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A nadie le sorprende mi fascinación con este libro porque estoy obsesionada con Oteiza

Creo que en el arte hay dos tipos de pena. La pena de la navaja —el punto álgido, el culmen, la lágrima final. Y la pena del corazón —más profunda, la pena de la falta, de la ausencia. Hay un vacío ahí, que late y no mata, pero que no se llena. Gaspar y Juan son esa pena. El amor de Juan por su hijo, condenado a no saber amar, y ese amor que lleva Gaspar en el puño, y que lo condena a no saber ser amado

Madre mía tremendo chisme. Pobre Gaspar no da pa disgustos 😭

You’re laughing. He’s painstakingly unfolding every little piece he laid out in the previous 3000 pages. He’s finally showing what there’s to it —the fear of being forgotten after death, the vulnerability inside the work of art. How brittle our memory is, yet it determines our whole life. And you’re laughing

There's something so tragic to be said about the erasure of Swann. Everyone agrees how brilliant he was, yet no one dares speak his name —because of antisemitism and snobism. In the first book he felt larger than life, now he's not even a shadow. How much of Swann is actually Marcel, who's fighting falling into oblivion? This novel is about the writer and his endurance in the reader's heart. Is S. the shadow Marcel?

I like how Marcel shows us how Albertine brings out the worst in him. All his best scenes are when he's apart from her. Whenever he's away from his house, he starts gaining different colors. Also, the loss of "home" when someone unwanted is there. Also WHERE ARE HIS PARENTS

Sometimes Marcel will say the most mysoginistic bs you've ever heard. And sometimes he will hold your hands, only his fragile shadow remains. And he will tell you about his own self, vulnerable, a trembling, ever moving thing, impossible to pin down.

The fact that this book is a lie. That it's the product of Marcel's mental imagery, not of reality. That Marcel-the-narrator doesn't own a name, that he's only his own narration. That each one of us carries their own death. That he will die, and cease to be, not even a name, only what he has created will remain. That that's how we remember every person we've ever met. He knows.

rn a very interesting piece on the attachment to land, and on the nuances of the process by which Zionists "acquired" Palestinian land, played largely by a class power imbalance

Every single act of creation is the impulse of exhausting an obsession. It is taking one's thoughts and folding them over and over and over until it can't go on anymore. I think Marcel understood this.

Never trust a man that enjoys Proust. I'm live love laughing through it because I'm constantly aware of how gross he is, but he's still insane. I still enjoy the paralells with Swann

I’m bored to death guys. This feels like the American version of bread. White. Bland.

Icónico este hombre diciendo "a mí esto no me queda muy claro" y te deja un pasaje de la fuente original para gestionártelo tú. Bibliografía muy interesante y presentación del tema cuanto menos sorprendente

Leave it to Kate Clayborn to give me insane expectations about shy guys. Especially considering how shy I am too. It's just minutes —naeh, hours— of deranged talk that leads to absolutely no making out

For context: I'm an architect and one of my favorite books is Notre Dame de Paris by Victor Hugo. The way Follet is talking about this book in the introduction is bad, oh so bad.

I'm just reading this because my grandma recommended it. It's going to be bad. I know it.

I can assure you, Marcel has been dissociating every time Mme de Guermantes has opened her mouth

Mme de Guermantes is the funniest bitch on earth I swear

So the Guermantes are a cult. Cool

I just need Marguerite to come and possess me and rid me of the Marcel Proust haunting. Please. I'm begging you

Ooooooooooooooooooooooh waiiiiiit she's an empaaaaaath???

You can't just say "I've always been on my own" and then whip out the trust fund card. That's just illegal

I know I'm going to be insanely annoyed by the end of this book, but I have to keep going. Insanely famous superstar that was born in the South of the US and feels very lonely? This is just Lightning McQueen fanfic

Marius is the most insufferable person on the planet. I swear to god

This man is hilarious. And both Cosette and Marius are dumb of ass and I love them for that