkvärdiga långdikten om René Descartes, Whoroscope, utgiven i bara 300 ex.
Proust kom slutligen ut 5 mars 1931 och sålde förvånansvärt bra (679 exemplar redan första veckan). Boken inleds med ett citat av den italienske pessimisten Giacomo Leopardi (1798-1837): ”E fango e il mondo”, ungefär: ”och dy är världen”. Med detta är även Becketts egen filosofi fastslagen. Hans pessimistiska övertygelse är i denna essä avgörande för förståelsen av inte bara Prousts författarskap utan själva tillvarons (brist på) mening: ”[m]ellan denna död och denna födelse: den outhärdliga verkligheten”. Pendeln svänger mellan två punkter: lidandet och ledan. Att han vid sidan om Proust — förutom Keats och D’Annunzio — vid den här tiden också flitigt läste Arthur Schopenhauer kommer alltså knappast som någon överraskning.
Prousts stora teman är, enligt Beckett, Tiden, Vanan och Minnet (och som fjärde, möjligtvis jokern Döden). Tiden, ”dödens instrument”, ”fördömelsens och frälsningens tvehövdade monster”, är ovedersägligen av central betydelse för Prousts stora romanverk. Dess varelser är i många hänseenden offer för tiden. Beckett poängterar att gårdagen inte är något som passeras utan en oåterkallelig del av oss, inte en milstolpe utan en ”dagsten” som finns inom oss, ”tung och farlig”. Liksom världens skapelse inte skedde ”en gång för alla utan sker varje dag”. Tiden är inte någonting som ”återvinns” utan istället utplånas och individen är ”skådeplatsen för en ständigt fortgående dekantering från det kärl, som är fyllt med kommande tid”.
Vanan är en ballast som står över minnets lagar: ”Att andas är en vana. Att leva är en vana”. Här tar han hjälp av Schopenhauer, som säger att medvetandet — och därmed världen — är en objektivering av individens vilja. Livet är en följd av vanor eftersom ”världen är en projektion av individens medvetande”. Vanans uppgift är att förlama vår uppmärksamhet och bedöva våra ”perceptionsorgan”. Här hänvisar Beckett till kokerskan Francoise i På spaning... och ”berättaren”, som inte kunde sova i främmande rum (med högt i tak): ”Vanan att tycka om rum för det är lågt i tak fungerar inte längre och måste dö så att en vana att tycka om rum där det är högt i tak kan födas. Mellan denna död och denna födelse: den outhärdliga verkligheten”. Pessimismen igen.
Proust hade dåligt minne, skriver Beckett, och tillägger förnumstigt att en man med gott minne ”kommer inte ihåg någonting eftersom han inte glömmer någonting”. Minnet är ett ”kliniskt laboratorium ”, ett ”vanedjur”, ett ”klädstreck” där gamla smutskläder (”i går”) nu hänger ”tvagna vita” som ”nöjda tjänare”, redo att användas när lusten faller på. Med hjälp av nyfikenhet och sinnesfrånvaro (det undermedvetna, skulle väl en freudian säga) når minnet ”vårt väsens djupaste och mest oåtkomliga valv, dit vanan inte har någon nyckel”. Det frivilliga minnet är som en ”konkordans till individens Gamla Testamente”; godtyckligt valda bilder fjärran från verkligheten. Ett ”ingenting” rentav. Det ofrivilliga minnet däremot är explosivt, med Prousts egna ord (och i Becketts något förvanskade översättning), ”en ögonblicklig, total och hänryckande förbränning” (ur IV: Albertine disparue, ett stycke som saknas i den svenska översättningen). Men Beckett misstror Prousts idéer om frälsning via ofrivilliga minnen. Han kallar dem ”fetischer” och listar elva sådana (listan ”är inte fullständig”), med start i den berömda madeleinekakan. Han fnyser att det ofrivilliga minnet trollas fram ur en grund källa — ”en tekopps outgrundliga banalitet” — ja, hela ”Prousts värld kommer ur en tekopp”.
Döden behöver vi inte orda så mycket om: ”Vad vi än kan råka anse om döden, så kan vi vara säkra på att vår åsikt är meningslös och värdelös”. Den är Tidens instrument, presenterad som berättarens mormor i Prousts roman, ett spöke som han ser läsande ”sin älskade Mme de Sévigné”, trots att hon är död sedan länge. Hon, mormodern, ”den älskade gestalten inom honom”, är bara återskapad av ”vaneminnets omsorger”. Men vårt liv ”är en följd av förnekade paradis”, och ”döden kommer att bota många från deras längtan efter odödlighet”.
Beckett tar förstås här och var exempel ur Prousts stora verk, men jag vill ändå påstå att man kan få lika mycket ut av den här boken även om man inte läst en rad av den hypokondriske fransmannen. Jag har själv aldrig har kommit längre än till första bandet, Swanns värld (there, I said it!). För likt Michel Houellebecqs bok om H. P. Lovecraft säger Becketts monografi mer om författaren själv än om själva ämnet. Ett uppenbart faktum som noterats av snart nog varje beckettolog. Till exempel skriver A. Alvarez i sin Beckettbok (Fontana 1973) att ”Proust är, framför allt, en ursäkt för Beckett att diagnosticera sina egna besvär”. Jag vill gå så långt som att påstå att vi här, åtminstone bitvis, får se in i den 24-åriga framtida nobelpristagarens hjärna.
Det är också tydligt att Proust är skriven av en ung intellektuell, ivrig att visa vad han går för. Som John Calder skriver i The Philosophy of Samuel Beckett (Calder Publications 2001) är boken bitvis märkt av en ”over-cleverness, a tendency to show off, that Beckett did not wholly overcome until after the war”. Det gör nu inte boken mindre läsvärd. Tvärtom är det inte bara underhållande utan också berikande att ta del av en författare som står på tå såväl språkligt som intellektuellt. Och precis som i fallet Houellebecq (inte bara i H. P. Lovecraft - emot världen, emot livet, utan även och kanske till och med i ännu högre grad i Hålla sig vid liv) läser jag en filosofisk programförklaring, ett pessimistiskt fundament mot vilket ett livslångt författarskap ska komma att vila.
Spår av Becketts Proustläsning ska dyka upp i flera av hans senare verk. Redan i Dream of Fair to Middling Women (1932) skriver han om ”the zone of evaporation” (avdunstningszonen) och tillägger lekfullt i en parentes: ”We stole that one. Guess from where”. Svaret är Swanns värld. I En attendant Godot (1952) finner vi exempelvis proustska funderingar om vanans makt och i Endgame (1957) om minnet. Etcetera.
Jag såg en elak tunga tala illa om omslaget till den här boken någonstans. Jag protesterar å det bestämdaste och tycker tvärtom förlagets serie alpha är oerhört smakfull. Rejäla små trådbundna klotband med strama grå stilrena skyddsomslag. Det är lika genialt enkelt som det är snyggt och värdigt.
Skrivandet var för Samuel Beckett det enda sättet att söka nå fram till det han någonstans kallar ”varats autentiska svaghet”. Man kan säga att det var med boken Proust som detta sökande på allvar inleddes.
June 1, 2016
"Proust had a bad memory, as he had an inefficient habit, or because he had an inefficient habit. The man with a good memory does not remember anything because he does not forget anything"(17).
Involuntary memory, or Proustian revelation: "The whole of Proust comes out of a teacup…Susann's, stimulated or charmed by the long-forgotten taste of a madelaine steeped in infusion of tea, conjures in all the relief and color of its essential significance from the shallow well of a cup's inscrutable banality"(21).
"The artist is active, but negatively…He cannot practice friendship, because friendship is the centrifugal force of self-fear, self-negation"(48); "He deplores the 'time one wastes in upholstering one's life with a human and parasitic vegetation"(68). As for vegetation, note Proust's images:
"It is significant that the majority of his images are botanical. He assimilates the human to the vegetal. He is conscious of humanity as flora, never as fauna. (There are no black cats andfaithful hounds in Proust." "Albertine's laugh has the color and smell of a geranium." "Flowers and plants have no conscious will. They are shameless, exposing their genitals. And so in a sense are Proust's men and women, whose will is blind and hard, but never self-conscious"(69).
P "deplores his lack of will until he understands that will, being utilitarian, a servant of intelligence and habit, is not a condition of artistic experience." "So there is no collapse of the will in Proust, as there is for example in Spenser and Keats and Giorgione. He sits up all night in Paris, with a branch of apple-blossom laid beside his lamp, staring at teh foam of the white corollae until the dawn comes to redden them. But this is not the terrible panic-stricken stasis of Keats."
Music is the catalytic element in the work of Proust; it synthesizes teh moments of privilege and runs parallel to them, sine materia (contra Swann, who identifies Sonata with Odette). "Opera is a hideous corruption of music, most immaterial of all the arts. [libretto particularize the ideal, the musical phrase]…From this point of view, opera is less complete than vaudeville, which at least inaugurates the comedy of an exhaustive enumeration"(91).
Involuntary memory, or Proustian revelation: "The whole of Proust comes out of a teacup…Susann's, stimulated or charmed by the long-forgotten taste of a madelaine steeped in infusion of tea, conjures in all the relief and color of its essential significance from the shallow well of a cup's inscrutable banality"(21).
"The artist is active, but negatively…He cannot practice friendship, because friendship is the centrifugal force of self-fear, self-negation"(48); "He deplores the 'time one wastes in upholstering one's life with a human and parasitic vegetation"(68). As for vegetation, note Proust's images:
"It is significant that the majority of his images are botanical. He assimilates the human to the vegetal. He is conscious of humanity as flora, never as fauna. (There are no black cats andfaithful hounds in Proust." "Albertine's laugh has the color and smell of a geranium." "Flowers and plants have no conscious will. They are shameless, exposing their genitals. And so in a sense are Proust's men and women, whose will is blind and hard, but never self-conscious"(69).
P "deplores his lack of will until he understands that will, being utilitarian, a servant of intelligence and habit, is not a condition of artistic experience." "So there is no collapse of the will in Proust, as there is for example in Spenser and Keats and Giorgione. He sits up all night in Paris, with a branch of apple-blossom laid beside his lamp, staring at teh foam of the white corollae until the dawn comes to redden them. But this is not the terrible panic-stricken stasis of Keats."
Music is the catalytic element in the work of Proust; it synthesizes teh moments of privilege and runs parallel to them, sine materia (contra Swann, who identifies Sonata with Odette). "Opera is a hideous corruption of music, most immaterial of all the arts. [libretto particularize the ideal, the musical phrase]…From this point of view, opera is less complete than vaudeville, which at least inaugurates the comedy of an exhaustive enumeration"(91).
September 25, 2022
(Edizione italiana SE, a cura di Piero Pagliano, con uno scritto di Margherita S. Frankel)
Sono un po’ confuso circa il significato di questo saggio su Proust, dello scopo di Beckett nello scriverlo. Temo che le sue motivazioni debbano tutte essere ricondotte ad una sola: lo smisurato amore di Beckett per Proust.
Più che un saggio sembra di leggere una lettera d’amore, ma in quella rara e felice circostanza in cui esso è reciproco, poiché Beckett ama e la Recherche si dischiude docile alla sua indagine. A sua volta Beckett naviga fra le pagine della Recherchecon disinvoltura ma con l’ansia di trasmettere la propria comprensione; ha una giustissima chiave di lettura, e sembra voler riconoscere il proprio amore nella constatazione della propria comprensione.
Quindi, dette queste sciocchezze -la confusione è una gioia, il timore è indulgenza-, devo ringraziare Beckett per questo fantastico saggio che illumina di una luce più intelligibile la Recherche per me che la amo ma che ahimé non ne sono altrettanto ricambiato come lo è stato lui (sono un po’ geloso, in fondo).
Ovviamente, è un saggio che presuppone l’intera lettura della Recherche.
Lo scritto di Margherita S. Frankel, al contrario di quello sentimentale -oserei dire- di Beckett, è decisamente più pedante e noioso. Non che non sia interessante, ma è di una specie completamente diversa, non è amore, è conoscenza.
Sono un po’ confuso circa il significato di questo saggio su Proust, dello scopo di Beckett nello scriverlo. Temo che le sue motivazioni debbano tutte essere ricondotte ad una sola: lo smisurato amore di Beckett per Proust.
Più che un saggio sembra di leggere una lettera d’amore, ma in quella rara e felice circostanza in cui esso è reciproco, poiché Beckett ama e la Recherche si dischiude docile alla sua indagine. A sua volta Beckett naviga fra le pagine della Recherchecon disinvoltura ma con l’ansia di trasmettere la propria comprensione; ha una giustissima chiave di lettura, e sembra voler riconoscere il proprio amore nella constatazione della propria comprensione.
Quindi, dette queste sciocchezze -la confusione è una gioia, il timore è indulgenza-, devo ringraziare Beckett per questo fantastico saggio che illumina di una luce più intelligibile la Recherche per me che la amo ma che ahimé non ne sono altrettanto ricambiato come lo è stato lui (sono un po’ geloso, in fondo).
Ovviamente, è un saggio che presuppone l’intera lettura della Recherche.
Lo scritto di Margherita S. Frankel, al contrario di quello sentimentale -oserei dire- di Beckett, è decisamente più pedante e noioso. Non che non sia interessante, ma è di una specie completamente diversa, non è amore, è conoscenza.
May 30, 2015
I like Beckett. And I like Proust. But this? No!
I don't really like academic literary criticism because it invariably turns out like this book. It was written when he was 25 or so and he apparently didn't like it himself when he was older.
Here's a quote from the beginning of the book:
Ok, there are a few good quotes, such as:
I don't really like academic literary criticism because it invariably turns out like this book. It was written when he was 25 or so and he apparently didn't like it himself when he was older.
Here's a quote from the beginning of the book:
But the poisonous ingenuity of Time in the science of affliction is not limited to its action on the subject, that action, as has been shown, resulting in an unceasing modification of his personality, whose permanent reality, if any, can only be apprehended as a retrospective hypothesis.And so on...
Ok, there are a few good quotes, such as:
Memory and Habit are attributes of the Time cancer.
Curiosity is the hair of our habit tending to stand on end.The additional dialogues between Samuel Beckett and Georges Duthuit are even more pointless.
April 23, 2007
cost me €50 in library charges. was worth it.
July 20, 2021
vou usar na iniciação científica quero nem saber, depois escrevo sobre
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