So I finally decided to read some Proust, thinking it would be a way to get in touch with my roots or something like that. And I have to say, for my introduction to his work, it was a bit of a mixed experience. The first part really gave me some trouble. I'm not a big fan of precocious or overly sensitive children, so the whole first part was kind of a waste for me. I know, that sounds terrible, right? Here is this great monument of literature, and I'm annoyed, as if I were watching a children's production of Oklahoma or any musical, really. (Ugh.) However, there are some truly beautiful moments in it. The varnish scene, those madeleines, the little secret room... And the transitions between these memories are so well done that you don't even feel like you're reading them; you're just flowing along with the words. But when he started hugging the flowers goodbye and crying because he was going to miss them, I have to admit, I was rolling my eyes so much, it was almost painful. Seriously, just buy the kid a football. But then came the second part - ah - that's where I started to understand it! Such minute and perfect details. Such deep insights into love, obsession, and betrayal. It was like reliving high school, but only the really painful first-love parts. I'm looking forward to reading the rest of it, but I think I need a break and maybe some sensitivity training first.

Before the longest novel in history attacks you with its detailed and windy descriptions and those long sentences that we haven't even seen examples of in Russian literature, which was known for its length,

literary scholars have agreed that it is one of the most beautiful novels of the 20th century and also that it is the longest and the strangest paradox that Marcel Proust, who was socially marginalized because of his sexual orientation and bourgeois lifestyle, received a resounding rejection when his novel was published in all publishing circles at that time, along with explicit critical responses that denounced it as a boring, slow and complex novel.

When you start reading the first part of the seven parts that Proust talks about inside the rooms of the house where he lived and grew up with his family, these details and complex sentences will collide with you, but there is a charm in the narrative that is difficult to understand how it creates the horizon of the novel and makes it a crafted artistic masterpiece... This beginning, and I was pleased with it despite the self-torture and the long return with the rest of the parts.

I think my initial motivation for reading this was Thomas Disch's outstanding short story "Getting into Death". When the heroine discovers that she likely has only a few weeks left to live, she immediately goes out, purchases an edition of Proust, and commences reading. She is only able to unwind once she has completed it. Well, clearly, it must be extremely good, and perhaps I shouldn't wait until the last month of my life.

OK... it IS really good! Just like all truly remarkable novels, it is also very peculiar. Proust is simply interested in doing his own thing, and if you don't like it, that's your issue. Everyone is aware of the incredibly long sentences, which actually possess a certain allure once you have learned how to read them. Honestly, this takes a while, but you reach that point after a couple of hundred pages of adaptation. What is less widely known is his intense interest in what we would nowadays refer to as the semantics of reference, particularly with regard to love. When you fall in love with someone you scarcely know, what is actually transpiring? Who is it that you love? What is the ontological status of the relationship? Proust manages to transform these musings into a rather captivating story.

But it is as much about psychology as it is about ontology. What causes people to fall in love? Exactly how does it occur? In the second part ("Un amour de Swann"), he subjects Swann's relationship with Odette to microscopic examination and shows you, step by minuscule step, how he falls for her, or she entraps him, depending on how you choose to view it. It is truly fascinating. Needless to say, it is also rather depressing... probably not a wise idea to read him when you are feeling overly despondent. I find that I can only read Proust at specific times in my life, but when I am in that phase, there is nothing better.

**(Book 685 from 1001 books) - Du Côté de Chez Swann = Swann's Way (À La Recherche du Temps Perdu = In Search of Lost Time #1), Marcel Proust**

Writing about this series of novels should indeed be a separate book in itself. It's like trying to depict the pyramids of Egypt stone by stone. You truly don't know where to begin, and the storm of words is overwhelming. The word "magnificent" is far too small to describe this series.

It is far superior to the Gothic cathedrals, the operas of Wagner and Beethoven, and the works of all Expressionists. What we learn most from this series is that it is filled with a concern, namely "fear of death" and "fear of dying", and not saying all the words that make your mind chew and consume it.

Many people may or may not understand this. Your brain is full of words that knock on this door and that wall, trying to get out but unable to. They despise life and devote themselves to an incredible fantasy that nothing can equal. Interestingly, the best description of one of the greatest masterpieces in the history of literature is limited to the term "disease", and I agree. However, many literary masterpieces are full of revealing the condition of sick people.

From Dostoevsky and Kafka to Celine, Hedayat, Mishima, Faulkner, Wolf, and Joyce, humans do not create anything to be immortal. They are always different, and it is these differences that become immortal. "In Search of Lost Time" is one such difference.

Well, I have finally completed the first book of this classic masterpiece, and I must admit that I am relieved it is over.

To me, the book does have certain moments of sheer brilliance that truly shine through. However, these闪光点 are unfortunately overshadowed by long and cumbersome paragraphs of description.

I understand that the description is supposed to be beautiful and detailed, but there is simply an excessive amount of it. Eventually, it became so overwhelming that my brain seemed to freeze.

From time to time, I did wonder if the translation might be at fault. Sadly, my French is not proficient enough to attempt reading the original version.

Nevertheless, I am willing to concede that this is indeed a very worthy book, and I am glad to have had the experience of reading it. However, I have decided that I will not be delving into any more of the seven volumes.

Perhaps others may find greater enjoyment and value in the remaining books, but for me, this is where my journey with this particular classic ends.

Criticize: sorry, but not this time!

\\"In Search of Lost Time\\" consists of one hundred and twenty-six posts on our favorite site. The internet, libraries, and bookstores are filled to the brim with studies, theses, biographies, analyses, and so on. I feel like a minuscule ant, insignificantly tiny in the face of this monumental work. Therefore, my post will serve as a testimony because I渴望 share a few morsels of happiness!

\\"Swann's Way,\\" the first volume.

And then there is the whirlwind of life, the precious moments of one's own, literary novels, and more. Nevertheless, I had to wait for many years before finding the opportune moment to isolate myself with Marcel.

So here it is. I could finally savor the delights of Combray, see the Swanns once again, and allow myself to be swept away by the magnificence of the Proustian style. Of course, I would still be disingenuous if I neglected to mention the effort that it sometimes demands in the face of the density of specific passages, but everyone is aware of that.

On the other hand, what about the emotion evoked by the poetic intensity? I would be remiss if I failed to mention the finesse of the tongue-in-cheek humor that punctuates the story. What a spirit!

On the other hand, I was curious to read some biographical articles about the author. I wrote the text in the first person. I was in need of clarification regarding the situated characters, the family or social framework, or even the place names. Fiction and reality are intertwined, presenting a truncated biography that can sometimes be confusing.

Thus, the young narrator positions himself as an only child at the heart of his family, while Marcel Proust had a brother who was two years his junior. He has completely obscured this fact; it does not appear anywhere. However, perhaps because of this, he is here providing us, behind the scenes, with one of the keys to his mental construction linked to inevitable suffering. It is rather disconcerting.

This mother-child relationship is also touching, as illustrated by the famous \\"evening kiss\\"...

I chose to read \\"La Recherche...\\" in sequence. However, some veteran Proustians do not consider it a necessity. Up until now, having reached the middle of the second volume, I remain convinced that it is easier to understand the evolution of the work and, in particular, the impressive and abundant gallery of characters in this gigantic human comedy.

Thus, I am immersed in a great work of modernity from another century, savoring a profound philosophical thought and delighting in allowing myself to be lulled by prose that sometimes reaches for the stars.

This is an extraordinarily melancholy ending to this first volume. Despite its gorgeous evocation of childhood and the narrator's first awakening sensitivities to art and beauty, the reality the narrator knew no longer exists. The extended use of metaphors related to ill health and an invalid's life of pain imbue the whole thing with an air of dejection, even desolation. It's my second read of this opening novel of Proust's magnum opus, this time in Lydia Davis' 2003 translation. Davis's translation is clean, fresh, subtle, and fluent, sidestepping the flowery Edwardianisms of Moncrieff. Proust's prose is mesmerising, and to fully appreciate it, one must let go of plot expectations and drift with the rhythm and flow. The book offers commentary and insights into various aspects such as love, art, creativity, social snobbery, class, and sexuality. It turns its back on the realistic novels of Balzac and Zola while recalling them in the inserted novella 'Swann in Love'. I will read on but need a break before tackling volume 2.

\\n  

... and helped me better understand what a contradiction it is to search in reality for memory's pictures, which would never have the charm that comes to them from memory itself and from not being perceived by the senses. The reality I had known no longer existed.

\\n


This review from December 2016 highlights the different translations and the unique qualities of Proust's work. Proust's monumental undertaking is accessible in chunks, and this first volume introduces themes that will be explored further in the subsequent volumes. The characters are passive, and the focus is on the narrator's inner world. Proust is a humorous writer, and his treatment of various themes is both insightful and thought-provoking. Overall, this is a must-read for anyone interested in literature and the exploration of the human psyche.

Lately, I have been increasingly overcome by a profound sense that my life, the world I inhabit, every encounter I've ever had, and my very sense of self are composed of disjointed fragments that refuse to coherently integrate. Beneath it all, there is an ever-present feeling of loss. Although I cannot precisely define what it is that I am losing, I am acutely conscious of its presence. I sense its approach, much like watching the waves on the distant horizon of the sea - with a melancholic anticipation. I find myself in a perpetual state of grief. But what does this grief pertain to? Whose is it? For sometimes, it doesn't even seem to belong to me.

The world, as I perceive it, has been a complex pattern of ideas. At times, it splits apart like light passing through a prism, revealing a multitude of diverse and vivid colors. At other moments, it coalesces into seemingly beautiful but inherently fragile shapes, much like the intricate designs within a kaleidoscope. Reality, if it truly exists at all, morphs in minute and almost imperceptible ways, creating the illusion of continuity and a unified existence. However, all I am is merely a collection of fragments that do not fit together seamlessly. I am constantly aware of the void that exists between these pieces, of the ragged, sharp edges, and the friction that arises from their dissonance.

Reading Proust has only served to amplify this overwhelming plethora of uneasy feelings. The entire book is like observing light being refracted through a piece of glass - a slight change in the angle of incidence, a gentle tilt of the glass, and a whole new view is revealed. Each time the text is illuminated in a different manner. But with an infinite number of such arrangements and possibilities, which one do you choose? Where do you even begin? Sometimes, you just long to throw a pebble, play a game of hopscotch, and hope that you land somewhere safe.

One of the reasons Proust will endure the test of time is that time, as a physical concept with which we are familiar, does not exist within the pages of his books. There is a stretching and compressing of it, but as he explicitly states in Swann's Way - perhaps not-being is the true state, and all our dreams of life are nonexistent. Perhaps, for as long as we draw breath, we are nothing more than an abyss of not-being, trapped within the vast, labyrinthine structure of recollection. But there are moments when even this illusion shatters, and all that is solid melts into air. Proust will subtly, yet deliberately, expose you to these moments in his writing until you are uncomfortably, intimately acquainted with them.

Note to all relevant parties : This book made me laugh and cry. I absolutely fell in love with the characters!

****************

PROBABLY HOW NOT TO READ MARCEL PROUST

In series three of The Sopranos, Tony shares with his therapist about his recent fainting spell that occurred while he was cooking meat. Then, he recalls his very first fainting spell, which happened shortly after he witnessed his father chop off a guy's finger with a meat cleaver. The therapist suggests that his first attack was due to a short circuit after witnessing his parents' sexuality, the violence and blood associated with the food he was about to eat, and the thought of having to "bring home the bacon" like his father one day. Classic dialogue then ensues :

Tony: “All this from a slice of gabagool?”

Dr. Melfi: “Kind of like Proust’s madeleines.”

Tony: “What? Who?”

Dr. Melfi (getting excited) : “Marcel Proust. Wrote a seven-volume classic, Remembrance of Things Past. He took a bite of madeleine — a kind of tea cookie he used to have when he was a child — and that one bite unleashed a tide of memories of his childhood and, ultimately, his entire life.”

Tony : (building up to another dyspeptic outburst): \\"This sounds very gay.\\"

Dr Melfi wisely decides to drop the subject of Proust, realizing that Tony is not receptive to the literary reference at that moment. This exchange not only adds a touch of humor to the show but also showcases the different perspectives on art and literature between the two characters.

74
Study, this moment of spiritual connection in mental life, this meaningful substance, this treasure of magical keys that unlock the chambers of our existence in a place where we alone cannot set foot, had a crucial role for him. It was like a driving force that could never replace human activity itself; rather, its effect was only to stimulate humans to activity... Because everyone, more or less, is subject to this state of falling into lower levels of consciousness, or because the excitement and inspiration resulting from reading certain books have a beneficial effect on a person's work, the clever and precise combination of driving forces and habitats that our brain hospital must observe every day.

Preface by Giovanni Macchia

62
The involuntary illness that Proust described and Charcot also examined was a type of mental breakdown. The patient who suffered from it broke down because he thought of himself as broken. And all his treatment consisted of getting this incapacitating perception out of his mind in such a way that he believed he could work, move, and start activity. That is, it seemed that his reason and intelligence were sound. But Ribot said that sloth often comes from a baseless fear that encompasses a range from simple unease to anxiety and ultimately terrifying horror.

Preface by Giovanni Macchia

358
In all this, there are many coincidences in work, and the second coincidence, which is our death, often does not give us the opportunity to wait much for the help of the first coincidence. I find this superstitious belief very reasonable, which says that the souls of our deceased are in a posthumous existence, animal, vegetable, or mineral captivity, and in fact we have lost them until one day - which will never come for many - we pass by a tree that is their prison or something that has them captive falls into our hands. The souls fall in turmoil, they call us, and as soon as we recognize them, their talisman is broken. We have set them free and they are released from death and return and live with us.

Our past is also like this. It is useless if we try to remember it. All the efforts of our intelligence are in vain. The past is hidden somewhere outside our reach and beyond our control; in something material (in the sense that this material thing may suggest it to us) that we know nothing about. It depends on coincidence whether we encounter this thing before death or not.

364
Habit! The slow but skillful artisan that at the beginning deceives our mind so that it suffers pain for weeks in a temporary place; yet the mind is fond of it because without habit and only with its own ability, it cannot find a place for us to sit.

Hala ne yazacağımı düşünüyorum ama sanırım ne hissettiğim en iyisi kitabın kendisi versin:

\\"Bu sanı uyanışımdan sonraki birkaç saniye boyunca kendisi sürdürürdü; mantığıma aykırı düşmez; ama gözlerime çekilmiş bir perde gibi, mumun artık yanmadığını fark etmemi engelledi. Ardından da önceki hayatta var olan düşüncelerin ruhgöçünden sonra bilinmez olması gibi, benim için anlaşılmaz bir hale gelmeye başlardı; kitabın konusu benden kopardı, onu düşünüp düşünmemekte serbest olurdum; aynı anda görme duyuma kavuşur, etrafımda gözlerimi, belki daha çok da sihnimi dinlendiren hoş bir karanlık bulunca çok şaşırırdım; zihnim bu karanlığa sebepsiz, anlaşılmaz; gerçekten karanlık bir şey olarak algılardı.\\"

This was truly a remarkable experience.

Marcel Proust: I can't find anything to say. Just read it!

10/10

This passage by Marcel Proust describes a moment of awakening and confusion. After waking up, the narrator experiences a state that lasts for a few seconds. It doesn't seem illogical, but it's like a curtain has been drawn over his eyes, preventing him from realizing that the candle has gone out. Then, like the thoughts from a previous life becoming unknown after emigrating, it starts to become incomprehensible to him. The subject of the book detaches from him, and he is free to think about it. At the same time, when he encounters a pleasant darkness that soothes his eyes and perhaps his mind, he is very surprised. His mind perceives this darkness as something without reason, incomprehensible, truly dark.

It's a profound and thought-provoking description that makes the reader wonder about the nature of perception and consciousness. Proust's writing is masterful in capturing these fleeting moments and making them come alive on the page.

Overall, this is a wonderful piece of literature that deserves a 10/10 rating. It's a must-read for anyone interested in exploring the depths of the human mind and the power of language.

This is the second time I have delved into Du côté de chez Swann (Swann's Way). The initial encounter was during my college days, within a course centered on twentieth-century literature. We were assigned the first two sections, namely \\"Combray\\"* and \\"Un amour de Swann\\". Subsequently, I read the last section to be able to claim that I had completed the book. However, I became thoroughly confused by the philosophical and aesthetic concepts within. Likely, this was due to my attempt to pen an extremely intricate paper comparing Proust with Gide, Sartre, and Camus. The experience left me feeling battered and traumatized.

There were certain scenes at the beginning that remained vivid in my memory. For instance, when the narrator persuades his mother to stay in his room, and of course, the renowned scene of the petite madeleine. I retained a modicum of information about Odette. What stood out most was the impact she had on Swann, and (a rather peculiar detail, yet one that I found amusing), her affected manner of inserting English expressions into her speech. I also recalled Vinteuil, his morally corrupt yet virtuous daughter, and his sonata. That's more or less it.

So much for the remembrance of books past.

The second time around, it was an entirely distinct experience. Although it still couldn't be classified as an \\"easy read\\", I grasped the flow of the narrative and gained a better understanding of the story as a whole. The psychological analysis of certain characters, which had previously seemed rather tiresome and excessive, now appeared more fitting. I even managed to identify some of the resemblances between the narrator as a child and Charles Swann. Above all, what truly stood out for me was Proust's irony and his social satire, particularly, but not solely, in \\"Swann in Love\\".

I'm delighted that the Proust group provided me with the impetus I needed to embark on this journey once again. Onward to the next stage of the adventure!

*The section titles vary slightly in the original. The section commonly titled \\"Overture\\" in English is the first part of \\"Combray\\" in the French.