…and as so often happens when the sun turns obliquely away from us at this time of year, when the holidaymakers have abandoned the seashore for the vainly compelling but wholly pleasurable divertissements of those artificially and yet delicately illuminated indoor gatherings along the rue Faubourg-Saint-Germain; when I, however, choose to idly and stubbornly remain faithful to the departing tide along the strand, where—or so a small voice which I so seldom heed prompts me—I think I might espy the newlyweds on the upper deck of the ferry absconding those shores of a continent which, in their already fading memory, resembles less Delacroix' Liberty and more Géricault's unsightly Raft, to flee across the channel for that encounter with the arms of autumn, an embrace which surely makes realists of us all—we who, having forgotten that long, melancholy, withdrawing roar that the sea of faith had made upon our departure from the quays of our youth, as this couple has lately made from their own and from England's seemingly fertile shore, but which now confronts both them and ourselves, upon our return, to the far side of channels of our own devising, where I, for my part, conduct myself on a solitary parade, bereft of all contact save for a desultory colony of gulls, they who scavenge this juncture of sand and water for what meager nourishment the turned season can offer them, and behind whom, however much in vain, I, along those intertidal pools of memory (so fickle, so protean and estranged from what seemed, only moments ago, to have been a part of my real existence) trail in my own fashion for scraps or traces of what my eye had at once caught and released, of that self-delighting little band of girls, they who held me in such thrall for so many pages of this, one cannot possibly or merely say the word 'book', for its incantatory spell held me as captive as Odysseus' crew, lashed to masts as they strained to fly simultaneously both away from and yet also towards those undying notes of enchantment that issued forth, not from the objective world, but from that realm of gold (surely explored by Keats as thoroughly as by Cortez) which, transformed in the crucible of some searching, second rate mind, in the fevered cranium of that nevertheless-and-evermore sensitive artist, he whose inner eye not only captures and transfixes (as in a modern day photograph) the ingenious and supposedly peerless, unsurpassed conjurings of fertile-but-erratic nature, but rather, as it were, also reconfigures the ineffable and ephemeral gleanings of the senses according to the imperatives of that lusty sovereign, the imagination, that sole, solitary arbitrator whose reserves of fearlessness surely rival those of the proudest of emperors—he who is, if only in the circumscribed bourne of his private domain, an issuer of edicts, commanding, at once both all of humanity yet not even his "self" (that shroud-entombed region which, should he take the time to discover, as I have done in the pages of this book, no living or even apprehendible creature inhabits, howsoever for very long, as upon those inhospitable seaside cliffs and craggs, but alights—be it for the season or for the merest interval of a heartbeat—only to depart once more, as in an etching after Minna Bolingbroke and not unlike the little band of girls who would become, by the return of the sun to his sanguinary position in the heavens, accompanied no doubt by a newer and more disillusioned, but still hopeful version of myself), to be something other than what they were and would never be again—though they might one day yearn, and seek to return, if only in memory, to this delicate spot of summer, when they trod down the beach with their chronicler trailing after them, in search of newer and more pressing desires, each following as hard upon the other as surely as the waves, they whose own irrepressible impulses are quenched in the moment of attaining their object, are blindly sent hither from that farther shore; and, in short….

Deuxième volume de la Recherche, À l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs est un roman qui, si l’on fait abstraction du long flash-back, « Un Amour de Swann », fonctionne comme en miroir du premier volume, Du côté de chez Swann.

Le début des Jeunes filles en fleurs reprend, presque sans solution de continuité, là où nous en étions restés, avec l’hiver, les quartiers ouest de Paris et Gilberte, objet du désir du jeune Narrateur depuis le milieu du premier volume. Nous faisons plus ample connaissance avec plusieurs personnages évoqués précédemment : Berma, la tragédienne ; Norpois, le diplomate pédant qui décourage les ambitions littéraires du jeune Marcel ; puis Bergotte, qui, au contraire, l’exhorte à persévérer. Surtout, le désir du jeune homme de se rapprocher de Gilberte nous introduit dans l’intimité de la famille Swann. A partir de là, nous observons comment, progressivement, la passion pour Gilberte s’estompe au profit de sa mère, Odette. Tout se passe comme si, dans ces « intermittences su cœur », le regard du Narrateur se confondait avec celui du Charles Swann amoureux, que nous avions rencontré dans le premier volume.

Le milieu du roman est marqué par une césure très nette, presque comme une pliure, avec une ellipse de deux années d’intervalle depuis l’épisode de Gilberte. La belle saison est là, le Narrateur, sa grand-mère et Françoise quittent Paris pour Balbec (une station balnéaire imaginaire sur la côte Atlantique) et nous retrouvons, dans cette deuxième moitié du deuxième volume, une atmosphère très proche de celle que nous avions rencontrée à Combray, dans la première moitié du premier livre. Ambiance estivale, visite d’église médiévale, aristocrates et bourgeois en vacances, promenades en voiture, campagne riante, parfums amoureux et, bien entendu, jeunes filles en fleurs. Les noms de Combray sont ici parfois les mêmes (Bloch, Charlus), parfois assez similaires (le beau Saint-Loup remplace le charmant Swann ; les peintures d’Elstir relaient les livres de Bergotte). Mais, surtout, la jeune aubépine Gilberte s’est maintenant métamorphosée en une multitude de fleurs, parmi desquelles le cœur du Narrateur ne cesse de butiner, hésitant toujours avant de se poser sur l’une d’elles : la vendeuse de café au lait ? Mlle de Stermaria ? la belle pêcheuse de Carqueville ? Puis, dans la petite bande : Gisèle ? Andrée ? Rosemonde ? Albertine ?...

Durant tout l’épisode de Balbec (très supérieur a l’épisode parisien qui le précède, entre nous soit dit), les affects amoureux du Narrateur sont en pulsation continue, passant du désir a la désillusion, créant ainsi, de manière subtile, un suspens perpétuel. La prose de Proust, toujours fluide et mouvante, semble, elle aussi, battre comme un cœur entre différents états. D’abord, les marivaudages indécis et les jalousies du Narrateur, que Proust analyse de manière presque clinique. Ensuite, le « kaléidoscope » social, l’aquarium du Grand-Hôtel, la satire un peu bouffonne parfois, lorsqu’il décrit les papotages de tous les clowns, pédants et culs pincés qui peuplent Balbec. Enfin, la spéculation esthétique et métaphysique, quand il tente de cerner les réalités souvent fuyantes de la perception, de la mémoire et de la création artistique – les descriptions de paysages sont parmi les plus belles pages de Proust, que ceux-ci soient aperçus directement par le Narrateur, comme la mer changeante sous la fenêtre de l'hôtel, ou qu’ils soient vus à travers la création artistique, comme dans le cas du Port de Carquethuit, peint par Elstir.

Reste toutefois que, à travers toutes ces pulsations fluides, toutes ces intermittences mouvantes, il semble qu’on ne puisse s’accrocher a rien de solide. Tout n’est qu’illusion, la beauté s’efface, les rencontres déçoivent. Ne reste au fond, comme le dit le Narrateur vers la fin du roman, qu’une résignation douce au néant :

Et c’est en somme une façon comme une autre de résoudre le problème de l’existence, qu’approcher suffisamment les choses et les personnes qui nous ont paru de loin belles et mystérieuses, pour nous rendre compte qu’elles sont sans mystère et sans beauté ; c’est une des hygiènes entre lesquelles on peut opter, une hygiène qui n’est peut-être pas très recommandable, mais elle nous donne un certain calme pour passer la vie, et aussi — comme elle permet de ne rien regretter, en nous persuadant que nous avons atteint le meilleur, et que le meilleur n’était pas grand’chose — pour nous résigner à la mort. (Pléiade, tome II, p. 300)

Sage résolution, sans doute. Rares sont ceux toutefois (et le Narrateur n’en fait pas plus partie que vous ou que moi), qui sont capables d’y plier leurs désirs.

> Vol. précédent : Du côté de chez Swann
> Vol. suivant : Le côté de Guermantes

.
در صفحات بسیاری در جستجو، ماجرا و شرح آن تنها بهانه‌ای برای پرداختن به مبحث بنیادین چند و چون انگیزه و آفرینش هنری است. هنر موسیقی در طرف خانه‌ی سوان و نقاشی در کتاب در سایه‌ی دوشیزگان شکوفا، مجموعه‌ی این هنرها که پروست درباره‌ی هرکدامشان با آگاهی یک کارشناس بهوش و پیشرفته سخن می‌گوید، بحث هنری جستجو را از آنچه به ظاهر جولانگاه اصلی آن است، یعنی ادبیات، فراتر می‌برد و در مفهوم عام هنر متبلور می‌کند.
نگاه ریزبین و عمیق پروست برای بیان تمام حالات عشق و روابط آدم‌ها برام شگفت‌انگیز بود و جلد دوم را بخاطر فضای رمانتیکش دوست داشتم.

«Για χρόνια πλάγιαζα νωρίς...»
Αγάπη, μνήμη, αδιέξοδο.

Μέσα στην Προυστική αντίληψη της ζωής, στην θεωρία του περί τέχνης, στην αισθητική του, καραδοκεί υποχθόνια η αιώνια απογοήτευση.
Μια κατάσταση απελπισίας και απόγνωσης, ένα αδιέξοδο σκέψεων και πράξεων που οδηγεί σε έναν μακάβριο δρόμο φιλοσοφικής διαφυγής: κάθε είδους αυτοκτονία.
Όμως ο Προύστ, βρίσκει πάντα πνευματικά μονοπάτια ψυχικής ευδαιμονίας, αιχμαλωτίζει τις στιγμούλες, μας διδάσκει, να προκαλούμε τα χαμένα στην μνήμη μας κομμάτια, αυτά που θάβονται στα πέρασμενα, αυτά που ανακαλεί η καρδούλα μας αυθόρμητα και εξαφανίζει το πέρασμα του χρόνου χαρίζοντας μας ευτυχία τόσο μυρωδάτη και απαλή, τόσο ξεχωριστή και ανείπωτη που γίνεται ευδαιμονία.

Αυτή η στιγμή που φυλακίζουμε και μας προσφέρει μέθεξη απολαυστικής εξαΰλωσης προς την κάθε ανάμνηση δεν διαρκεί πολύ, ούτε ανακαλείται συνεχώς. Μας απελευθερώνει, μας γοητεύει, μας λυτρώνει αποσπασματικά, όπως οι επιθυμίες που μας σκλάβωσαν κάποτε, και μετά χάνεται, σαν φλασάκι απροσδιόριστης αναπαράστασης,αποκλειστικά
μέσα στην ψυχή μας.

Ο Προύστ γνώριζε πως για να σταθεροποιηθεί όσο γίνεται περισσότερο η υπερκόσμια χαρά της αναζήτησης πρέπει να διαρκέσει πολύ και με ένταση. Πρέπει, για να μην παρεμβάλλονται τα εμπόδια του παρόντος που τρέχει ασταμάτητα προς τη λήθη, αυτά, που υπάρχουν για να σκοντάφτει η επιθυμία στην απογοήτευση.
Έτσι, δημιούργησε τέχνη. Μία τέχνη απαράμιλλη, που φυλακίζει τις στιγμές μας, τις φευγαλέες, και γίνεται φράγμα απο χρώματα, μυρωδιές, ήχους, μελωδίες, αγγίγματα, λόγια, χάδια, φιλιά, άπειρες καληνύχτες με στερνούς αποχαιρετισμούς και γλυκά ξημερώματα νοσταλγίας σε ένα λυκόφως διάπυρης φαντασίας και αυτούσιων εικόνων.
Το φράγμα αυτό της τέχνης συγκρατεί για πάντα την αναζήτηση και αυξάνει τη διάρκεια στην αδιάκοπη ροή των πάντων.
Σκοπός της καλλιτεχνικής θεραπείας είναι η μονιμοποίηση του ελάχιστου χρόνου που μας αποκαλύπτεται η πραγματική όψη του κόσμου μας.

Μέσα στο σύμπαν του μυαλού μας, οι ανασκαφές της ψυχής και τα ευρήματα των ονείρων μας είναι οι αληθινές εντυπώσεις που ζουν αιώνια και χαρακτηρίζουν το γνήσιο απο το συμβατικό.
Κάθε μορφή συμβατικής λειτουργίας αποβαίνει μοιραία, καθώς εντείνει την ροή των τωρινών ορίων και θάβει τις αναμνήσεις ώστε να μην ξαναγυρίσουν.

Το δεύτερο μέρος του «αναζητώντας τον χαμένο χρόνο» κυριαρχείται απο τους αρχιερείς των εφηβικών χαμόγελων, της αιώνιας νιότης, της παντοτινής ζωής, της σωματικής έλξης που αναγνωρίζει μυστικά αρώματα πόθου και της γλυκιάς λαγνείας των ανώριμων φρούτων, των καρπών, που εξιτάρουν όσους καίγονται σε καταστάσεις έξαρσης απο την απροσδιόριστη ηδονή της ανεξήγητης θεϊκής φύσης.

Αναζητώντας τον έρωτα. Αναζητώντας απαντήσεις σε άλυτα μυστήρια του ανθρώπινου πνευματικού συμπαντος.
Η δύναμη της αγάπης χαρίζει την τόλμη της ανείπωτης δόξας που γίνεται σοφή παραφροσύνη και με θράσος προκαλεί τα μοιρολόγια θανάτου της ώριμης σκέψης να γίνουν τραγούδια διονυσιακής γιορτής και βακχικών τελετών στον άσβεστο βωμό κάποιας αιώνιας ιέρειας, που μιλάει μόνο με χρησμούς ηδονής.
Τα θεϊκά πόδια της νιότης αρνούνται να σταματήσουν τον χορό του έρωτα έστω κι αν γνωρίζουν πως τα πάντα στη φύση θα εξακολουθούν να υπάρχουν και μετά τον δικό τους θάνατο.
Αναζητούν απαντήσεις στο ερώτημα της παντοδυναμίας που πλημμυρίζει την ύπαρξη τους όταν δημιουργούν πλανήτες και σύμπαντα για να κατοικήσει ο πληθυσμός που ερωτεύεται.
Ο κόσμος που απεικονίζει την αγάπη μέσα απο τα βράχια της αιώνιας θάλασσας, το φεγγαρόφωτο της ασημένιας αυγής που φιλάει με πάθος τα όνειρα, μέχρι να πονέσουν απο την απόλυτη ηδονή, ο ουρανός που αναπολεί χρωματικές παλέτες και σύννεφα απο μάγισσες εποχές.
Πώς γίνεται όλα αυτά να εξακολουθούν να υπάρχουν και μετά τον θάνατο των ερωτευμένων με την αναζήτηση της αγάπης.
Προφανώς δε γίνεται να μπορέσει να αντέξει ο κόσμος περισσότερο απο τα θύματα του χρόνου. Οι εραστές των δυνάμεων της φύσης προσπαθούν να γνωρίσουν τη σαρκική τους απολύτρωση μέσα απο την επαφή της ολοκλήρωσης.
Μέσα σε αυτούς τους εραστές, μέσα σε όσους αγάπησαν και έλιωσαν απο τη φλόγα της αδημονίας και της έξαρσης, βρίσκεται κλεισμένος ολόκληρος ο κόσμος. Διότι οι αγάπες και οι έρωτες δεν είναι χαμένοι στον κόσμο μας, ο κόσμος μας βρίσκεται μέσα τους και μάλιστα αφήνει και περίσσευμα χώρου ώστε να μπορούν σε διαφορες γωνιές να πετούν περιφρονητικά σε στοίβες τους ήλιους, τα άστρα,τη Σελήνη, τη θάλασσα και τα χρόνια που προσπάθησαν να δραπετεύσουν και να ξεφύγουν απο την αναζήτηση.

Αναρωτιέμαι πώς θα έχω γίνει φθάνοντας στο τέλος του Προυστιανικού ταξιδιού. Πώς θα αφομοιώσω την Προυστιανική δογματική αναρχία. Πώς θα επανέλθω σε είδωλα ζωής μετά απο τους αντικατοπτρισμούς σε αυτόν τον καθρέφτη της ματαιοδοξίας.

Όπως είπε πολύ σοφά σε κάποια επιστολή προς τον Μαρσέλ Προύστ ο Αντρέ Ζιντ:
«Αγαπητέ μου Προύστ
Εδώ και λίγες μέρες δεν μπορώ να εγκαταλείψω το βιβλίο σας. Για ποιο λόγο αλίμονο!, ενώ το αγαπώ τοσο πολύ, να μου προξενεί τόση οδύνη....».

Within a Budding Grove or In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower is the second part of Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time. Here, the story of the narrator continues. He is no longer the child narrator of Swann's Way, but an adolescent, whose thoughts, dreams, and ambitions are taking a mature turn. Having passed that stage ourselves, we know how teenagers are. They think that they are so high-minded and thus, become snobbish. It's the fault of the age, and we see a similar fault in our adolescent narrator here. But that's what makes this plotless journey more interesting. We enter the mind of a proud, know-it-all teenager, and take refuge in his thoughts and emotions. We feel happy when he acts wise and prudent, angry when he acts like a fool, and frustrated at his snobbery. But then, we remember our own adolescent stupidities, and with a generous heart, we forgive him.

The main effect of Proust's reminiscences is to take the reader back to a time that is physically lost to us but stays with us in our mental capacity. The memories are powerful, yet they aren't all accurate. Some will stay strong, and some are only vague remembrances. If we are asked to recount our teenage years, it will only be a collection of impressions, incidents, and events, gaps of which are filled with our mature perceptions. This is true for the narrator of this story, who is recounting his adolescent life as an adult. The narrative voice is both of the adolescent and of the adult so much so that we feel the narrator is much older for his age. Some may argue that this technique negates the realistic touch of the narrative. While this is true to some extent, I don't think Proust could have done it in any other way. Our memories of the past are lost in time and space, and summoning an accurate mental image of our past is simply impossible. There will be gaps which, without any intention to mislead, we will fill with our imagination. If we have a good deal of imagination in store, our stories will interest the listener just as Proust does.

What is admirable about these reminiscences is their ability to take the readers down their own memory lane, recalling a forgotten past, and making them nostalgic. I find this connection Proust makes, charming. Quite often, when you read the narrator's memories, your own pay you a visit, and you get lost in two separate yet connected worlds - that of the narrator and your own. This reading experience is delightful, and quite honestly, it is one of the reasons for my attraction. The other is, quite certainly, his writing. It is sheer poetry. You can easily lose yourself in the beauty of his words. The picture he paints through his poetry is absolutely bewitching. Proust had certainly known how to cast a spell.

I don't claim this to be an easy read. The long sentences, complex language, and verbosity can be daunting. But there also lies the attraction, to conquer and indulge in an ocean of poetry.

More of my reviews can be found at http://piyangiejay.com/

It may have taken me more than a month to finish reading this work, but it was certainly well worth the effort. This novel got better and better as I worked my way to the end. I loved in particular the second part ('Swann in Love') of the first novel (Swann's Way) of 'Remembrance of Things Past', and it was also the second part of Within A Budding Grove (also published as 'In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower') that captured my attention more than the first part. Overall I prefer this novel to the first. As there are many outstanding reviews available, I won’t provide any further detail; suffice to say that I look forward to reading the rest of Proust’s masterpiece. However, I suspect that it will be a long-term project.

I will now and forever be spreading the Proust agenda. I apologize in advance to all those who know me.

"It is because they imply the sacrifice of a more or less advantageous position to a purely private happiness that, as a general rule, ‘impossible’ marriages are the happiest of all."



In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower also translated as Within a Budding Grove is the second installment in Marcel Proust's masterpiece In Search of Lost Time. Beginning with the remarkable transformation of Swann's mistress, Odette Crécy, and our young narrator's pursuit of the daughter of Swann and Odette, Gilberte, In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower is an engaging continuation of Proust's story. As our narrator recounts the anxieties and obsessions of young love, he evokes the seaside resort of Balbec. This evocation feels both impressionistic and fully developed. Wonderful writing! It is during his time in Balbec that his attention shifts from Gilbert to Albertine and he entertains the idea that he will become a writer.

“It was she whom I loved and whom I could not therefore see without that anxiety, without that desire for something more, which destroys in us, in the presence of the person we love, the sensation of loving.”

On re-reading this, I was struck by the contingency of love, the way the narrator's feelings are swayed by tiny things making him waver between Gilberte and Mme Swann, between Albertine and her 'little band' all of whom are gloriously described: Proust captures adolescence wonderfully, these girls testing their powers, not yet women.

Motifs re-occur as if this were a piece of music: Saint-Loup is another Swann, enthralled by a lower-class actress. Elstir with his Monet-alike paintings is another artist, and we've now met the Guermantes...

-------------------- 2017 review ---------------

If volume 1 (Swann's Way) is about the narrator's childhood, then this second volume captures the essence of adolescence and early adulthood. The first half, 'Mme Swann at Home', deals with first love, that first break-up, and the disappointed space between expectations and reality. The second, 'Place-names: the Place', follows our narrator to a long summer holiday at Balbec where he takes his own place in a youthful society and meets some of the most important people in his life to come: the aristocratic Saint-Loup, Albertine.  Along the way, our narrator has sex for the first time, with a prostitute; and is drawn into the orbit of bisexuality which foreshadows later developments in the book.

Don't, of course, read Proust for page-turning plot: this is meditative and meandering, a book that we want to take our time over and ponder. This volume extends the way the first part thinks about memory and here suggests that recollections are not so much of experience as a way of making sense of past experience in a way which isn't possible in the moment.

At the same time, Proust is surprisingly funny especially in his depictions of social snobbery (there are some ghastly people in his pages!) and I like the way he respects his readers enough to expect us to 'get' people without him having to 'tell' us in great chunks of exposition. Indeed, part of the pleasure is in seeing past the narrator who oscillates between his previous youthful naivety and innocence and his latter maturity and and experience.

This is perhaps the best depiction of obsessive love that I've read: like Swann in volume 1, the narrator is enthralled by the fickle Gilberte and, perhaps, is half in love with the sensual Mme Swann, Gilberte's mother. The second half of the book moves him away from the insular somewhat claustrophobic setting of the first half with its emphases on houses and interiors, and opens up to the Normandy coast where the narrator learns to spread his desires amongst a group of girls as well as making a contemporary male friendship with Saint-Loup for what is probably the first time.

In mesmerising, wandering prose this is a hypnotic read that captures the emergence of masculine subjectivity in turn of the century France. I'm going to have a break before coming back to the next volume...

Peacockery… Exclusive circles exist under the sign of swagger…

However, wishing to magnify themselves in the eyes of the princely or ducal families which are their immediate superiors, these aristocrats also know that they can do this only if they enhance their name with something extraneous to it, something which, other names being equal, will make theirs prevail: a political influence, a literary or artistic reputation, a large fortune.

Time runs, now the narrator is a hypochondriac, nervous and susceptible youth and he is a product of his milieu. He falls in love but his love is unrequited and his heart is broken. He finds a refuge by the sea and spends his days immersed in romantic daydreams and amorous fantasies.
The lovelorn live under the sign of suffering…

In love, happiness is an abnormal state, capable of instantly conferring on the pettiest-seeming incident, which can occur at any moment, a degree of gravity which in other circumstances it would never have. What makes one so happy is the presence of something unstable in the heart, something one contrives constantly to keep in a state of stability, and which one is hardly even aware of as long as it remains like that. In fact, though, love secretes a permanent pain, which joy neutralizes in us, makes virtual and holds in abeyance; but at any moment, it can turn into torture, which is what would have happened long since, if one had not obtained what one desired.

Perusing the past Marcel Proust meticulously describes every minute detail so any insignificant trifle turns into an important and special thing…

Theoretically we are aware that the earth is spinning, but in reality we do not notice it: the ground we walk on seems to be stationary and gives no cause for alarm. The same happens with Time. To make its passing perceptible, novelists have to turn the hands of the clock at dizzying speed, to make the reader live through ten, twenty, thirty years in two minutes. At the top of a page, we have been with a lover full of hope; at the foot of the following one, we see him again, already an octogenarian, hobbling his painful daily way round the courtyard of an old people’s home, barely acknowledging greetings, remembering nothing of his past.

High society exists under the sign of hypocrisy… They smile at each other sweetly and stab each other in the back.

Desire, Longing and the Power of Pollination

After an initial period of withdrawal where I was desperately longing for the metrical sentences of a Lydia Davis translation, I was eventually able to adapt and enjoy this volume.

Volume number 2, "Within a Budding Grove", of Proust's "In Search of Lost Time" is a longing for something more real than anything the narrator could ever imagine. There is desire for Odette, Gilberte, and of Albertine Simonet (with only one n). Let us also not forget that constant, intense desire to be in the company of the young girls at Balbec.The narrator delights in an aura of pleasure in making new acquaintances, of curious examinations, of communicating with the captivating, and of making favorable impressions even though sometimes he fails to do so.

Yet, once the object of longing is acquired, there would be much suffering as it only becomes "a starting point for further desires". Such is the nature of things and our love for its poison.

The reader, the trained observer often has difficulty in comprehending certain things like Odette being grateful to Charles Swann for marrying her that she plays the role of Madame Swann to perfection despite being unable to arrange the chrysanthemums to Madame Verdurin's liking. Also difficult to understand is a desire to be outside of Time and yet become more conscious of it and its cruelty by either putting a stop to it or by clinging to a long list of works of posterity.

Seeking a change in surroundings while trying to gain time, the narrator heads off for the charms of the seaside town of Balbec, going there in expectation of a renewed desire to awaken the dormant effects of Habit, and to live in the intoxicating presence of beauty while thirsting for this beauty. "We desire, we seek, we see Beauty."

The reader revels in the portraiture of the senses that is painted in pink, lots of pink, in pink hawthorns, the pink in Swann's scarf that was a replica of that of the Virgin in the "Magnificat" and especially the sulphurous pink cheeks of Albertine in that pefect harmony of pink and gold.

There is a sense that in reading Proust, the more knowledge you bring to your reading, the more you get out of it. Knowing the culture of things like the letters of Madame de Sévigné, the performance of Phèdre, perferring "Chateaubriand better in Atela than Rance", and Pisanello's pencil or Gallo's glass only enhances the ISOLT experience and doesn't leave you feeling clueless in your reading. I liken it to taking a whiff of a favorite perfume, detecting a floral note and recognizing it for what it is which is a very different experience than having to research on Google for a list of possible ingredients.

This reinforces my belief that reading "In Search of Lost Time" requires a second reading in one's lifetime, to capture that sense of deja vu , of a repetition of time and the critical attempt to embalm time.

کتاب سرخوردگی ها

اگر کمی خیالبافی خطرناک باشد، راه درمانش کمتر کردن خیال نیست، بلکه باید خیال را بیشتر کرد. تا زمانی که ذهنتان را از خیال هایش دور نگه می دارید مانع آن می شوید که آن ها را خوب بشناسد. در نتیجه بعداً گول ظواهر بی شماری را می خورید، چون نتوانسته اید به ذاتِ آنها پی ببرید. باید خیال هایمان را خوب بشناسیم تا بتوانیم آنها را از زندگی جدا کنیم و دیگر از آنها رنج نکشیم. این جدایی خیال از زندگی اغلب آن قدر سودمند است که فکر می کنم شاید بد نباشد آدم آن را به عنوان پیشگیری عملی کند، مثل بعضی جراحانی که معتقدند برای پیشگیری از آپاندیسیت باید آپاندیس همۀ بچه ها را درآورد.

آيا اين جملات الستيرِ نقاش، جوهر و هدف اصلى رمان نيست؟

پروست داستان را از درون ذهن پسرى خيالباف روايت مى كند، كه ذهنش پى در پى با پوشاندن جامه اى زرين از خيال به واقعيت، او را فريب مى دهد، و پى در پى با مواجهه با واقعيت از دروغين بودن خيالاتش سرخورده مى شود. پروست اين پسر را در موقعيت هاى مختلف قرار مى دهد و بدين ترتيب فريب هاى مختلفى كه تخيل مى تواند بزند را به ما نشان مى دهد تا از آن ها بر حذر باشيم: يك بار تخيلش با شنيدن تعريف از فلان بازيگر تئاتر او را تا عرش اعلى مى برد، و وقتى بازى پيش پا افتاده و لحن خشكش را مى بيند سر خورده مى شود. يك بار با شنيدن نام معمارى ايرانى كليساى شهر بلبك و درياى آن، خيال مى كند كليساى اسرار آميز شرقى بر صخره هايى بر فراز دريا واقع است و امواجى كه خود را به صخره ها مى كوبند تا پنجره هاى كليسا مى پاشند. اما وقتى به بلبك مى رود مى بيند كليسا كيلومترها از دريا دور است و معمارى ايرانى اش در تصوير جزئى اى از اژدها خلاصه شده كه اگر نشانش نمى دادند هرگز متوجهش نمى شد. يا وقتى كه دخترانى را گذرا مى بيند و در تخيلش آن ها را چنان زيبا مى بيند و وقتى جلو مى رود يا با آن ها صحبت مى كند، ناگهان تمام آن تصوير خيالى فرو مى ريزد، یا وقتی فکر می کند که عاشق این یا آن زن است و بعد می فهمد که آن چه اشتیاق یا عشق خوانده می شود، چیزی در درون خود اوست و حتی رسیدن به آن زن هم نمی تواند آن اشتیاق را تسکین دهد. و...

در جستجوى زمان از دست رفته، حداقل در جلد دوم، كتاب خيالات واهى است، کتاب سرخوردگی ها. ادراك ها و برداشت هاى اشتباهى كه از واقعيت داريم، به خاطر طنين يك اسم، يا يك پيشفرض غلط، يا يك مقايسۀ نادرست، يا... و مدت ها طول مى كشد تا بتوانيم از زنجير اين برداشت اشتباه در بياييم.

پروست با جملات فوق نشان مى دهد كه راه حل مصونيت از اين فريب هاى خيال، توجه كردن به كاركرد ذهن و تخيل است. خودآگاه شدن نسبت به این حقیقت که ذهن همیشه تمام آن چه که در بیرون است را به ما نشان نمی دهد، بلکه خودش آن را با درصد بالایی از احساسات و خاطرات و تخیلات مخلوط می کند. برای خودآگاه شدن به کارکرد ذهن، باید هر گاه كه ذهن ما را فريب مى دهد، خوب دقت كنيم، ماجرا را مرور كنيم، و ببينيم دقيقاً چه چیزهایی موجب خطاى ما شد تا ديگر به آن خطا دچار نشويم. يا مى توانيم به كمك خواندن اين كتاب كه از قبل شكل هاى مختلف فريبكارى تخيل را شرح داده، در مقابل حيله ها و ترفندهاى مختلف ذهن آماده شويم. کتابی که مثل «هنر همیشه بر حق بودن» انواع مغالطات ذهن را برای ما به وضوح به تصویر کشیده است. آیا به خاطر همین نیست که پروست کار خود را همچون کار پدرش – که با توصیه های پزشکی خود جلوی ابتلای پاریس به وبا را گرفت – می داند؟ ایجاد مصونیت نسبت به بیماری ای از جنس دیگر: بیماری فکری.

این هم یکی از راه حل های مسئلۀ زندگی است که به اندازۀ کافی به چیزها و کسانی که از دور به چشم مان زیبا و اسرارآمیز آمده اند نزدیک شویم تا ببینیم که در آن ها از راز و زیبایی نشانی نیست. این، یکی از چند دستور سلامت است که می توان برگزید، که شاید چندان دلپسند نباشد، اما آن اندازه آرامش می آورد که زندگی مان را بگذرانیم و - از آن جا که امکان می دهد حسرت هیچ چیز را نخوریم، چون به ما می باوراند که به بهترینِ چیزها رسیدیم و بهترینش هم چیزی نبود - همچنین به مرگ تن دهیم.