Marcel Proust, À la recherche du temps perdu (text established under the direction of Jean-Yves Tadié ©1987–1992): Book 7, Le temps retrouvé, pp 2273–2334
If I’d kept to my original plan of five pages a day, or even my second plan of three a day, I would have finished À la recherche du temps perdu by now. But I’ve slowed down and had a couple of gaps, so I’m only just entering the strait.
Not that the pace is picking up, but this last month’s reading has had a definite end-is-nigh feel. As I mentioned last month, a sequence of tiny experiences – standing on some uneven paving, hearing a spoon click against a plate, feeling a starched cloth against his lips – send the narrator into complex rumination about the nature of memory and art.
I won’t even try to summarise his reflections on art, but he has a lot to say about the importance of drawing on one’s own experience, and on paying attention to one’s own idiosyncratic (not his word) responses to the material experiences. The specifics of this, remembered, half-remembered, retained only in the unconscious, are what make a work of fiction live. ‘A book’, he says, ‘is a great cemetery where we can no longer read the eroded names on most of the tombs.’
Un livre est un grand cimetière où sur la plupart des tombes on ne peut plus lire les noms effacés
Having earlier given up on his pretensions to be a writer, he now decides to write a book based on his fresh understanding of a certain kind of memory as a way to transcend time. It’s fabulously self-referential, and it does make me want to start all over again to see how the book lives up to his stated intention.
All that thinking happens in the library of a house where he has turned up for a social event. The musical piece in the next room finishes and he goes into the salon, which is full of people he hasn’t seen for years while out of town at health establishments. And they’re all in fancy dress: the men have stuck white moustaches and beards on their faces and most people are wearing white wigs; one young man has put on ingenious fake wrinkles; a glamorous woman has made herself look overweight … which leads into reflections on old age. Just as he as decided to write a work about transcending time, he is confronted with evidence of time’s inexorable effects on human beings.
Individual humans age, some more devastatingly than others. Some people disappear from society altogether – they may have been the subject of scandal, or they may have been Germans. Some who were barely on the fringes of le monde now have great prestige. Others have swapped dubious reputations for status as men of high moral standing. The same title is now inhabited by a different person altogether. The young have no idea of the origins and history of the people who now shine on the social scene. And who but the old now remember that the still-beautiful Duchesse de Guermantes – Oriane – could once make or break a social occasion by deigning to appear for half an hour, or staying home.
Proust’s contrast between the virtues of solitude and the emptiness of social life is here the clearest it has ever been.
Through all this, there’s what amounts to a roll call of the novel’s characters alive and dead: the devious Morel now gives character references in court; Mme Verdurin is now the Princesse de Guermantes; Bloch is a prestigious man of letters; no one quite remembers how Gilberte became a Guermantes; Oriane is as commanding a presence as ever, but in a flash-forward of three years we see her in sad decline.
The loose ends are being tied up. I have 70 pages to go and am missing Proust already.
Proust’s contrast between the virtues of solitude and the emptiness of social life is here the clearest it has ever been.
Just for this sentence alone – terrific!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Jim
LikeLike
I think so too.
I wonder if the enthusiasm for social life is somewhat related to age? Or is that just me?
During Lockdown there was so much media commentary about people feeling depressed and lonely and I didn’t mind it much at all.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Maybe it’s age, Lisa. Or it might just be that some people prefer a quiet life. I’ve just listened to Waleed Aly and Scott Stevens on The Minefield talking about solitude as a neglected practice, a very rich conversation
LikeLike
It’s extroverts, there’s so many of them (about 80% compared to introverts, I think) they give the impression is that what suits them is ‘normal’.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I have been following your progress with Proust and I think this last review has convinced me to make reading A la Recherche my project for 2022. But in my case it will be the twelve little blue books translated by Scott Moncrieff and published as Remembrance of Things Past. I have had them for many years and it seems a shame to waste them. Beside I don’t think I have the patience to flog my French into shape again.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Flogging one’s French into shape is a pretty good description, Gert. My French is now not only rusty bu battered as well
LikeLike
But you’ve read Proust in French! A huge achievement. (Well I’m impressed.)
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yes but I was reading as I read when I was young: not worrying too much when I didn’t recognize a word or follow some syntax (and boy, does Proust write some complex sentences), or get an allusion, but mostly just going with what I could catch of the flow!
LikeLike
I guess that’s how we start reading; skipping over the words we don’t understand.
LikeLiked by 1 person