Translated from the French by C.K. Scott Moncrieff and Stephen Hudson
Marcel Proust (1871-1922) spent the last fourteen years of his life writing A la recherche du temps perdu. It is an intimate epic, an excavation of the self, and a comedy of manners by turns and all at once. Proust is the twentieth century's Dante, presenting us with a unique, unsettling picture of ourselves as jealous lovers and unmitigated snobs, frittering our lives away, with only the hope of art as a possible salvation. He offers us a form of redemption for a sober and secular age.
Scott Moncrieff's delightful translation was for many years the only access to Proust in English. A labour of love that took him nearly as many years as Proust spent writing the original. Moncrieff's translation strives to capture the extraordinary blend of muscular analysis with poetic reverie that typifies Proust's style. It remains a justly famous classic of translation.
Marcel Proust was a French novelist, best known for his 3000 page masterpiece À la recherche du temps perdu (Remembrance of Things Past or In Search of Lost Time), a pseudo-autobiographical novel told mostly in a stream-of-consciousness style.
Born in the first year of the Third Republic, the young Marcel, like his narrator, was a delicate child from a bourgeois family. He was active in Parisian high society during the 80s and 90s, welcomed in the most fashionable and exclusive salons of his day. However, his position there was also one of an outsider, due to his Jewishness and homosexuality. Towards the end of 1890s Proust began to withdraw more and more from society, and although he was never entirely reclusive, as is sometimes made out, he lapsed more completely into his lifelong tendency to sleep during the day and work at night. He was also plagued with severe asthma, which had troubled him intermittently since childhood, and a terror of his own death, especially in case it should come before his novel had been completed. The first volume, after some difficulty finding a publisher, came out in 1913, and Proust continued to work with an almost inhuman dedication on his masterpiece right up until his death in 1922, at the age of 51.
Today he is widely recognized as one of the greatest authors of the 20th Century, and À la recherche du temps perdu as one of the most dazzling and significant works of literature to be written in modern times.
Clap ! Clap ! Clap ! That's me applauding the finish of my year (14 months actually) reading Proust. One of the greatest presents to myself ever. Am I more enlightened? Probably not. But I do have a far greater appreciation of Proust and the written word in general as a way of understanding my place in life. In finishing this, I'm thankful for two factors without which this would not have been accomplished. Alain de Botton's How Proust Can Change Your Life: Not a Novel provided the impetus to begin (and to quit) and on my third beginning I found Cork-Lined Room without which I would have given up and or put this off indefinitely without the blog urging me on.
As tempting as it would be to start reading Proust all over again immediately knowing what I know now, there are thousands of other books waiting to be read, including my next challenge of participating with the same group to read four books by Fyodor Dostoyevsky beginning with Crime and Punishment. I plan to revisit Proust in 2020 -- every ten years will give me a chance to absorb, visit other sources of info and read a more modern translation! If all goes well I could get through Proust another two or three times. And if I feel like reading it in 2050 at the age of 101 I'll go for it then too.
Marcel Proust is able to describe each minutiae of his memory with vivid force. At times, he is rather long winded describing what something is like, and then what that thing is like and so on---but my favorite part of the novel was his description of the hawthorn, so exhaustive but so beautiful, a reminder to take pleasure in simple things like flora and fauna. The way that Proust is able to combine music (the mystery phrase that represents his love for Odette), famous art, nature, memories of taste and sound and writing is truly incredible. The section of the book where he is describing the middle-class high society while getting close to Odette, reminds me of Downton Abbey--the snobbery is fascinating and ridiculous. I am curious to read the second part of the series. It should also be noted that I am currently reading A Moveable Feast by Hemingway. The juxtaposition of two authors, who could not be further from opposites, creates an internal struggle in my mind which is lovely. Swann's Way is set in pre-turn of the century Paris, centered around who's who and did so-and-so tip their hat to me in the street, while Hemingway's Paris is post WWI. Proust is a homosexual man with a nervous condition from childhood who takes pains to describe the color and smell of flowers and the taste of a madeline dipped in tea. Hemingway is an American writer, boxer, gambler, and he is struggling to make enough money to afford regular meals. His writing is completely stripped down compared to Proust, and he even mentions his distrust of adjectives. Both describe people as if they are characters in their lives, and their thoughts on becoming writers. Both also mention their first encounter with lesbians, as they both 'spied' on women in the act. I'm nearly finished with the Hemingway and I am anxious to finish and read another.
Proust. To describe how brilliant (and frustrating) and brilliant again Proust is, I'd have to write a tome as big as this book. One thousand one hundred and sixty nine pages worth! His literary shadow, along with people like Hemingway, and Faulkner, and a few others, hung over the 20th century, and I suppose to some extent hangs over us now. Memory, desire, perception, dreams, he uses these themes the way Charlie Parker used chord changes, that is to say with virtuousity. You have to really, and I mean REALLY love high literature to get into MP. But just as Marcel in the novels is sent into memory by an event, or a scent, or a taste, you might find yourself asking questions about your own life and loves, Did I really love her? What did this particular event really mean, does it mean something else 5, 10, 20 years later? And, believe it or not, though he doesn't have the high pop (i.e. people who know the name Proust, but haven't read him) reputation of being funny, he can be, quite, quite so. But yes his high pop rep as "long winded" is, if not deserved, understable. (Sentences that go on for pages. Though, from memory, that was more in Volume I, than II) Proust may be long winded, but if you want to be a serious reader, or writer, challenge yourself, and follow where the breeze takes you.
I never thought I would ever read this. It's so long. It would never have happened if it were not for Neville Jason's incredible reading of this on the download version that's available on Overdrive...with music! So I downloaded it to an iPad. Not my iPad, I can't afford one, but one I checked out from the Glendale California Public Library.
The entire experience was beautiful and memorable. I had previously read Swann's Way so I thought I would like it the complete set of books.
Ah, do they listening to this work. You ight find it the best way.
* 1000 novels everyone must read: the definitive list: Family and Self
Selected by the Guardian's Review team and a panel of expert judges, this list includes only novels – no memoirs, no short stories, no long poems – from any decade and in any language. Originally published in thematic supplements – love, crime, comedy, family and self, state of the nation, science fiction and fantasy, war and travel – they appear here for the first time.