My Shame in 2008

In 2008, I experienced a sense of shame.

I gave up on a particular book after only a few chapters, which was something I rarely did.

The book was so introspective that it wasn't even very enlightening. What's more, it failed to drive the plot, and as a result, I became inured to the skill and beauty of the language due to the struggle to understand it.

Since that attempt, I've read other books with a similar opacity and, for the most part, I've enjoyed them. However, I'm not drawn back to this particular book. I can't quite explain why, but perhaps it's because I don't want to fail again.

Well over a decade later, this review is now getting attention. I like to think I'm a "better" reader now (thanks, GR), and I might appreciate the book differently. But to be honest, I think I'd still prefer some madeleines.

Image: A bowl of madeleines (Source)

I know it is an absolute impossibility for me to pen a proper review for Proust. I can only lower my head in the face of his genius and be filled with awe at his writing.

This is because one has to be a true magician of words to create a 600-page novel where seemingly nothing occurs, yet the reader is completely glued to the page, yearning for more. I found myself unable to fathom my eagerness to turn the page when the author was vividly describing his feelings towards a piece of classic music. Is the writing verbose? Oh yes, to the highest degree. Are his phrases extremely long, with no obvious beginning or ending, and a structure so complex and convoluted that I had to reread many of them? Indeed they are, and yet I do not regret one single second of the extra "work". The book was precisely everything I had feared it would be, and yet I was completely in love with it. I relished every single word, just as the author savored his famous madeleines.

In terms of the plot (if one can even speak of a plot), the novel is structured in three parts. In the first part, the narrator recalls his childhood in Combray, and especially one evening when he was deprived of the pleasure of kissing his mother good night due to a visit from Swann. This chapter includes the famous madeleine passage. I don't particularly like madeleines, but I surely craved some after reading that part. The most substantial chapter is titled A Love of Swann, and it essentially presents what the title implies. By the end of the chapter, I was a bit fatigued by the endless descriptions of Swann's jealous fits, although they were understandable. It was perhaps the only time I thought the writing was a touch excessive. Lastly, in the third part, the narrator falls in love with Swann's daughter while they play together.

I plan to take a short break and then return to Proust for the second volume, where I anticipate the same brilliant prose about seemingly nothing.

Swann's Way, the initial volume of Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time, is an extraordinary literary gem that comes your way. Having been on my TBR list for nearly two years, I finally had the opportunity to get acquainted with it. This won't be a review in the strictest sense, as I don't consider myself competent enough to assess such a profound work. Moreover, the impact this book has on you, the effect it creates, can only be felt; no words can truly capture them justly.

In Search of Lost Time is a compilation of past memories, and Swann's Way documents the first part of this collection when the narrator was a child. It includes the narrator's own childhood reminiscences and the torturous romantic experience of a family friend, Monsieur Swann. However, these records are presented in fragments of events, descriptions of objects, a piece of music, a work of art, or in-depth analyses of thoughts. There is no linear plot, and if you are a reader who craves a strong storyline, this work might bore you to tears. On the other hand, if you have a penchant for abstract reading, and love to connect with the thoughts and lives of others, to experience empathy and sympathy, then this could be the perfect fit for you.

The strength of this work lies in its remarkable writing. The beauty of the prose is indescribable in words, but it can be somewhat accurately described as poetic, picturesque, and musical. Proust's narrative is a complete work of art. It is like poetry that speaks directly to your inner self, awakening unknown emotions. It is a painting that thrills you and satisfies your senses. It is music that resonates deeply within you. The reading transports you through space and time - perhaps not to the exact events the narrator describes, but to similar experiences from your own life. You hear the "Vintueil's Sonata", not exactly as it is written, but a similar sonata that is stored in your memory. You see a picture - its colors and forms, which correspond to something you have seen and retained in your memory. This was my reading experience - being drawn into the narration and its surroundings, and then being led back to a parallel memory from my past. I have never had such a unique and profound experience in my reading life.

Swann's Way challenges the power of memory and questions the identity of the self, thoughts, and things in relation to space and time. It is an incredibly thought-provoking work. I truly have a desire to read the remaining volumes and re-live those unique and exquisite feelings that were evoked by this reading. In a secluded corner, undisturbed and completely isolated, I would love to immerse myself in the words of Proust and lose myself in the memories of his past and my own.

I have always harbored a desire to turn the act of reading Proust into a truly special event. So much so that, in the end, I didn't read Proust at all for a long time. However, I finally came to the conclusion that I should just approach it like any other book (or almost). And this decision has proven to be the right one for me.

In fact, I believe that those who read it slowly, as is often recommended, may actually miss out on some of its inherent vitality. Of course, there are parts that are slower-paced, but once it manages to evoke that certain feeling within you, it doesn't seem right to delay or postpone that experience. It requires a continuous flow, not to be fractured by time.

I think this is the reason why I didn't initially find the sense of nostalgia that I had expected this book to represent. Yes, it does emerge towards the end, but the rest of the reading experience was so engaging and consuming that it couldn't simply be about something lost. Instead, it presents a beautiful perspective of looking at the past not as something that is irretrievably lost, but as an essential part of the creation of oneself. Truly, it is a masterpiece.

Just as you didn't want to think about it anymore, you still thought about it again and it still hurt.

Well... I still regret that I wasn't French and hadn't read more French works. Probably the charm of many sentences would have been several times greater.

I think I established a connection with Mr. Proust's writing style, but I don't know what my opinion on the collection could be. From the first cover, I was satisfied.

In my opinion, if you are in love, especially unrequitedly, how much you can understand the details mentioned in this book... Even if not, I think reading it would be nice anyway.

As a habitual reader, you've likely had a friend who claims to see no point in reading all those books. You might have tried hard to explain the joys of reading, perhaps lecturing them on how a particular book is amazing and enlightening them about all its wonderful aspects, only to find that they remain unexcited. At that time, we might judge such a person for lacking imagination, but with time, we realize that our explanations weren't perfect. That's the problem with beauty - no matter how detailed and analytical we are, something always eludes us. We can't quite put into words what makes something beautiful to us.

Take Proust's prose, for example. How does one describe its beauty, especially when there isn't much of a story? One might say that his descriptions of flowers, places, roads, clothes, music, paintings, emotions, trees, servants, etc. are beautiful. He captures emotions and experiences, even fleeting ones, like no one else. His long, perfectly punctuated sentences give the experience of the rising and falling notes of a symphony. And yet, those who have read Proust know that this doesn't do him justice. As Virginia Woolf said, "Proust so titillates my own desire for expression that I can hardly set out the sentence. Oh if I could write like that! I cry."

One thing that stands out about Proust's work is the lack of plot and action in over 400 pages. He is more interested in aesthetics and emotions. This is probably why Andre Gide, a Nobel laureate, turned down the work when asked for his advice by publishers. In those days, Tolstoy and Hugo were the rage. Proust had to self-publish, and he continued to do so with his later works (much like Woolf). Gide later apologized to Proust for dismissing his work and congratulated him on its success, calling his own actions "one of the most stinging and remorseful regrets of my life."

Personally, I don't care much about plot. After reading Ulysses, I have a new test: "How much will this novel help an alien, who has never seen humanity, understand what human life is like?" And Proust's work gets full marks on this subject. He observes how novelists use tricks like love at first sight, big sacrifices, and duels to quickly create emotions in their characters that develop much more slowly in real life. While these tricks may make novels seem unrealistic, Proust argues that they can make you feel things you may never feel in your life.

Proust also explores our relationship with memory in an incredible way. He can spend pages describing the effects of a single moment, a careless word, or a minor gesture on a character. He shows how a small incident from everyday life can trigger an intrusive, evocative memory, and how we edit, recreate, perfect, or filter our memories. When faced with the object of our memory, we may either see only our own version of it or be left dumbfounded by the difference. Since it is our self-created version that we have invested all our emotions in, the actual object may remain a total stranger to us, making it easier to be emotionally indifferent.

In the first chapter, "Combray I," which is beautifully translated as "Overture," there is the famous episode of the Madeleine. This is the first of many examples of involuntary memory, a psychological term coined by Proust. An involuntary memory is a portion of memory that is brought to consciousness involuntarily by cues from everyday life, such as sights, tastes, sounds, or smells. The small chapter is a masterpiece in itself, beginning with Proust's description of his own separation anxiety as a child. He hated being separated from his mother at night, especially when there were no guests, as he knew he wouldn't get that last kiss. This same separation anxiety is experienced by Swann for his lover Odette, often taking the form of jealousy, make-beliefs, and anticipation.

Separation anxiety, oedipal love, homosexuality, involuntary memory - one wonders how Proust and Freud, who were contemporaries, never read each other. There would have been much they could have liked about each other. Proust's beautiful descriptions of emotions are so perfect and sensuous that one can't help but wonder how sensitive he must have been. A higher consciousness is often caused by higher sensitivity, and in one scene, the narrator, still a boy, starts weeping when he has to be separated from the flowers of Combray. Whenever I come across this kind of emotional or sensual sensitivity in an artist, it is usually a result of their psychological suffering, as seen in Dostoevsky, Woolf, Kafka, Shakespeare, Sylvia Plath, Van Gogh, and many others. Proust was no exception, with his separation anxiety, something like borderline personality disorder, and the secret of his socially-unaccepted homosexuality. Sometimes, it seems that everything beautiful is created by the touch of a suffering heart.

I’ve meant to read this forever, but I was a bit terrified by it.

Not only is it merely the first book of a whole shelf of books that follow that probably need to be read too, but people compare it to Joyce’s Ulysses, and I’ve never been able to make it the whole way through that. So, ladies and gentlemen, it was with trepidation that I started this.

Although, perhaps trepidation (meaning to be afraid something that might happen) isn’t quite the word I’m looking for – given my fear was that something that might never happen (my ever finishing the novel) felt much more likely.

The parts of this novel that are most famous – the teaspoon of tea with some madeleine cake, and the narrator's anxiety that he might be made to go up to bed without getting a kiss (or rather, a series of kisses) from his mother – happen ridiculously early in the book.

That’s a bad sign, of course. Not that the writer hasn’t spaced out his diamonds more, but that perhaps readers only pretend to have read the whole thing, and instead generally only get a couple of dozen pages in and then say, ‘oh yes, the madeleine…great book…yes, marvellous” before going on to the latest Grisham novel.

I knew about these ‘famous bits’ before I started reading – so, I can’t really say for certain they would have struck me as standouts since I’d been primed for them.

The madeleine cake and the rush of memories brought unbidden to the narrator is famous for very good reasons. It is dizzyingly good.

That said, there were bits of this book I knew nothing about at all. And if anything, this book is about the love affair of M. Swann and Odette – ‘Un Amour de Swann’ – which is sometimes published on its own. It is something else entirely.

I think it would be stretching the friendship for me to say I’ve been lucky in love, but if that aspect of my life has involved anything approaching ‘luck’ it is that I’ve rarely been driven mad by jealousy.

That said, and although jealousy is the major flaw in the diamond being inspected at length under the light and eyeglass of Proust in this part of the novel – you don’t need to have been feasted upon by the green-eyed monster to suffer pangs of recognition throughout this.

I would struggle to believe that anyone who has ever been in love wouldn’t recognise themselves repeatedly throughout.

For me, the worst is where it is made clear that Swann isn’t even sure if he loves Odette or if he is in love with the Odette of his mind.

Or perhaps, even worse still, if he is in love with the person he feels he becomes when he believes he is in love with her. This is much more complicated when compared to what we might normally expect a romantic relationship to involve – the self-love at the basis of this love isn’t the normal love novels confront us with.

The person Swann gets to see reflected back at him from within his relationship with Odette isn’t the hero of a love affair. He is anything but. He stands naked, pathetic and defenceless before his own and before our eyes.

But I didn’t feel the least bit of contempt for him, he reminded me of Phillip in Maugham’s Of Human Bondage, we can’t despise him, we can’t understand his choices, given they seem so obviously self-destroying, but in the end we are most inclined to think, ‘there but for the grace of god…’

Perhaps the problem is that we have so little control over what other people (particularly the people we fall in love with) think of us – but then we are unsure if what we think they think is really what they do think.

We are repeatedly made aware of the horrible feeling that perhaps Odette is trying to tell Swann what she thinks he wants to hear, but where each twist is another turn of the screw bringing yet another agony of self-doubt and self-loathing.

This is remarkably well captured, all the more so because Swann can see the path that lies before him and knows exactly where it leads. It is just that he is compelled to walk down that path all the same.

The book isn’t at all like Ulysses, it is easy to read, really. It wasn’t what I was expecting, mostly because I thought I was going to be inside the narrator's head the whole time, and so finding myself more or less inside Swann’s for so much of this was a surprise.

In fact, I started to think Swann was an invention of the narrator’s as another aspect of himself. If you are in the middle of a breakup, it wouldn’t be insane to avoid this.

But it is a powerful story, or rather series of observations on the nature of a relationship.

**The Enigmatic World of Proust's "The Way by Swann's"**

The allure of Proust's work is both captivating and challenging. At first, the dense prose may seem off-putting, but as one perseveres, it reveals a world of profound emotions and intricate thoughts. The narrator's journey through memory and consciousness is like a dive into a strange pool, initially uncertain but ultimately blissful. Proust's exploration of love, jealousy, loss, and grief is like an old wine that must be savored slowly to be fully appreciated.

The story of Swann and Odette acts as a prelude to the narrator's relationship with Gilberte, portraying the complexity of human emotions. The contrast between the beauty of the narrator's childhood and the banality of his present adds depth to the narrative. The first-person perspective, combined with the occasional omniscient narrator, creates a unique reading experience. Proust's style, natural and unaffected yet rich in metaphorical imagery, demands effort but is well worth it.

"The Way by Swann's" is a profusion of human emotions, expressed through the exploration of memory and wrapped in a sheath of art. It is a masterpiece that delves into the great questions of existence and shows how art can immortalize our experiences. Proust's ability to see beauty in the mundane and create an addictive creation out of words is truly remarkable. He escapes the tyranny of time through art, leaving us with a work that will be cherished for generations to come.

Reality takes shape in the memory alone.

I do not claim to have an in-depth knowledge of world literature. Given that I have only been reading in English for a little over half a decade, my acquaintance with A-class writers is, at best, rather sketchy. However, I have no hesitation in stating that there are two writers - Marcel Proust and Vladimir Nabokov - who make all those who aspire to be great look like silly dilettantes. Their artistic range, sheer eloquence, and fierce intelligence have such a profound impact on many prominent "bestselling" authors that the latter seem no more than teaboys and bargirls in the Café Littérature.

After seeing disappointing reviews of a couple of my friends whose opinions I value, I approached "À la recherche du temps perdu" with the expectation of eventually disliking it. I was prepared to admit my inability to penetrate its complex states of consciousness, which are glimpsed through a multitude of roundabout analogies and metaphorical slants. I also anticipated taking issue with the elasticity of Proust's prose, which stretches like an intricately designed arithmetic equation into clauses and sub-clauses, one within another, and another within yet another, so that by the time you reach the last clause, its connection with the opening one appears precariously tenuous. This might be due to the inability of English to fully capture the essence of the original French. Even if it is not, as I read, I discovered an easy solution to this mathematical construction of Proust's prose: if I lost the thread by the end of a paragraph-long sentence, I could always go back and re-read it!

However, this happened rarely. For the most part, Proust remains very accessible despite the intricacies of his calligraphic writing. At first glance, his prose gives the impression of a labyrinthine ruin of an excavated settlement from ancient times, whose topography you are at great pains to decipher. But without much effort, you find yourself unraveling the hidden secrets of the relic that once was a living, breathing place with souls in flesh and bones going about the business of life. You can hear their soft footfalls in the dead of night as your eyes glide over the text, feel their breath on the nape of your neck as you scratch it with the tip of a lead pencil, and their cries of pain and desire spin your heart into an orbital motion around a simple question that has become a tangle of answers. Their mental universes come alive in a quantum-level struggle against the perennial questions of existence on the surface of the skeletal remains of temples and forgotten pleasure-houses that once were.

By the time I finished the first installment, I was convinced that Marcel Proust is most certainly one of the finest artists known to us, a prose stylist like no other. I would like to take this opportunity to sing the praises of French writers. The more I read French literature and its British counterparts from the 19th century, the more I am convinced of the artistic superiority of the former over the latter. Call it my bias if you will. Yes, Dickens is great, as is Mary Ann Evans, and a few others. But if you only read British classics and nothing else, you are missing out on a whole world of literary excellence. I desperately hope that French originals translated into English do not suffer from the modernizing whitewash in contemporary translations. I do hope that when we read Flaubert and Proust in English, we are actually reading them and not their translators. It is for this reason that I shunned the newer translation of "À la recherche du temps perdu" and opted for C.K. Scott Moncrieff's.

I realize I haven't said much about the "themes" and "content" of the novel. But does it matter? For me, not really. For me, it is the writing that suggests the themes and ideas, not the other way around. And the ideas this piece of literature suggests resist any attempt at paraphrasing. All you can do is select moments of brilliance to discuss, and there are plenty of them at hand. If pressed, what would I say? The first half is a recounting of the story of a perceptive and insecure adolescent who tells us about his holidays with his immediate family at his aunt's country place in Combray. The second part involves a man called Swann on whom love has inflicted its violence despite his pretentious aloofness. Unimpressive? So simple? Yes, nothing to get excited about if you're looking for a formulaic story that caters to mass market tastes with its three-step start-middle-end construction, held up by the myth of rounded characters and told with a minimal tweaking of the convention, which is no more than a dull rehash of the popular novel.

July 2015

Marcel Proust is widely regarded as one of the most significant novelists of the twentieth century. His work, "In Search of Lost Time," is a masterpiece that delves deep into the human psyche, exploring themes such as memory, time, and love.

Graham Greene once said, "Proust was the greatest novelist of the twentieth century." This statement holds true as Proust's writing style and psychological insights are truly remarkable. His ability to capture the essence of human emotions and experiences is unparalleled.

Nabokov described Proust's work as "a treasure hunt where the treasure is time and the hiding place is the past." This is a fitting description as Proust's novel is filled with vivid memories and reflections on the past. The transmutation of sensation into sentiment, the ebb and flow of memory, and the waves of emotions such as desire, jealousy, and artistic euphoria are all masterfully portrayed in his work.

Shelby Foote, a historian and Proust aficionado, praised Proust's psychological insights as being as great as Dostoevsky's, his writing skill as great as Tolstoy's, and his creation of characters as being on par with Dickens'. These comparisons are a testament to the high regard in which Proust is held by literary critics and scholars.

One of the most famous scenes in Proust's novel is the "madeleine moment." When the protagonist eats a tea-soaked madeleine, a flood of long-forgotten childhood memories come rushing back to him. This moment is a powerful example of Proust's concept of "involuntary memory," which he believed contained the essence of the past.

Proust's work has had a profound impact on literature and continues to be studied and admired today. His exploration of the human mind and the nature of memory has inspired countless writers and thinkers. As Virginia Woolf said, "Proust so titillates my own desire for expression that I."

In conclusion, Marcel Proust is a literary giant whose work will continue to be relevant and influential for generations to come. His novel, "In Search of Lost Time," is a must-read for anyone interested in exploring the depths of the human psyche and the mysteries of memory and time.

**In Search of Lost Time: A Literary Odyssey**

Proust's masterpiece, "In Search of Lost Time," begins with the simple yet profound statement, "For a long time, I went to bed early." This novel, which I had long avoided due to its reputation for complexity, has become one of the most challenging and rewarding reads of my year.

The first part, "Combray," was a struggle as I adjusted to Proust's unique writing style. His sentences, often long and filled with vivid descriptions, brought to life a world of memories, emotions, and sensory experiences. The madeleine dipped in tea, the country walks, and the goodnight kiss all became tangible and real, transporting me into the narrator's childhood.

The second part, "Swann in Love," introduced me to the refined gentleman Charles Swann and his tortured relationship with Odette de Crécy. Their love, filled with jealousy, passion, and despair, was a complex and captivating exploration of the human heart. The "little phrase" of music that accompanied their love affair added an extra layer of beauty and melancholy to the story.

As I reached the end of the first volume, I was left in a state of awe and wonder. Proust's prose is truly a work of art, filled with charm, profundity, and an unwavering search for the meaning of life. Although reading this novel was not easy, it was well worth the effort. I look forward to delving into the second volume and continuing my journey through Proust's world of lost time.

The novel's themes of memory, love, art, and the passage of time are universal and timeless. They speak to the human experience and our longing for connection, meaning, and beauty. Proust's ability to capture these themes with such precision and elegance is a testament to his genius as a writer.

In conclusion, "In Search of Lost Time" is a literary classic that demands to be read and reread. It is a book that will stay with you long after you have turned the last page, leaving you with a new appreciation for the beauty and complexity of life.

So, dear reader, I encourage you to embark on this literary adventure and discover the magic of Proust for yourself. Unravel the mysteries, savor the prose, and let yourself be transported into a world of lost time and found memories.

What can one possibly say that hasn't already been said in this vast expanse of literature?

Yet, I will attempt to do just that. Marcel Proust, a rather sickly and asthmatic child from an upper-class family with loving parents and their values, both good and bad,

lived in France before the turn of the twentieth century. His parents may have been overly protective,

and this perhaps influenced his writing style. He began to pen long, meandering sentences like a distinguished master.

His prose is truly impressive and beautiful, elegantly capturing his early days. Sadly, as we all know, one can never go back in time.

The poignant narrative is both sublime and heart-wrenching because those days are eternally gone. The ghosts of Combray (Illiers) are reborn in Proust's warm memoir,

making simple events become haunting. The people in his life, mostly relatives, are now just vague images in his mind,

fading slowly away year by year and becoming extinct like his family. The village remains, but the subjects do not.

A love affair between Charles Swann, a rich snob, and the courtesan Odette de Crecy is added by the writer to give the story more appeal,

but it can be annoying and, worst of all, dull. Proust had great difficulty getting this work published,

so much so that he had to pay for it himself in 1913. We should be grateful,

for although it may not be a natural page-turner, those who are patient will benefit from the arduous climb.

Most others will fail to reach the top, but for those who do, the view is truly exquisite.