Lucía’s Reviews > La prisionera > Status Update

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.

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