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À la recherche du temps perdu #6
La fugitiva
En Albertine desaparecida sexto y penultimo volumen de En busca del tiempo perdido Proust prosigue su detallada y obsesiva narracion de los delirios amorosos de la angustia del deseo y en especial de los celos el sentimiento que alienta con mayor fuerza en estas paginas protagonizadas por Albertine una de las amantes mas perdurables de la literatura universal. En esta ocasion Proust sigue su peculiar tour de force en torno a la figura de la amante ausente del dolor por el cuerpo perdido. Sin duda estamos ante una de las reflexiones mas hondas y elaboradas sobre el amor el deseo y el paso del tiempo. Carlos Manzano a punto de culminar su titanica labor proustiana confirma de nuevo que estamos ante la mejor version castellana de una de las grandes obras de todos los tiempos.
299 pages, Paperback
First published November 1, 1925
About the author
Marcel Proust
1,712 books6,874 followersMarcel Proust was a French novelist, best known for his 3000 page masterpiece À la recherche du temps perdu (Remembrance of Things Past or In Search of Lost Time), a pseudo-autobiographical novel told mostly in a stream-of-consciousness style.
Born in the first year of the Third Republic, the young Marcel, like his narrator, was a delicate child from a bourgeois family. He was active in Parisian high society during the 80s and 90s, welcomed in the most fashionable and exclusive salons of his day. However, his position there was also one of an outsider, due to his Jewishness and homosexuality. Towards the end of 1890s Proust began to withdraw more and more from society, and although he was never entirely reclusive, as is sometimes made out, he lapsed more completely into his lifelong tendency to sleep during the day and work at night. He was also plagued with severe asthma, which had troubled him intermittently since childhood, and a terror of his own death, especially in case it should come before his novel had been completed. The first volume, after some difficulty finding a publisher, came out in 1913, and Proust continued to work with an almost inhuman dedication on his masterpiece right up until his death in 1922, at the age of 51.
Today he is widely recognized as one of the greatest authors of the 20th Century, and À la recherche du temps perdu as one of the most dazzling and significant works of literature to be written in modern times.
Born in the first year of the Third Republic, the young Marcel, like his narrator, was a delicate child from a bourgeois family. He was active in Parisian high society during the 80s and 90s, welcomed in the most fashionable and exclusive salons of his day. However, his position there was also one of an outsider, due to his Jewishness and homosexuality. Towards the end of 1890s Proust began to withdraw more and more from society, and although he was never entirely reclusive, as is sometimes made out, he lapsed more completely into his lifelong tendency to sleep during the day and work at night. He was also plagued with severe asthma, which had troubled him intermittently since childhood, and a terror of his own death, especially in case it should come before his novel had been completed. The first volume, after some difficulty finding a publisher, came out in 1913, and Proust continued to work with an almost inhuman dedication on his masterpiece right up until his death in 1922, at the age of 51.
Today he is widely recognized as one of the greatest authors of the 20th Century, and À la recherche du temps perdu as one of the most dazzling and significant works of literature to be written in modern times.
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March 20, 2024
In The Fugitive the protagonist is at the peak of his narcissism and egotism…
He wants her returned not like a lover but like a proprietor – he desires to own her not as his beloved but as a slave or, rather, as a thing… But his feverish attempts to get her back turn into farce.
When the events take a dire melodramatic turn, he starts delving in the past trying to find the answers…
Reality is multifaceted but one sees only those facets that one wishes to see.
But these words: ‘Mademoiselle Albertine has left’ had just caused such pain in my heart that I felt that I could no longer hold out. Thus something which I had thought meant nothing to me, was quite simply my whole life. How little we know ourselves. I must immediately put an end to my suffering; feeling as gentle with myself as my mother had been with my grandmother on her deathbed, I told myself, with all the good will that we lavish on those we love in order to spare them from suffering, ‘Be patient just one moment, we’ll find a remedy, don’t worry, we won’t let you suffer like this.’
He wants her returned not like a lover but like a proprietor – he desires to own her not as his beloved but as a slave or, rather, as a thing… But his feverish attempts to get her back turn into farce.
When the events take a dire melodramatic turn, he starts delving in the past trying to find the answers…
One of the effects of jealousy is to make us discover how far the reality of external events and the sentiments of the soul are levied in unknown quantities which lend themselves to thousands of different interpretations. We think that we have an accurate knowledge of what things are in the world outside and what people think within themselves, for the simple reason that we are not directly concerned. But as soon as we acquire the urge to know, as the jealous person does, then they become a vertiginous kaleidoscope where we cannot recognize a thing.
Reality is multifaceted but one sees only those facets that one wishes to see.
September 12, 2021
(Book 685 From 1001 Books) - Remembrance of Things Past = À la recherche du temps perdu VI, Albertine disparue = The Sweet Cheat Gone, Marcel Proust
Albertine disparue (Albertine Gone) is the title of the sixth volume of Marcel Proust's seven part novel. In the sixth volume of the series fitting seems that Proust's past actions conclude with a fair resolution.
The captive is now the fugitive. Like in previous volumes, envy and distrusts eventually reveals unsuspected and unwanted revelations that lead the Narrator to reconcile himself with his melancholy. But unfortunately happiness still running away for him, and the marriage of his once good friends face him against his own misery which he tries to cover with indifference.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: شاید ماه نوامبر سال 1999میلادی
عنوان: در جستجوی زمان از دست رفته، کتاب ششم - در ایران کتاب هشتم و دیگران کتاب هفتم: گریخته؛ نویسنده: مارسل پروست؛ مترجم: مهدی سحاب��؛ تهران، نشر مرکز، 1377هجری خورشیدی؛ در 392ص؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان فرانسه - سده 20م
کتاب: «آلبرتین گمشده»، یا همان «گریخته»، مجلد ما قبل آخر (پیش از جلد پایانی)، از سری کتابهای: «در جستجوی زمان از دست رفته»، است؛ در پی کتاب «اسیر»، که کتاب عشق و حسادت بود، مجلد کنونی کتاب «مرگ و فراموشی» است؛ شرح واپسین لحظه های ویرانگر زمان، پیش از توصیف زمان بازیافته، و پیش از پیروزی پایانی انسان آفریننده؛ «گریخته» همچنین، کتابی است، که از همه ی مجلدات دیگر «جستجو»، فی البداهه تر است، هر چند که حاوی کاونده ترین، و نافذترین صفحاتی است، که شاید در همه ی ادبیات جهان، درباره ی برخی از دوردست ترین، و ژرفترین زاویه های روان بشری، نگاشته شده است؛ «مارسل پروست» درباره ی این کتاب گفته اند: (به گمانم بهترین صفحاتی ست که نوشته ام.)؛ لابد چنین ستایشی از زبان «پروست»، درباره ی کتابی که حتی اگر بنوشته ی گوینده نیز باشد، برای خوانشگران و نوشیدن همان کتاب کفایت مذاکرات است و بس
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 06/07/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 20/06/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
Albertine disparue (Albertine Gone) is the title of the sixth volume of Marcel Proust's seven part novel. In the sixth volume of the series fitting seems that Proust's past actions conclude with a fair resolution.
The captive is now the fugitive. Like in previous volumes, envy and distrusts eventually reveals unsuspected and unwanted revelations that lead the Narrator to reconcile himself with his melancholy. But unfortunately happiness still running away for him, and the marriage of his once good friends face him against his own misery which he tries to cover with indifference.
تاریخ نخستین خوانش: شاید ماه نوامبر سال 1999میلادی
عنوان: در جستجوی زمان از دست رفته، کتاب ششم - در ایران کتاب هشتم و دیگران کتاب هفتم: گریخته؛ نویسنده: مارسل پروست؛ مترجم: مهدی سحاب��؛ تهران، نشر مرکز، 1377هجری خورشیدی؛ در 392ص؛ موضوع: داستانهای نویسندگان فرانسه - سده 20م
کتاب: «آلبرتین گمشده»، یا همان «گریخته»، مجلد ما قبل آخر (پیش از جلد پایانی)، از سری کتابهای: «در جستجوی زمان از دست رفته»، است؛ در پی کتاب «اسیر»، که کتاب عشق و حسادت بود، مجلد کنونی کتاب «مرگ و فراموشی» است؛ شرح واپسین لحظه های ویرانگر زمان، پیش از توصیف زمان بازیافته، و پیش از پیروزی پایانی انسان آفریننده؛ «گریخته» همچنین، کتابی است، که از همه ی مجلدات دیگر «جستجو»، فی البداهه تر است، هر چند که حاوی کاونده ترین، و نافذترین صفحاتی است، که شاید در همه ی ادبیات جهان، درباره ی برخی از دوردست ترین، و ژرفترین زاویه های روان بشری، نگاشته شده است؛ «مارسل پروست» درباره ی این کتاب گفته اند: (به گمانم بهترین صفحاتی ست که نوشته ام.)؛ لابد چنین ستایشی از زبان «پروست»، درباره ی کتابی که حتی اگر بنوشته ی گوینده نیز باشد، برای خوانشگران و نوشیدن همان کتاب کفایت مذاکرات است و بس
تاریخ بهنگام رسانی 06/07/1399هجری خورشیدی؛ 20/06/1400هجری خورشیدی؛ ا. شربیانی
December 9, 2020
Viene de…
Continuará... para pleno.
“… el deseo, que va siempre hacia lo que nos es más opuesto, nos obliga a amar lo que nos hará sufrir.”Qué manera de sufrir, qué manera de subir y bajar de las nubes, qué manera de vivir. Aquí tenemos a Marcel postrado en la cama, hipersensible, como un niño que, por evitar sufrir en el minuto siguiente, cae presa de sufrimientos perpetuos, arrastrado por sus celos a una angustiosa búsqueda de razones y motivos, soportando tanto como disfrutando de una mente inagotable y decidida a hacerle la vida lo más penosa y dichosa posible. Sí, Marcel sufre, y sufre sobre todo por el dolor que le provoca no poseer lo que desea, por el desencanto que experimenta cuando por fin lo posee, por el tormento que padece al perderlo después. "La señorita Albertine se ha marchado", así se inicia el monólogo obsesivo de un ser abandonado, incrédulo primero, abatido después, y el posterior proceso de duelo y olvido.
“…así como en otro tiempo había yo dicho a Albertine: «No te quiero», para que me quisiera; «cuando no veo a las personas, me olvido de ellas», para que nos viésemos muy a menudo; «he decidido dejarte», para prevenir cualquier idea de separación, ahora —como deseaba absolutamente que volviera al cabo de ocho días— le decía: «Adiós para siempre»; como quería volver a verla, le decía: «Me parecería peligroso volver a verte»; como vivir separado de ella me parecía peor que la muerte, le escribía: «Tienes razón, seríamos desgraciados juntos».”Pero así es nuestro Marcel, obsesivo y sufriente, minucioso y descriptivo, torturado y tortuoso, hay que aceptarlo tal cual es y si de algo no se le puede acusar, y se le puede acusar de muchas cosas, es de no poner todo su empeño en exponer su personalidad sin pudor alguno. Como ya dije en el comentario al primer tomo de esta novela, la obra me parece, por encima de cualquier otra consideración, el retrato de una particular forma de sentir, la del propio autor, una sensibilidad exacerbada unida a un genio incuestionable que es capaz de transformar la banalidad en arte al ofrecernos una visión detallada y profunda del revés de ese tapiz en el que aparecen dibujados numerosos aspectos de la naturaleza del ser humano ejemplificados en la decadente y esnob sociedad de su época y en la enfermiza y obsesiva mente del autor.
“La mentira es esencial a la humanidad. Quizá desempeña en ella un papel tan grande como la búsqueda de la felicidad, y además es esta búsqueda quien la dirige. Mentimos por proteger nuestro placer, o nuestro honor cuando la divulgación del placer es contraria al honor. Mentimos toda la vida, incluso, sobre todo, quizá solamente, a los que nos aman. Pues sólo éstos nos hacen temer por nuestro placer y desear su estimación.”Una mente que Proust quiere rescatar del paso del tiempo, y, por consiguiente, del olvido, en toda su complejidad. De ahí la minuciosidad, la reiteración, la exhaustividad con la que nos va detallando cada una de sus circunvoluciones, cada uno de sus pliegues. Por ello, y al igual que en “Sodoma y Gomorra”, cuando describió hasta la hartura esas interminables reuniones sociales, en este sexto tomo hay amplios pasajes en los que Marcel realmente agota, más que aburre. No será este, por tanto, uno de mis tomos preferidos, pero aun así también a este echaré de menos cuando, pasado un tiempo, se transforme en un “ser de la imaginación, es decir, deseable… libre de todas las dificultades”, cuando el olvido haga su labor y los aspectos enojosos, los momentos fatigosos que pasé junto a él, hayan dejado de presentarse a mi memoria.
Continuará... para pleno.
June 12, 2021
« Croyez que de mon côté je n’oublierai pas cette promenade deux fois crépusculaire (puisque la nuit venait et que nous allions nous quitter) et qu’elle ne s’effacera de mon esprit qu’avec la nuit complète. » (Pléiade, tome 4, pp. 50-51) Tels sont parmi les derniers mots d’Albertine, qui décrivent parfaitement l’atmosphère de cet avant-dernier volume de la Recherche. Deux fois crépusculaire, en effet, non seulement parce que le soleil est désormais descendu sous l’horizon (voir la scène finale au clair de lune), mais doublement crépusculaire aussi car Albertine quitte Marcel en deux mouvements : relativement d’abord, puis absolument et sans retour possible.
Ainsi, Albertine disparue (également connu sous le titre déroutant de La Fugitive) est-il avant tout un roman de la perte et du deuil. C’est aussi le roman le plus court et le plus intérieur – une sorte d’Adagietto, comme chez Gustav Mahler. Si les volumes précédents nous avaient habitués, parfois jusqu'à l’épuisement, aux réceptions mondaines et aux cabotinages spirituels, ici c’est presque une forme de silence mélancolique que Proust essaie de rendre à travers ses longues méditations sur la mort.
Albertine disparue c’est aussi, plus suprêmement encore que les précédents volumes, le roman des intermittences du cœur et du souvenir. Car le deuil est véritablement ce double révélateur : d’une part de ce changement des passions, irrégulier et « en sens inverse », qui mène de la douleur à l’oubli, mais aussi de cette permanence des sentiments qui rend l’être aimé éternellement présent dans l’âme et dans le temps. La jalousie offre un cas particulièrement intéressant, qui donne son impulsion au récit, car, même si Albertine est irrémédiablement disparue, le Narrateur ne cesse d’investiguer, encore longtemps après sa mort, sur ses inclinations Gomorrhéennes. En un sens, Albertine disparue est donc aussi le récit d’une d’enquête policière et le roman des ultimes révélations.
Comme souvent chez Proust, les motifs sont doubles, triples, répétés et changeants, mais toujours reconnaissables, avec des réverbérations thématiques où chaque chose est en résonnance architectonique avec une ou plusieurs autres. Ici, la situation de Marcel et d’Albertine renvoie bien sûr à Swann et Odette (le thème initial du roman), mais s’ajoutent encore, comme en une image symétrique, les circonstances de Mlle de Forcheville (Gilberte) et de Saint-Loup, dont on découvre, si tard déjà dans la Recherche, l’étrange affinité avec Charlus. Et il en est des personnages comme des lieux, qui, eux aussi, renvoient l’un a l’autres, comme en un gigantesque palais des glaces ; la Venise d’Albertine disparue n’est en effet pas autre chose qu’un reflet uligineux, à demi submergé, de Balbec et de Combray, désormais méconnaissables et à jamais engloutis dans le passé.
En somme, Albertine disparue est, malgré sa brièveté, un livre émouvant et foisonnant. Tout enfin semble converger en un accord poignant. Le crépuscule est là, et la nuit tombe soudain sur un monde de fleurs déjà presque fanées. L’écrivain, enfin, s’est mis à écrire.
> Vol. précédent : La Prisonnière
> Vol. suivant : Le Temps retrouvé
Ainsi, Albertine disparue (également connu sous le titre déroutant de La Fugitive) est-il avant tout un roman de la perte et du deuil. C’est aussi le roman le plus court et le plus intérieur – une sorte d’Adagietto, comme chez Gustav Mahler. Si les volumes précédents nous avaient habitués, parfois jusqu'à l’épuisement, aux réceptions mondaines et aux cabotinages spirituels, ici c’est presque une forme de silence mélancolique que Proust essaie de rendre à travers ses longues méditations sur la mort.
Albertine disparue c’est aussi, plus suprêmement encore que les précédents volumes, le roman des intermittences du cœur et du souvenir. Car le deuil est véritablement ce double révélateur : d’une part de ce changement des passions, irrégulier et « en sens inverse », qui mène de la douleur à l’oubli, mais aussi de cette permanence des sentiments qui rend l’être aimé éternellement présent dans l’âme et dans le temps. La jalousie offre un cas particulièrement intéressant, qui donne son impulsion au récit, car, même si Albertine est irrémédiablement disparue, le Narrateur ne cesse d’investiguer, encore longtemps après sa mort, sur ses inclinations Gomorrhéennes. En un sens, Albertine disparue est donc aussi le récit d’une d’enquête policière et le roman des ultimes révélations.
Comme souvent chez Proust, les motifs sont doubles, triples, répétés et changeants, mais toujours reconnaissables, avec des réverbérations thématiques où chaque chose est en résonnance architectonique avec une ou plusieurs autres. Ici, la situation de Marcel et d’Albertine renvoie bien sûr à Swann et Odette (le thème initial du roman), mais s’ajoutent encore, comme en une image symétrique, les circonstances de Mlle de Forcheville (Gilberte) et de Saint-Loup, dont on découvre, si tard déjà dans la Recherche, l’étrange affinité avec Charlus. Et il en est des personnages comme des lieux, qui, eux aussi, renvoient l’un a l’autres, comme en un gigantesque palais des glaces ; la Venise d’Albertine disparue n’est en effet pas autre chose qu’un reflet uligineux, à demi submergé, de Balbec et de Combray, désormais méconnaissables et à jamais engloutis dans le passé.
En somme, Albertine disparue est, malgré sa brièveté, un livre émouvant et foisonnant. Tout enfin semble converger en un accord poignant. Le crépuscule est là, et la nuit tombe soudain sur un monde de fleurs déjà presque fanées. L’écrivain, enfin, s’est mis à écrire.
> Vol. précédent : La Prisonnière
> Vol. suivant : Le Temps retrouvé
March 1, 2019
Φθάνοντας στον 6ο τόμο αυτής της ευαγγελικής αυτοβιογραφικής μυθοπλασίας έχουμε ήδη μετατραπεί απο αναγνώστες σε ασθενείς.
Ασθενείς επιλήσμονες που θεραπεύονται απο ακούσια μνήμη.
Ο Δρ. Προύστ ορίζει θεραπευτικές ποινές ή διαγνώσεις πόνου και θλίψης.
Μια χειμωνιάτικη μελαγχολία αποτελεί το φόντο της παλινωδίας, της ζήλειας, της αγάπης, της παραφροσύνης, της εγκατάλειψης, της ακύρωσης των συμβατών και της στερεοτυπίας.
Αν δεν φορέσεις την λήθη της τρέλας του δεν υπάρχει λόγος να αναζητάς χρόνους και τόπους. Ένας συγγραφέας ροής συνείδησης.
Ένας υπερέξοχος δημιουργός που περιπλανιέται παρέα με τον εαυτό του και τις πολλαπλάσιες ταυτότητες της ύπαρξης του μέσα στις διάσημες, αθεράπευτες και αποκλίνουσες παρεκλίσεις του.
Ποιοί θεοί, ποιά νόηση, ποιά σκέψη, ποιά ευφυΐα, ποιά εξωκοσμική ενέργεια, ποιό ασύλληπτο ταλέντο χαρίστηκε σε αυτόν τον συγγραφέα για να μπορέσει να μας δωρίσει μία τέτοια διαφυγή.
Μία συνειδητοποίηση υπνωτιστική που ολοκληρώνει ολες τις ψυχαναγκαστικές, συναισθηματικές και αισθησιακές συνομοσίες.
Γράφει με πολλαπλές ανταμοιβές, απεκδύεται και υποδύεται κάθε ��λήθεια και κάθε ψέμα μέσα σε κόσμους φανταστικούς και απείρως φαντασμένους απο ατομικές εμμονές.
Όλα θυμίζουν, όλα προδίδουν, όλα αποκαλύπτουν ρήτρες υποταγής στην πολυπλοκότητα των ανθρώπινων αλληλεπιδράσεων.
Ρέματα, ποτάμια, θάλασσες, ωκεανοί, λαβύρινθοι, μαίανδροι, δίοδοι που σου ανοίγουν σήραγγες για τις υπερβόρειες θάλασσες των πόλων, εξωκοσμικά σημεία που δεν υπάρχει ζωή, μοναχά το νόημα της.
Αυτά γράφει. Με τρόπο απλό και γοητευτικά κουραστικό. Με έπαρση ταπεινής πνευματικής πρωτοτυπίας.
Με σκοπό να μην ξεχαστεί ο χρόνος του, να μην σταματήσει η αναζήτηση του, τουλάχιστον όσο υπάρχουν άνθρωποι σε αυτόν τον πλανήτη που τον όργωσε μέχρι τα έγκατα, τα ανεστραμμένα, τα αναπόφευκτα, τα θαυματουργά.
Κάπου εκεί ανακάλυψε την ανθρώπινη φύση, βρήκε έναν ολόκληρο υπερπληθυσμό απο ίδιους χαρακτήρες μιας άλλης κρυφής πραγματικότητας που βελτίωσε τις αντιλήψεις του κόσμου.
Με τον Προύστ εισέρχεσαι σε κάποια μαγεμένη σφαίρα και επιστρέφεις με την απόλυτη πεποίθηση, την τρομερή υποψία που σε διαφεντεύει για πάντα, ότι ο κόσμος γύρω μας μπορεί να είναι αληθινός, μαγικός ψευτοκράτορας, ακριβής και άχρονος, πραγματικός και αναπόφευκτα αδύνατος.
ΔΙΑΒΑΣΤΕ ΤΟ.
♥️💜💕♥️💜🖤🖤🖤🖤💔💔
Καλή ανάγνωση!!
Πολλούς ασπασμούς.
Ασθενείς επιλήσμονες που θεραπεύονται απο ακούσια μνήμη.
Ο Δρ. Προύστ ορίζει θεραπευτικές ποινές ή διαγνώσεις πόνου και θλίψης.
Μια χειμωνιάτικη μελαγχολία αποτελεί το φόντο της παλινωδίας, της ζήλειας, της αγάπης, της παραφροσύνης, της εγκατάλειψης, της ακύρωσης των συμβατών και της στερεοτυπίας.
Αν δεν φορέσεις την λήθη της τρέλας του δεν υπάρχει λόγος να αναζητάς χρόνους και τόπους. Ένας συγγραφέας ροής συνείδησης.
Ένας υπερέξοχος δημιουργός που περιπλανιέται παρέα με τον εαυτό του και τις πολλαπλάσιες ταυτότητες της ύπαρξης του μέσα στις διάσημες, αθεράπευτες και αποκλίνουσες παρεκλίσεις του.
Ποιοί θεοί, ποιά νόηση, ποιά σκέψη, ποιά ευφυΐα, ποιά εξωκοσμική ενέργεια, ποιό ασύλληπτο ταλέντο χαρίστηκε σε αυτόν τον συγγραφέα για να μπορέσει να μας δωρίσει μία τέτοια διαφυγή.
Μία συνειδητοποίηση υπνωτιστική που ολοκληρώνει ολες τις ψυχαναγκαστικές, συναισθηματικές και αισθησιακές συνομοσίες.
Γράφει με πολλαπλές ανταμοιβές, απεκδύεται και υποδύεται κάθε ��λήθεια και κάθε ψέμα μέσα σε κόσμους φανταστικούς και απείρως φαντασμένους απο ατομικές εμμονές.
Όλα θυμίζουν, όλα προδίδουν, όλα αποκαλύπτουν ρήτρες υποταγής στην πολυπλοκότητα των ανθρώπινων αλληλεπιδράσεων.
Ρέματα, ποτάμια, θάλασσες, ωκεανοί, λαβύρινθοι, μαίανδροι, δίοδοι που σου ανοίγουν σήραγγες για τις υπερβόρειες θάλασσες των πόλων, εξωκοσμικά σημεία που δεν υπάρχει ζωή, μοναχά το νόημα της.
Αυτά γράφει. Με τρόπο απλό και γοητευτικά κουραστικό. Με έπαρση ταπεινής πνευματικής πρωτοτυπίας.
Με σκοπό να μην ξεχαστεί ο χρόνος του, να μην σταματήσει η αναζήτηση του, τουλάχιστον όσο υπάρχουν άνθρωποι σε αυτόν τον πλανήτη που τον όργωσε μέχρι τα έγκατα, τα ανεστραμμένα, τα αναπόφευκτα, τα θαυματουργά.
Κάπου εκεί ανακάλυψε την ανθρώπινη φύση, βρήκε έναν ολόκληρο υπερπληθυσμό απο ίδιους χαρακτήρες μιας άλλης κρυφής πραγματικότητας που βελτίωσε τις αντιλήψεις του κόσμου.
Με τον Προύστ εισέρχεσαι σε κάποια μαγεμένη σφαίρα και επιστρέφεις με την απόλυτη πεποίθηση, την τρομερή υποψία που σε διαφεντεύει για πάντα, ότι ο κόσμος γύρω μας μπορεί να είναι αληθινός, μαγικός ψευτοκράτορας, ακριβής και άχρονος, πραγματικός και αναπόφευκτα αδύνατος.
ΔΙΑΒΑΣΤΕ ΤΟ.
♥️💜💕♥️💜🖤🖤🖤🖤💔💔
Καλή ανάγνωση!!
Πολλούς ασπασμούς.
September 21, 2022
YouTube kanalımda Marcel Proust'un hayatı, bütün kitapları ve kronolojik okuma sırası hakkında bilgi edinebilirsiniz:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5e0i...
Heyecanlıyım Goodreads, heyecanlıyım. Ne yazacağımı bilmediğimden değil, neleri yazacağımı tamamen biliyor olduğumdan dolayı heyecanlıyım...
İlk olarak Stefan Zweig ile başlamıştı her şey aslında. Olağanüstü Bir Gece kitabında anlattığı Viyana Ring Caddesi ve Prater mekanlarında Zweig'ın ayak bastığı yerlerin izdüşümünde ondan 100 yıl sonra benzer şeyleri hissettiğim için heyecanlıydım. Zaten kitap okumak da aynı bir sevgiliyle olan süreç gibi değil midir? Geçmişimizden şimdiki zamanımıza uç uca eklenen insanlar gibi kitaplar da hayatımız boyunca ruhumuzun önünden gitme inadı içerisinde bulunan ve yetişmeye çalıştığımız uç uca eklenmiş içselleştirme kehanetleri değil midir?
İkinci olarak Robert Musil ile devam etti her şey. Niteliksiz Adam 1 ve 2 kitabında kurguladığı Ulrich'in niteliksizliği aslında etrafındaki insanlardan ve nesnelerden oluşan atmosferin nitelikliliğiyle daha çok ön plana çıkıyordu. Fakat bu kitabı bu kadar sevmem de boşuna değildi. Çünkü Musil'in çoktan çürümüş değerli bedeninin içindeki düşünceleri yıllar sonra bir anatomi uzmanıymışcasına bu derece içselleştirebilmiş olmam, insanın memleketi ile gezilen yer arasında kararsız kaldığı duygu iklimine bağlıydı. Aslında haber kanalları yalan söylüyordu. Esas meteorolojik durumumuzu etrafımızda her gün yaratılan ve yaratılmaya devam eden, değişmeden yerinde duramayan, ısrarla bize her gün farklı perspektifler sunan sevgi gondollarımız belirliyordu. Gondol mu?
Üçüncü olarak Marcel Proust ile zirvedeyim. Proust'un izlenimlerinin beni neden bu kadar sarmaladığını merak ediyordum, fakat artık buldum. Çünkü neredeyse her gün gördüğümüz insanların bile veremediği sıcaklığı, içselleştirmeleri ve duygu karşılıklarını, biz, kitaplardan buluruz. Yazarların fiziksel olarak ayak bastığı yerlere bizim yıllar belki de asırlar sonra oralara ait aklımızda kalan görüntülerle ayak basabilmemizin önemi de buradan gelmektedir.
https://i.ibb.co/4mxRXVT/20131205-145...
https://i.ibb.co/S6HHDrW/20131205-152...
Zaten kitap okuma serüveni de sevgi gibi Versay Sarayı'nın ilk bakışta donuk ve tamamen mimari yığın olarak görülen fakat içine girildikten sonra arkasından beklenmedik bir şekilde önünüze çıkan yemyeşil alanlarının şaşırtıcılığı gibi iki yönlü bir deneyim değil midir?
https://i.ibb.co/7bXNkSy/DSCF5744.jpg
Serinin ilk kitabından başlayıp Mahpus kitabında yoğunlaşan, bu kitapta devam eden Gotik mimariyle bezenmiş Paris ve Champs-Élysées sokaklarından aklımda kalan görüntüleri Proust'un kitaplarına oturtmaya çalıştım. Bu düşünce biçiminden sonra ise aklıma ilk şu soru geldi:
"Çok gezen mi bilir yoksa çok Proust okuyan mı?" Aslında sonucu sevgiye çıkacak olan bir sorunun cevabı hiçbir zaman belirli bir şık değildir.
"Aşkta kötü seçimden bahsetmek hatadır, çünkü seçim söz konusuysa, kötü olmak zorundadır." (s. 196)
Demiştik ya, kendi gözlerimizle Proust'un dünyasına değil, Proust'un gözleriyle kendi dünyamıza bakmak gerek. İşte! Okuduğumuz Proust satırlarıyla kendi dünyamızın geçmişinde eskiden kalan kırıntıları onun bize seneler sonra yolladığı edebiyat gondoluyla birlikte gezmek gerek!
https://i.ibb.co/JK975Mp/DSCF0065.jpg
Proust'un bu kitabında Paris ve Venedik arasında kaybolmuş bir ruhun anlatılması gibi, sevgi adını koyduğumuz şehrin de dar ve geniş kanalları vardır aslına bakarsanız. Biz ise merak adlı gondolumuzla bu sevgi şehrindeki bütün kapıların önüne yanaşmak isteriz. Oysaki kaçırdığımız hatta daha doğrusu unuttuğumuz bir nokta vardır;
https://i.ibb.co/TMZSXFH/DSCF0079.jpg
Fiziksel kanallar ve Venedik'in kanalları gibi sevginin de kanalları aslında istendiği zaman çok geniş olabilir. Hiç ummadığımız kişiden duyacağımız itiraf ve yalanlar karşısında çevirdiğimiz kanalın frekansıyla uyuşamayacağımız noktalar hayatta karşımıza çıkabilir, çıkacaktır da. Aslında biz ne kadar kendi beynimizin içindeki kanallarda gondol kullanma ehliyeti almaya çalışırsak çalışalım, hayat boyunca farklı yazarlar, farklı ressamlar ve izlenimleri bize farklı şeyler katacak farklı insanların beyinlerinde yüzen gondollara da ihtiyacımız olacaktır.
https://i.ibb.co/4JMwPSN/DSCF0111.jpg
Bir sabah kalktığımızda kendimizi onsuz bulmamız, onun yokluğuna uyanmamız sırasında varlığımızı aramamız, onun giyinip gitmesiyle belki varoluşçu aşkı da yanında götürmesi gibi detayların hepsi kendimizi ne kadar unutuşa mecbur bıraktığımızla ilintilidir. Ne kadar acı çekip ne kadar çok kaybedersek o kadar da unutmayı ve unutulmayı isteriz. Albertine adlı sevgilimizin hayatımızdan aniden çıkması ve kendimizi daha sonra birden umulmadık bir şekilde Venedik San Marco Meydanı'nda bulmamız da kendimizle yüzleşmenin zorluğundan dolayıdır. Bugüne kadar sevip de bir bir kaybettiğimiz insanların ruhları aslında Pandora'nın Kutusu'nda olduğu gibi içimizdeki kalp denen kutuda saklıdır, biz ise o kutuyu çeşitli şehirlerle, çeşitli kitaplarla, çeşitli şarkılarla içselleştirme adlı anahtarıyla birlikte açmak isteriz.
https://i.ibb.co/f17Sd9d/DSCF0175.jpg
Sonrasında Venedik'in kanalları Büyük Kanal'a açılır, Proust'un akıl kanalları da gittikçe genişler. Sanki dünyanın üzerinde bugüne kadar icat edilmiş bütün teleskopların aksine dünyaya ters olarak duran kocaman bir Proust monoklü vardır, bize bu dünya denen noktacıkta kapılıp kaldığımız konuların ne kadar beyhude olduğunu kanıtlamaya çalışır. Bize kendi kaleminden gondollar yollamaya çalışır, kendi Albertine'lerimizi bulduktan sonra kıymetlerini bilelim diye... Hatta Albertine'imizi bulduktan sonra onun işte "o" olduğunu anlayabilelim diye...
"Şimdiki zaman, hep bir şehrin şu ya da bu biçimde o şehrin binalarına ait değilmiş izlenimini uyandıran son binası gibidir." Niteliksiz Adam 2, Robert Musil
https://i.ibb.co/SQcTzs3/DSCF0163.jpg
Kim bilir, belki de Proust'un kendi Albertine'ini kaybettiği ev, o şehrin binalarına ait değilmiş izlenimini uyandıran son binası bu fotoğraftaki binadır... Biz de zaten şimdiki zaman adlı sıkışmışlıkta geçmiş zamanın halatıyla kendimizi kurtarmaya çalışanlar değil miydik? İşte, şimdiki zamanımızı ve zaman geçtikçe yerinde duramadan şimdileşen gelecek zamanlarımızı biz her ne kadar elimizde tutmaya çalışsak da, kaybolmaya sürekli devam edecek olan bir kadın, bir adam, bir şehir ya da bir düşünce de her zaman olacaktır.
Proust'un düşünce dünyası da Venedik'e benziyor olabilir fakat tek farkla... Eğer bugüne kadar kendi birikimlerinizle bir gondol yapıp onun dünyasına tanık olmaya çalışırsanız onun çetin sularında batmanız çok normaldir. Fakat ne kadar onun gözleriyle onun edebiyat kanallarında rafting yapmayı göze alacak bir gondol yapabilirseniz, işte o kadar da bu adamı seversiniz.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n5e0i...
Heyecanlıyım Goodreads, heyecanlıyım. Ne yazacağımı bilmediğimden değil, neleri yazacağımı tamamen biliyor olduğumdan dolayı heyecanlıyım...
İlk olarak Stefan Zweig ile başlamıştı her şey aslında. Olağanüstü Bir Gece kitabında anlattığı Viyana Ring Caddesi ve Prater mekanlarında Zweig'ın ayak bastığı yerlerin izdüşümünde ondan 100 yıl sonra benzer şeyleri hissettiğim için heyecanlıydım. Zaten kitap okumak da aynı bir sevgiliyle olan süreç gibi değil midir? Geçmişimizden şimdiki zamanımıza uç uca eklenen insanlar gibi kitaplar da hayatımız boyunca ruhumuzun önünden gitme inadı içerisinde bulunan ve yetişmeye çalıştığımız uç uca eklenmiş içselleştirme kehanetleri değil midir?
İkinci olarak Robert Musil ile devam etti her şey. Niteliksiz Adam 1 ve 2 kitabında kurguladığı Ulrich'in niteliksizliği aslında etrafındaki insanlardan ve nesnelerden oluşan atmosferin nitelikliliğiyle daha çok ön plana çıkıyordu. Fakat bu kitabı bu kadar sevmem de boşuna değildi. Çünkü Musil'in çoktan çürümüş değerli bedeninin içindeki düşünceleri yıllar sonra bir anatomi uzmanıymışcasına bu derece içselleştirebilmiş olmam, insanın memleketi ile gezilen yer arasında kararsız kaldığı duygu iklimine bağlıydı. Aslında haber kanalları yalan söylüyordu. Esas meteorolojik durumumuzu etrafımızda her gün yaratılan ve yaratılmaya devam eden, değişmeden yerinde duramayan, ısrarla bize her gün farklı perspektifler sunan sevgi gondollarımız belirliyordu. Gondol mu?
Üçüncü olarak Marcel Proust ile zirvedeyim. Proust'un izlenimlerinin beni neden bu kadar sarmaladığını merak ediyordum, fakat artık buldum. Çünkü neredeyse her gün gördüğümüz insanların bile veremediği sıcaklığı, içselleştirmeleri ve duygu karşılıklarını, biz, kitaplardan buluruz. Yazarların fiziksel olarak ayak bastığı yerlere bizim yıllar belki de asırlar sonra oralara ait aklımızda kalan görüntülerle ayak basabilmemizin önemi de buradan gelmektedir.
https://i.ibb.co/4mxRXVT/20131205-145...
https://i.ibb.co/S6HHDrW/20131205-152...
Zaten kitap okuma serüveni de sevgi gibi Versay Sarayı'nın ilk bakışta donuk ve tamamen mimari yığın olarak görülen fakat içine girildikten sonra arkasından beklenmedik bir şekilde önünüze çıkan yemyeşil alanlarının şaşırtıcılığı gibi iki yönlü bir deneyim değil midir?
https://i.ibb.co/7bXNkSy/DSCF5744.jpg
Serinin ilk kitabından başlayıp Mahpus kitabında yoğunlaşan, bu kitapta devam eden Gotik mimariyle bezenmiş Paris ve Champs-Élysées sokaklarından aklımda kalan görüntüleri Proust'un kitaplarına oturtmaya çalıştım. Bu düşünce biçiminden sonra ise aklıma ilk şu soru geldi:
"Çok gezen mi bilir yoksa çok Proust okuyan mı?" Aslında sonucu sevgiye çıkacak olan bir sorunun cevabı hiçbir zaman belirli bir şık değildir.
"Aşkta kötü seçimden bahsetmek hatadır, çünkü seçim söz konusuysa, kötü olmak zorundadır." (s. 196)
Demiştik ya, kendi gözlerimizle Proust'un dünyasına değil, Proust'un gözleriyle kendi dünyamıza bakmak gerek. İşte! Okuduğumuz Proust satırlarıyla kendi dünyamızın geçmişinde eskiden kalan kırıntıları onun bize seneler sonra yolladığı edebiyat gondoluyla birlikte gezmek gerek!
https://i.ibb.co/JK975Mp/DSCF0065.jpg
Proust'un bu kitabında Paris ve Venedik arasında kaybolmuş bir ruhun anlatılması gibi, sevgi adını koyduğumuz şehrin de dar ve geniş kanalları vardır aslına bakarsanız. Biz ise merak adlı gondolumuzla bu sevgi şehrindeki bütün kapıların önüne yanaşmak isteriz. Oysaki kaçırdığımız hatta daha doğrusu unuttuğumuz bir nokta vardır;
https://i.ibb.co/TMZSXFH/DSCF0079.jpg
Fiziksel kanallar ve Venedik'in kanalları gibi sevginin de kanalları aslında istendiği zaman çok geniş olabilir. Hiç ummadığımız kişiden duyacağımız itiraf ve yalanlar karşısında çevirdiğimiz kanalın frekansıyla uyuşamayacağımız noktalar hayatta karşımıza çıkabilir, çıkacaktır da. Aslında biz ne kadar kendi beynimizin içindeki kanallarda gondol kullanma ehliyeti almaya çalışırsak çalışalım, hayat boyunca farklı yazarlar, farklı ressamlar ve izlenimleri bize farklı şeyler katacak farklı insanların beyinlerinde yüzen gondollara da ihtiyacımız olacaktır.
https://i.ibb.co/4JMwPSN/DSCF0111.jpg
Bir sabah kalktığımızda kendimizi onsuz bulmamız, onun yokluğuna uyanmamız sırasında varlığımızı aramamız, onun giyinip gitmesiyle belki varoluşçu aşkı da yanında götürmesi gibi detayların hepsi kendimizi ne kadar unutuşa mecbur bıraktığımızla ilintilidir. Ne kadar acı çekip ne kadar çok kaybedersek o kadar da unutmayı ve unutulmayı isteriz. Albertine adlı sevgilimizin hayatımızdan aniden çıkması ve kendimizi daha sonra birden umulmadık bir şekilde Venedik San Marco Meydanı'nda bulmamız da kendimizle yüzleşmenin zorluğundan dolayıdır. Bugüne kadar sevip de bir bir kaybettiğimiz insanların ruhları aslında Pandora'nın Kutusu'nda olduğu gibi içimizdeki kalp denen kutuda saklıdır, biz ise o kutuyu çeşitli şehirlerle, çeşitli kitaplarla, çeşitli şarkılarla içselleştirme adlı anahtarıyla birlikte açmak isteriz.
https://i.ibb.co/f17Sd9d/DSCF0175.jpg
Sonrasında Venedik'in kanalları Büyük Kanal'a açılır, Proust'un akıl kanalları da gittikçe genişler. Sanki dünyanın üzerinde bugüne kadar icat edilmiş bütün teleskopların aksine dünyaya ters olarak duran kocaman bir Proust monoklü vardır, bize bu dünya denen noktacıkta kapılıp kaldığımız konuların ne kadar beyhude olduğunu kanıtlamaya çalışır. Bize kendi kaleminden gondollar yollamaya çalışır, kendi Albertine'lerimizi bulduktan sonra kıymetlerini bilelim diye... Hatta Albertine'imizi bulduktan sonra onun işte "o" olduğunu anlayabilelim diye...
"Şimdiki zaman, hep bir şehrin şu ya da bu biçimde o şehrin binalarına ait değilmiş izlenimini uyandıran son binası gibidir." Niteliksiz Adam 2, Robert Musil
https://i.ibb.co/SQcTzs3/DSCF0163.jpg
Kim bilir, belki de Proust'un kendi Albertine'ini kaybettiği ev, o şehrin binalarına ait değilmiş izlenimini uyandıran son binası bu fotoğraftaki binadır... Biz de zaten şimdiki zaman adlı sıkışmışlıkta geçmiş zamanın halatıyla kendimizi kurtarmaya çalışanlar değil miydik? İşte, şimdiki zamanımızı ve zaman geçtikçe yerinde duramadan şimdileşen gelecek zamanlarımızı biz her ne kadar elimizde tutmaya çalışsak da, kaybolmaya sürekli devam edecek olan bir kadın, bir adam, bir şehir ya da bir düşünce de her zaman olacaktır.
Proust'un düşünce dünyası da Venedik'e benziyor olabilir fakat tek farkla... Eğer bugüne kadar kendi birikimlerinizle bir gondol yapıp onun dünyasına tanık olmaya çalışırsanız onun çetin sularında batmanız çok normaldir. Fakat ne kadar onun gözleriyle onun edebiyat kanallarında rafting yapmayı göze alacak bir gondol yapabilirseniz, işte o kadar da bu adamı seversiniz.
June 22, 2018
note: i did not read this in french. i have to review the fugitive here, even though i read the modern library edition that collects the captive with the fugitive because i think i went on way too long on the captive review to fit any more opinions, even though i don't want to review this one with too many details because this is the one in which the Big Thing happens, so i don't want to spoil anything for those of you who are right behind me with your readings. plus, i loved the captive more than i have loved any other proust novel before it, and this one was not as good, so i am glad to separate-review them for rating-precision.
but i can talk about the beginning part of the novel, before the Big Thing, because it has some truly spectacularly bad behavior from our beloved marcel. picking up little girls from the village to dandle on your knee? and then being surprised when the constable comes to your door?
and the subsequent pouting:
"henceforth, it would be impossible for me ever to bring a little girl into the house to console me in my grief, without risking the shame of an inspector suddenly appearing and of her taking me for a criminal. and in the same instant i realised how much more important certain longings are to us than we suppose, for this impossibility of my ever taking a little girl on my knee again seemed to me to strip life of all its value but what was more, i realised how understandable it is that people will readily refuse wealth and risk death, whereas we imagine that pecuniary interest and the fear of dying rule the world. for, rather than think that even an unknown little girl might be given a bad impression of me by the arrival of a policeman, i should have preferred to kill myself."
proust has always been skillful in relating all of the wonderful breathtakingly undignified behavior of romantic entanglements (think albert brooks in modern romance, but with fancier clothes). he does the internal rage and grief and jealousy thing so well, it brings back uncomfortable memories of adolescent impulses, but he usually takes it one step further than a sane person would.
if you are telling this story, you will write a letter to win back your lady love that essentially says "too bad you dumped me - i was going to buy you that car you wanted, and the yacht..." hoping that this will bring her back around to your doorstep and bed, and that it will be a healthy relationship built on that greedy foundation, even though you have been sick of her for a long time.
and, of course, you will declare your decision to ask her best friend to marry you, even though you have long suspected a lesbian relationship between them, as an ill-conceived strategy to make her jealous for a change. also, you will send an emissary to buy her, basically, and (later) another to find out all her dirt when by that point it will be utterly useless as a bargaining chip.
oh, marcel, you don't know how to do this at all, do you?? all of the post-traumatic breakup stuff is glorious, and painful but i want to just take him aside and teach him two words:
boom. box.
this volume contains my very favorite description of his brand of love:
"the infinitude of love, or its egoism, brings it about that the people whom we love are those whose intellectual and moral physiognomy is least objectively defined in our eyes; we alter them incessantly to suit our desires and fears, we do not separate them from ourselves, they are simply a vast, vague arena in which to exteriorise our emotions."
isn't that the most romantic thing you have ever heard??
i truly love to hate him.
and yet, the karen of relationships past can actually relate to some of his impulses:
"but the disastrous way in which the psychopathological universe is constructed has decreed that the clumsy act, the act which we ought most sedulously to avoid, is precisely the act that will calm us, the act that, opening before us, until we discover its outcome, fresh avenues of hope, momentarily relieves us of the intolerable pain which a refusal has aroused in us. so that, when the pain is too acute, we dash headlong into the blunder that consists in writing to, in sending somebody to intercede with, in going in person to see, in proving that we cannot do without, the woman we love."
i have sat on many a stoop, waiting for someone who was mad at me. i have bypassed security, i have left horribly vulnerable answering machine messages, i have written letters that i cringe to think about now, i have been emotionally naked and small and horrifying to myself before, during, and after some exploits best left unshared. so i get some of this, but that is all part of youth, and i hope i never crossed over into stalker territory.
so back to the book,there's the Big Thing, and then a million pages examining the Big Thing, and then an abrupt cessation and subject-change. apart from the beginning parts, this is my least favorite so far, but it is necessary and i am excited to see what the very last volume has in store for me.
summer of proust is nearly over.
come to my blog!
but i can talk about the beginning part of the novel, before the Big Thing, because it has some truly spectacularly bad behavior from our beloved marcel. picking up little girls from the village to dandle on your knee? and then being surprised when the constable comes to your door?
and the subsequent pouting:
"henceforth, it would be impossible for me ever to bring a little girl into the house to console me in my grief, without risking the shame of an inspector suddenly appearing and of her taking me for a criminal. and in the same instant i realised how much more important certain longings are to us than we suppose, for this impossibility of my ever taking a little girl on my knee again seemed to me to strip life of all its value but what was more, i realised how understandable it is that people will readily refuse wealth and risk death, whereas we imagine that pecuniary interest and the fear of dying rule the world. for, rather than think that even an unknown little girl might be given a bad impression of me by the arrival of a policeman, i should have preferred to kill myself."
proust has always been skillful in relating all of the wonderful breathtakingly undignified behavior of romantic entanglements (think albert brooks in modern romance, but with fancier clothes). he does the internal rage and grief and jealousy thing so well, it brings back uncomfortable memories of adolescent impulses, but he usually takes it one step further than a sane person would.
if you are telling this story, you will write a letter to win back your lady love that essentially says "too bad you dumped me - i was going to buy you that car you wanted, and the yacht..." hoping that this will bring her back around to your doorstep and bed, and that it will be a healthy relationship built on that greedy foundation, even though you have been sick of her for a long time.
and, of course, you will declare your decision to ask her best friend to marry you, even though you have long suspected a lesbian relationship between them, as an ill-conceived strategy to make her jealous for a change. also, you will send an emissary to buy her, basically, and (later) another to find out all her dirt when by that point it will be utterly useless as a bargaining chip.
oh, marcel, you don't know how to do this at all, do you?? all of the post-traumatic breakup stuff is glorious, and painful but i want to just take him aside and teach him two words:
boom. box.
this volume contains my very favorite description of his brand of love:
"the infinitude of love, or its egoism, brings it about that the people whom we love are those whose intellectual and moral physiognomy is least objectively defined in our eyes; we alter them incessantly to suit our desires and fears, we do not separate them from ourselves, they are simply a vast, vague arena in which to exteriorise our emotions."
isn't that the most romantic thing you have ever heard??
i truly love to hate him.
and yet, the karen of relationships past can actually relate to some of his impulses:
"but the disastrous way in which the psychopathological universe is constructed has decreed that the clumsy act, the act which we ought most sedulously to avoid, is precisely the act that will calm us, the act that, opening before us, until we discover its outcome, fresh avenues of hope, momentarily relieves us of the intolerable pain which a refusal has aroused in us. so that, when the pain is too acute, we dash headlong into the blunder that consists in writing to, in sending somebody to intercede with, in going in person to see, in proving that we cannot do without, the woman we love."
i have sat on many a stoop, waiting for someone who was mad at me. i have bypassed security, i have left horribly vulnerable answering machine messages, i have written letters that i cringe to think about now, i have been emotionally naked and small and horrifying to myself before, during, and after some exploits best left unshared. so i get some of this, but that is all part of youth, and i hope i never crossed over into stalker territory.
so back to the book,there's the Big Thing, and then a million pages examining the Big Thing, and then an abrupt cessation and subject-change. apart from the beginning parts, this is my least favorite so far, but it is necessary and i am excited to see what the very last volume has in store for me.
summer of proust is nearly over.
come to my blog!
March 15, 2020
عاح!
جزعِ پست روحم!
فقط بدونیدنخوندن " در جستجوی زمان از دست رفته " مصداق (خَسِرَ الدُّنْیا وَالاْآخِرَةَ ذلِک هُوَ الْخُسْرَانُ الْمُبِینُ) عه
بقیه رو قبلا گفتم یا بعدا خواهم گفت :))))))
جزعِ پست روحم!
فقط بدونیدنخوندن " در جستجوی زمان از دست رفته " مصداق (خَسِرَ الدُّنْیا وَالاْآخِرَةَ ذلِک هُوَ الْخُسْرَانُ الْمُبِینُ) عه
بقیه رو قبلا گفتم یا بعدا خواهم گفت :))))))
February 27, 2022
“The only true voyage of discovery . . . would be not to visit strange lands, but to possess other eyes, to behold the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to behold the hundred universes that each of them beholds.”
In The Fugitive, the sixth installment of Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time, the narrator's obsession with Albertine, his desire to own and control Albertine, takes on a different form with her sudden death. She is no longer the captive, but a fugitive who he can never truly possess. Of course, grief for Proust presents an opportunity to meditate and obsess over the past.
Proust also recognizes that time is moving forward as characters we've seen throughout this epic are getting older and, while war breaks out across Europe, time is perhaps running out for him to make his own literary mark. I've compared Proust's writing to paintings; that continues here, but I might also call them slow-moving rivers. Sometimes not much seems to happen, but everything has incredible depth.
On to the last book!
“The creation of the world did not occur at the beginning of time, it occurs every day.”
In The Fugitive, the sixth installment of Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time, the narrator's obsession with Albertine, his desire to own and control Albertine, takes on a different form with her sudden death. She is no longer the captive, but a fugitive who he can never truly possess. Of course, grief for Proust presents an opportunity to meditate and obsess over the past.
Proust also recognizes that time is moving forward as characters we've seen throughout this epic are getting older and, while war breaks out across Europe, time is perhaps running out for him to make his own literary mark. I've compared Proust's writing to paintings; that continues here, but I might also call them slow-moving rivers. Sometimes not much seems to happen, but everything has incredible depth.
On to the last book!
“The creation of the world did not occur at the beginning of time, it occurs every day.”
July 11, 2021
This book brought me a lot of comfort when I was going through a painful breakup. Albertine disappears and - spoiler alert - disappears for good and the narrator is at first unconsolable. What is fascinating for me is how he goes through each of the stages of mourning here: sadness, anger, longing and forgetting in a carefully described and beautifully written volume. It is the last volume where we have the more intimate one-on-one relationships as we approach WW I and the actual period when Proust is writing the book and knows he is slowing dying due to his multiple health problems. Once you are past this, think of it is the 35th KM of the marathon. Only 7KM to go!
August 2, 2021
تخیلم او را در آسمان میجست، در شبهایی چون آنها که آسمان را فراسوی مهتاب که دوست میداشت، با هم تماشا کرده بودیم، میکوشیدم مهرم را تا به نزد او بالا ببرم تا دلداریش دهم از این که دیگر زنده نبود و این عشق به کسی که آن قدر دور شده بود به آیینی میمانست، اندیشههایم همچون نیایش به سوی او بالا میرفت.
January 14, 2016
“I could no longer desire physically without feeling a need for her, without suffering from her absence.”
― Marcel Proust, The Fugitive
I start reading Proust and it feels like I've submerged into a slow-moving prose river. The water is clean, with gradual bends, but sometimes filled with small boiling eddies, swirls, and reverses. Time and memory move in one direction, but the current of Proustian memory contains an involuntary universe of vortexes and wakes. We fall in and out of love. Our memory of our love becomes bent and refracted as we move away from those we once loved.
Seriously, every time I read Proust I finish thinking he could write a whole novel about one small spot on a random river. An exposed rock or boulder that cuts the flow of the river into two halves could occupy 100 pages as Proust described the nuance of the water around and against the rock. He would obviously need to describe the varying temperature of the water and the way the light moves through the textured leaves of the green forest's canopy. How evening's light danced its crepuscular silhouettes against the reflections of dusk on the churning ripples of a slowly moving river.
That being said:
― Marcel Proust, The Fugitive
I start reading Proust and it feels like I've submerged into a slow-moving prose river. The water is clean, with gradual bends, but sometimes filled with small boiling eddies, swirls, and reverses. Time and memory move in one direction, but the current of Proustian memory contains an involuntary universe of vortexes and wakes. We fall in and out of love. Our memory of our love becomes bent and refracted as we move away from those we once loved.
Seriously, every time I read Proust I finish thinking he could write a whole novel about one small spot on a random river. An exposed rock or boulder that cuts the flow of the river into two halves could occupy 100 pages as Proust described the nuance of the water around and against the rock. He would obviously need to describe the varying temperature of the water and the way the light moves through the textured leaves of the green forest's canopy. How evening's light danced its crepuscular silhouettes against the reflections of dusk on the churning ripples of a slowly moving river.
That being said:
November 9, 2020
خسته ام از همه ,خسته از دنیا
آسمان بشنو از قلب من این صدا
ای زندگی بیزار از تواَم
بیزار از این عالم
بیگانه ام با سیمای تو
دیوانه ی دنیای تو
درهم مشکن زنجیرِ مرا
بهتر که شوم رسوا
رفتم که دگر با دست شما
پنهان شوم از چشم دنیا
خسته ام از همه خسته از دنیا
آسمان بشنو از قلب من این صدا
ای زندگی بیزار از تواَم
بیزار از این عالم
بیگانه ام با سیمای تو
دیوانه ی دنیای تو
درهم مشکن زنجیرِ مرا
بهتر که شوم رسوا
رفتم که دگر با دست شما
پنهان شوم از چشم دنیا..
فرهاد مهراد
آسمان بشنو از قلب من این صدا
ای زندگی بیزار از تواَم
بیزار از این عالم
بیگانه ام با سیمای تو
دیوانه ی دنیای تو
درهم مشکن زنجیرِ مرا
بهتر که شوم رسوا
رفتم که دگر با دست شما
پنهان شوم از چشم دنیا
خسته ام از همه خسته از دنیا
آسمان بشنو از قلب من این صدا
ای زندگی بیزار از تواَم
بیزار از این عالم
بیگانه ام با سیمای تو
دیوانه ی دنیای تو
درهم مشکن زنجیرِ مرا
بهتر که شوم رسوا
رفتم که دگر با دست شما
پنهان شوم از چشم دنیا..
فرهاد مهراد
June 23, 2021
A estas alturas ya estamos conociendo lo mejor de Proust, y es donde por fin nos convence porque es de los mejores escritores que han existido, es indescriptible todas las emociones y sentimientos que este libro te hace sentir, de los mejores libros de la saga salvo por la ultima parte donde recobra un poco lo que menos me gusta de su estilo, la descripción de la aristocracia y la repetición excesiva de nombres, de ahí en fuera, gran libro.
June 1, 2022
Here's the pleasure of rediscovering Marcel Proust's particular style, analyzing feelings, rupture, oblivion, and the passage of time.
April 7, 2023
The culmination of in-depth emotional and psychological analysis, the sixth book in the series
“Sözleri, kalbimde acı çekmem gereken yeri harita üzerinde işaretlercesine belirlenmişti.”
Sayfa 54
“Sözleri, kalbimde acı çekmem gereken yeri harita üzerinde işaretlercesine belirlenmişti.”
Sayfa 54
May 26, 2020
Marcel'in aşık olduğu, istemediği, sevdiği, sevmediği Albertine'in kayboluş hikayesi.
Mahpus bitince Albertine ne yapacak merak etmiştim.
Kahramanımızın sevdiğini kaybedince hissettikleri, onu döndürme isteğinde hep, 'Böyle olur işteee Marcel beeeey!!!' diye düşündüm.
Sonra hiç beklemediğim bir şokla karşılaştım. (Hiç spoiler yememişim demek ki...)
Marcel'in bu değişim karşısındaki davranışları, kabullenişi de farklıydı. Hayatına devam etti, sosyeteye karıştı.
Sondaki sürprizi ise bekliyordum (olmasa çok üzülürdüm), ama Marcel yine beni şaşırttı.
Spoilersız bu kadar yazabiliyorum. Harika bir kitap, monoklleriniz hazırsa takınız ve okuyunuz.
Seri yakında bitiyor...
☀️
A. Raca, 2020
Mahpus bitince Albertine ne yapacak merak etmiştim.
Kahramanımızın sevdiğini kaybedince hissettikleri, onu döndürme isteğinde hep, 'Böyle olur işteee Marcel beeeey!!!' diye düşündüm.
Sonra hiç beklemediğim bir şokla karşılaştım. (Hiç spoiler yememişim demek ki...)
Marcel'in bu değişim karşısındaki davranışları, kabullenişi de farklıydı. Hayatına devam etti, sosyeteye karıştı.
Sondaki sürprizi ise bekliyordum (olmasa çok üzülürdüm), ama Marcel yine beni şaşırttı.
Spoilersız bu kadar yazabiliyorum. Harika bir kitap, monoklleriniz hazırsa takınız ve okuyunuz.
Seri yakında bitiyor...
☀️
A. Raca, 2020
July 15, 2009
Sit down, rock n' roll breakup-song maestros of the twentieth century (you know who you are)! Proust made you irrelevant before you were born.
I wish I'd read this in my early twenties, when I still had an actual heart left to break. You know all those insane impulses and fantasies you experience at such times, like the urge to send a letter to your ex-girlfriend describing the yacht and Rolls Royce you'd secretly bought and were planning to give her the morning she left you, which now will remain docked and garaged as you have no use yourself for such items, now that she's gone and you no longer love her, if in fact you ever did, which in fact, you did not? Or that telegram telling her not to be alarmed, as you've grown used to having a warm body around so you'll need to start fucking her best friend? Or.... well, just all that totally crazy shit that goes through your mind when someone leaves you, and you've lost control? M. doesn't just think about it, he does it all, and it's Wonder Years-cringe level excruciating but you definitely know where he's coming from. Proust really picks apart what that whole experience is like, especially the knowledge that when those people were actually around you really didn't want them there, but now that they're gone you'll dispatch your loyal aristocratic wingman to travel miles to the town where they're staying and offer their aunts thousands of francs to buy them back! Not only that, but.... well, as previously noted he's a real freak, and this book definitely takes some bizarre plot turns. No spoilers here, though! Buy this for someone you know who's gone through a bad breakup, and they'll thank you for it.... probably. I actually should see where this goes before I promise you that. But so far, this portrait of the jilted lover surpasses even that of Stacy-with-the-gunrack in Wayne's World, who was always sort of my sentimental favorite as far as Who to Try Real Hard Not to Act Like, from middle school on. Obviously Proust never got a chance to benefit from that movie's instructional message, with painful-for-him, delightful-for-us results.
Anyway, so far I like this one way better than the one before it, which wasn't bad or anything, but was I guess sort of a relative drag. It's cool (though a little disturbing) to see that those romantic and post-romantic feelings weren't invented by Phil Spector or the Buzzcocks. People have been getting dumped for ages, and acting like completely pathetic psychos afterwards! Though almost no one acts as pathetic or psychotic as this in real life, which is what makes reading about it so comforting.
The unfolding of this breakup is also greatly satisfying for other reasons that I can't get into here without giving too much away, not just about the plot but about myself.
I wish I'd read this in my early twenties, when I still had an actual heart left to break. You know all those insane impulses and fantasies you experience at such times, like the urge to send a letter to your ex-girlfriend describing the yacht and Rolls Royce you'd secretly bought and were planning to give her the morning she left you, which now will remain docked and garaged as you have no use yourself for such items, now that she's gone and you no longer love her, if in fact you ever did, which in fact, you did not? Or that telegram telling her not to be alarmed, as you've grown used to having a warm body around so you'll need to start fucking her best friend? Or.... well, just all that totally crazy shit that goes through your mind when someone leaves you, and you've lost control? M. doesn't just think about it, he does it all, and it's Wonder Years-cringe level excruciating but you definitely know where he's coming from. Proust really picks apart what that whole experience is like, especially the knowledge that when those people were actually around you really didn't want them there, but now that they're gone you'll dispatch your loyal aristocratic wingman to travel miles to the town where they're staying and offer their aunts thousands of francs to buy them back! Not only that, but.... well, as previously noted he's a real freak, and this book definitely takes some bizarre plot turns. No spoilers here, though! Buy this for someone you know who's gone through a bad breakup, and they'll thank you for it.... probably. I actually should see where this goes before I promise you that. But so far, this portrait of the jilted lover surpasses even that of Stacy-with-the-gunrack in Wayne's World, who was always sort of my sentimental favorite as far as Who to Try Real Hard Not to Act Like, from middle school on. Obviously Proust never got a chance to benefit from that movie's instructional message, with painful-for-him, delightful-for-us results.
Anyway, so far I like this one way better than the one before it, which wasn't bad or anything, but was I guess sort of a relative drag. It's cool (though a little disturbing) to see that those romantic and post-romantic feelings weren't invented by Phil Spector or the Buzzcocks. People have been getting dumped for ages, and acting like completely pathetic psychos afterwards! Though almost no one acts as pathetic or psychotic as this in real life, which is what makes reading about it so comforting.
The unfolding of this breakup is also greatly satisfying for other reasons that I can't get into here without giving too much away, not just about the plot but about myself.
March 21, 2022
"Reading parts of Proust is often like sloshing through thickets in a dark forest, then finding air and daylight. It is similar to Dante’s journey to the underworld to seek Beatrice, love, wisdom, and God. The voyage is sometimes clear and sometimes murky."
-Lawrence Siegler, Proust scholar
==============
A stunning epiphany...
"At last I found the photograph of Albertine. She must be marvelous,” Robert continued, without realizing that I was holding out the photograph. Suddenly he noticed it and held it for a moment in his hands. His face registered a surprise that bordered on stupefaction. “Is this the girl that you love?” he said finally, in a voice whose astonishment was muted by the fear of offending me. He made no comment, but had taken on the judicious, prudent and inevitably slightly condescending air that we adopt in the face of an invalid—even if the patient has previously been a remarkable man, or even your friend—who is no longer recognizable, for he is stricken with raving madness and is talking to you of a celestial being who has appeared to him and whom he continues to see exactly where you, the normal man, see only his eiderdown. I immediately understood Robert’s astonishment....In short Albertine, like a stone covered in snow, was no more than the core of an immense construction elaborated by my heart."
The personality portrait of Albertine, as depicted in other volumes, makes it clear that she's not particularly well educated or conversant in the arts. Indeed, a very odd choice for the Narrator to be obsessed with.
In this volume, the Narrator describes his separation from Albertine, his grief at her death, and then the development of a growing indifference. His suffering diminishes, pain is reduced, and his bad dreams are easier. Residual thoughts and identifications with Albertine begin to recede.
==============
In Venice....
"Most often it was St. Mark’s that I set out for, and with all the more pleasure because the church, which required a gondola to reach it, did not represent for me a mere monument, but as it were the terminus of a marine journey over springtime waters, with which St. Mark’s formed an indivisible, living whole. My mother and I entered the baptistery, both of us treading underfoot the marble and glass mosaics which paved it, and seeing before us the wide arches, whose waisted, pink surfaces have been slightly inflected by the passage of time, which, where time has respected the freshness of its coloring, lends the church an air of having been constructed from a soft and malleable material like the wax of giant honeycomb cells; but where, on the contrary, time has hardened the material and where artists have enhanced it with openwork and gold, it takes on the guise of some precious binding in Cordoban leather of the colossal gospel formed by Venice."
"After crossing the gardens of the Arena Chapel under the midday sun, I entered the chapel with its Giottos where the whole ceiling vault and the background of the frescoes are so blue that it seems as if the radiant daylight had crossed the threshold at the same time as the visitor and had come for a moment to seek out shade and fresh air for its limpid sky; whose purity, once cleansed of the gilding applied by the sunlight, took on only a very slightly darker tone, as happens during those brief moments of respite which interrupt the finest days, when, without a cloud in sight, the sun averts its gaze for a moment and the azure sky, growing still softer, darkens. In the sky thus transposed onto a blue-toned stone heaven, I caught my first glimpse of angels in flight."
In the evenings, the Narrator went out alone and plunged himself into a network of alleys known as the calli.
"Suddenly, at the end of one of these little streets, the crystalline matter seemed to have produced a swelling. A vast, sumptuous campo of a size that I certainly could not have guessed, let alone found room for in this network of little streets, stretched out before my eyes, surrounded by enchanting palaces, in the pale light of the moon. It was one of those architectural ensembles toward which in other towns you are guided by streets that lead there, pointing the way. Here it seemed deliberately hidden in a criss-cross of alleyways, like those palaces in Oriental tales where a character who was led there by night and taken back home before morning is unable to find the magical dwelling and finally believes that he saw it only in his dreams."
=====
At the end of this volume, the Narrator absorbs the effects of aging, especially as he observes it in others. Relationships have changed. He has lost friendships. He’s challenged to re-evaluate. He encounters again his childhood crush, Gilberte, who brings back memories.
While walking with Gilberte, he remembers….
“As for intelligence, Gilberte’s was very shrewd, give or take a few eccentricities inherited from her mother. But independently of her intrinsic qualities, I remember how greatly she astonished me on several occasions, during the conversations which we held while out walking. Once, the first time, by telling me that, “If you weren’t too hungry and it weren’t so late, if we took the path on the left and then turned to the right it would take us less than a quarter of an hour to reach the Guermantes.” It was as if she had said, “Turn left, then turn right, and you will grasp the intangible, you will reach the distant and unattainable goals of which on earth we know only the direction.”
He was doggedly persistent in pursuing her when he was young, but he finally realizes all these years later that she really didn't like him all that much. He could be incredibly obtuse, and annoying, when he had this kind of idée fixe.
This sets up the final volume of A la Recherche du Temps Perdu.
-Lawrence Siegler, Proust scholar
==============
A stunning epiphany...
"At last I found the photograph of Albertine. She must be marvelous,” Robert continued, without realizing that I was holding out the photograph. Suddenly he noticed it and held it for a moment in his hands. His face registered a surprise that bordered on stupefaction. “Is this the girl that you love?” he said finally, in a voice whose astonishment was muted by the fear of offending me. He made no comment, but had taken on the judicious, prudent and inevitably slightly condescending air that we adopt in the face of an invalid—even if the patient has previously been a remarkable man, or even your friend—who is no longer recognizable, for he is stricken with raving madness and is talking to you of a celestial being who has appeared to him and whom he continues to see exactly where you, the normal man, see only his eiderdown. I immediately understood Robert’s astonishment....In short Albertine, like a stone covered in snow, was no more than the core of an immense construction elaborated by my heart."
The personality portrait of Albertine, as depicted in other volumes, makes it clear that she's not particularly well educated or conversant in the arts. Indeed, a very odd choice for the Narrator to be obsessed with.
In this volume, the Narrator describes his separation from Albertine, his grief at her death, and then the development of a growing indifference. His suffering diminishes, pain is reduced, and his bad dreams are easier. Residual thoughts and identifications with Albertine begin to recede.
==============
In Venice....
"Most often it was St. Mark’s that I set out for, and with all the more pleasure because the church, which required a gondola to reach it, did not represent for me a mere monument, but as it were the terminus of a marine journey over springtime waters, with which St. Mark’s formed an indivisible, living whole. My mother and I entered the baptistery, both of us treading underfoot the marble and glass mosaics which paved it, and seeing before us the wide arches, whose waisted, pink surfaces have been slightly inflected by the passage of time, which, where time has respected the freshness of its coloring, lends the church an air of having been constructed from a soft and malleable material like the wax of giant honeycomb cells; but where, on the contrary, time has hardened the material and where artists have enhanced it with openwork and gold, it takes on the guise of some precious binding in Cordoban leather of the colossal gospel formed by Venice."
"After crossing the gardens of the Arena Chapel under the midday sun, I entered the chapel with its Giottos where the whole ceiling vault and the background of the frescoes are so blue that it seems as if the radiant daylight had crossed the threshold at the same time as the visitor and had come for a moment to seek out shade and fresh air for its limpid sky; whose purity, once cleansed of the gilding applied by the sunlight, took on only a very slightly darker tone, as happens during those brief moments of respite which interrupt the finest days, when, without a cloud in sight, the sun averts its gaze for a moment and the azure sky, growing still softer, darkens. In the sky thus transposed onto a blue-toned stone heaven, I caught my first glimpse of angels in flight."
In the evenings, the Narrator went out alone and plunged himself into a network of alleys known as the calli.
"Suddenly, at the end of one of these little streets, the crystalline matter seemed to have produced a swelling. A vast, sumptuous campo of a size that I certainly could not have guessed, let alone found room for in this network of little streets, stretched out before my eyes, surrounded by enchanting palaces, in the pale light of the moon. It was one of those architectural ensembles toward which in other towns you are guided by streets that lead there, pointing the way. Here it seemed deliberately hidden in a criss-cross of alleyways, like those palaces in Oriental tales where a character who was led there by night and taken back home before morning is unable to find the magical dwelling and finally believes that he saw it only in his dreams."
=====
At the end of this volume, the Narrator absorbs the effects of aging, especially as he observes it in others. Relationships have changed. He has lost friendships. He’s challenged to re-evaluate. He encounters again his childhood crush, Gilberte, who brings back memories.
While walking with Gilberte, he remembers….
“As for intelligence, Gilberte’s was very shrewd, give or take a few eccentricities inherited from her mother. But independently of her intrinsic qualities, I remember how greatly she astonished me on several occasions, during the conversations which we held while out walking. Once, the first time, by telling me that, “If you weren’t too hungry and it weren’t so late, if we took the path on the left and then turned to the right it would take us less than a quarter of an hour to reach the Guermantes.” It was as if she had said, “Turn left, then turn right, and you will grasp the intangible, you will reach the distant and unattainable goals of which on earth we know only the direction.”
He was doggedly persistent in pursuing her when he was young, but he finally realizes all these years later that she really didn't like him all that much. He could be incredibly obtuse, and annoying, when he had this kind of idée fixe.
This sets up the final volume of A la Recherche du Temps Perdu.
January 12, 2016
None of my GR friends who've added this book as 'read' have reviewed it and I may take that as a sign that I don't 'have' to either. But, no, my real 'excuse' is that almost from the very beginning of my reading this, it was a time of two personal losses, which is 'appropriate' in that the story, what there is of one, is also one of loss and grief, but in such an abstract way, or so it seemed to me, that I had a hard time identifying mine with its, and I am generally very good at universalizing the particular.
With the conflation of two women, the two sexes and the possible reconciliation of the two côtés, this volume read to me as if it could've been the end of the whole work. But there is one more, so on to that one I go.
With the conflation of two women, the two sexes and the possible reconciliation of the two côtés, this volume read to me as if it could've been the end of the whole work. But there is one more, so on to that one I go.
October 5, 2024
The first three-quarters of La Fugitive is among the most dreary writing in all of Proust, showing the author at his most tedious and his narrator at his most objectionable. Albertine is gone – rather more completely than we expected from the end of the last volume – and Proust sits around with a moue of discontent and ponders this for 75,000 words or so.
As the book dropped, for the fifth time, from my slumbering hand on to my face, I was forced to reflect on how many of the basic functions of a novel Proust is unable or unwilling to execute. He simply writes, with no thought of such bourgeois niceties as episodes, tension, plot, or paragraph breaks. It's less a description of depression than a forced reenactment of it.
This (you will notice) implies some skill – and there is plenty here, whether you like it or not. But it's impossible not to feel how little Albertine exists as a person for the narrator – he feels nothing on her behalf, only regret for himself and frustration over the secrets she kept from him while she was alive. With infuriating ease, he starts sleeping with her best friend (and former lover), realising that his memory of Albertine is just ‘a transition to new desires’ and that his love for her was merely une forme passagère de ma dévotion à la jeunesse, a transitory form of his devotion to youth.
One young girl is as good as another.
It is hard to know whether to admire the unflinching depiction of egotism here (he writes about his tendresse uniquement égoïste), or worry about how much Proust expects us to sympathise. He writes as though distilling his experiences down to universal truths, but one is sometimes inclined to doubt the conclusions.
The thing is, following the trail of how disagreeable Proust is does point towards some of his most important themes. He can get over the love of his life because for Proust, it's absolutely fundamental that people do not remain the same. New selfs comes and go; old ones are buried in order regularly to resurface, a process he describes in a kind of geology of ego:
By the last quarter of this book – which takes in Venice and then a return to home, of sorts – this theme of instability becomes completely dominant, and rather fascinating. As in Sodome et Gomorrhe, there is a pervading sense of general mutability. Characters shift into one another: Gilberte, through the vagaries of handwriting, becomes Albertine, and when the narrator looks in the mirror he thinks he resembles Andrée.
Rachel (through a phonological shift typical of Proust) is associated with her near-anagram Charlie, and Saint-Loup, who once loved Rachel, now loves Charlie instead. People are straight then gay, good then evil, friends then enemies, loved then disregarded. Even alive and then dead – Madame Villeparisis, who was said to have died in the last volume, is now back. In this way even the unfinished nature of Proust's book sometimes works in its favour, on a thematic level. In any case, the result is that it is impossible to know anyone, or to understand how they might behave…
And that's before we get into how things change over time. Il y a des erreurs optiques dans le temps comme il y en a dans l'espace, he says: there are optical illusions in time as well as in space. (Not really optical illusions, but I like that better.) As this book concludes, there is a sense of impending synthesis: the Guermantes way and the Swann way are brought together, and a lot of resolution seem to be riding on the final volume.
And after so much writing, it's impossible not to feel quite affected by these things – and I am. The soporific intensity of Proust's writing does end up rewiring my brain after long exposure, and, somewhat to my annoyance, after a terrible start I felt half won-over by the end. Still, this does often feel like a book to study rather than one to simply read.
As the book dropped, for the fifth time, from my slumbering hand on to my face, I was forced to reflect on how many of the basic functions of a novel Proust is unable or unwilling to execute. He simply writes, with no thought of such bourgeois niceties as episodes, tension, plot, or paragraph breaks. It's less a description of depression than a forced reenactment of it.
This (you will notice) implies some skill – and there is plenty here, whether you like it or not. But it's impossible not to feel how little Albertine exists as a person for the narrator – he feels nothing on her behalf, only regret for himself and frustration over the secrets she kept from him while she was alive. With infuriating ease, he starts sleeping with her best friend (and former lover), realising that his memory of Albertine is just ‘a transition to new desires’ and that his love for her was merely une forme passagère de ma dévotion à la jeunesse, a transitory form of his devotion to youth.
One young girl is as good as another.
It is hard to know whether to admire the unflinching depiction of egotism here (he writes about his tendresse uniquement égoïste), or worry about how much Proust expects us to sympathise. He writes as though distilling his experiences down to universal truths, but one is sometimes inclined to doubt the conclusions.
The thing is, following the trail of how disagreeable Proust is does point towards some of his most important themes. He can get over the love of his life because for Proust, it's absolutely fundamental that people do not remain the same. New selfs comes and go; old ones are buried in order regularly to resurface, a process he describes in a kind of geology of ego:
Notre moi est fait de la superposition de nos états successifs. Mais cette superposition n'est pas immuable comme la stratification d'une montagne. Perpétuellement des soulèvements font affleurer à la surface des couches anciennes.
Our self is made of the superimposition of our successive states. But this superimposition is not immutable, like the stratification of a mountain. Upheavals are perpetually bringing ancient layers to the surface.
By the last quarter of this book – which takes in Venice and then a return to home, of sorts – this theme of instability becomes completely dominant, and rather fascinating. As in Sodome et Gomorrhe, there is a pervading sense of general mutability. Characters shift into one another: Gilberte, through the vagaries of handwriting, becomes Albertine, and when the narrator looks in the mirror he thinks he resembles Andrée.
Rachel (through a phonological shift typical of Proust) is associated with her near-anagram Charlie, and Saint-Loup, who once loved Rachel, now loves Charlie instead. People are straight then gay, good then evil, friends then enemies, loved then disregarded. Even alive and then dead – Madame Villeparisis, who was said to have died in the last volume, is now back. In this way even the unfinished nature of Proust's book sometimes works in its favour, on a thematic level. In any case, the result is that it is impossible to know anyone, or to understand how they might behave…
il y a l'un devant l'autre deux mondes, l'un constitué par les choses que les êtres les meilleurs, les plus sincères, disent, et derrière lui le monde composé par la succession de ce que ces mêmes êtres font…
There are two worlds, one in front of the other, the first consisting of what the best and most sincere people say, and behind that the world composed of the succession of things those same people actually do.
And that's before we get into how things change over time. Il y a des erreurs optiques dans le temps comme il y en a dans l'espace, he says: there are optical illusions in time as well as in space. (Not really optical illusions, but I like that better.) As this book concludes, there is a sense of impending synthesis: the Guermantes way and the Swann way are brought together, and a lot of resolution seem to be riding on the final volume.
And after so much writing, it's impossible not to feel quite affected by these things – and I am. The soporific intensity of Proust's writing does end up rewiring my brain after long exposure, and, somewhat to my annoyance, after a terrible start I felt half won-over by the end. Still, this does often feel like a book to study rather than one to simply read.
September 16, 2015
در نیازم به این که آلبرتین را هر شب اینگونه نزد خود نگه دارم، گذشته از تمنایی که با پیشکشی جوانی را میستود، چیز دیگری هم دخالت داشت که تا آن زمان در زندگیام … بیسابقه بود. … بدون شک بسیار تعجب میکردم اگه به من گفته میشد که یکسره آدم نیکی نیستم و بویژه این که میکوشم کسی را از لذتی محروم کنم. بیگمان خودم را در آن زمان خوب نمیشناختم، زیرا لذتی که از اقامت آلبرتین در خانهام میبردم بس بیشتر از آن که لذتی مثبت باشد، ناشی از این بود که دختر شکوفا را از جهانی که هر کسی میتوانست خوشیِ بودن با او را بچشد بدر برده بودم، به گونهای که دستکم اگر شادی بزرگی از او به من نمیرسید به دیگران هم نمیرسید.
جاهطلبی، افتخار برایم مفهومی نداشت. از این هم بیشتر، نمیتوانستم از کسی متنفر باشم. با این همه عشق جسمانی برایم برخورداری از لذت پیروزی بر رقیبانِ بسیار بود. هر چقدر بگویم باز کم گفتهام که برایم بیش از هر چیزی نوعی تسکین بود.»
من اسمش را گذاشتهام مانیفیست حسادت!
جاهطلبی، افتخار برایم مفهومی نداشت. از این هم بیشتر، نمیتوانستم از کسی متنفر باشم. با این همه عشق جسمانی برایم برخورداری از لذت پیروزی بر رقیبانِ بسیار بود. هر چقدر بگویم باز کم گفتهام که برایم بیش از هر چیزی نوعی تسکین بود.»
من اسمش را گذاشتهام مانیفیست حسادت!
September 19, 2024
https://kansasbooks.blogspot.com/2024...
"¡Mademoiselle Albertine se ha marchado!
Y, adivinando confusamente que si un momento antes, cuando yo no había llamado todavía, la marcha de Albertine habría podido parecerme indiferente, incluso deseable, era porque la creía imposible..."
Me había equivocado creyendo ver claro en mi corazón. Pero este conocimiento, que las más finas percepciones de la inteligencia no habían sabido darme, me lo acababa de traer duro deslumbrante, extraño, como una sal cristalizada, la brusca reacción al dolor."
A estas alturas, intuyo que más que un comentario sobre ya la sexta novela de esta serie, lo que me van a salir son una serie de reflexiones, quizás inconexas, fragmentadas sobre Marcel en una etapa de su vida en la que parece haber dejado atrás la ingenuidad inicial y haberse encontrado con una serie de decepciones, pérdidas y ausencias que le irán definiendo; siempre fue un niño solitario, mucho más cómodo sumido en sí mismo que rodeado de gente, pero a lo largo de estas cinco novelas anteriores a medida que iba relacionándose, enamorándose, haciendo amigos, quizás confiaba en que podrían ayudarle a salir de sí mismo y sin embargo, la realidad de las relaciones humanas es mucho más dura de lo que sus expectativas le habían marcado. En La Fugitiva se hace palpable el desengaño que le acaban suponiendo los demás para Marcel, la amistad, el amor, todo acaba en saco roto ...
"Renuncié a todo orgullo para con Albertine, le envié un telegrama desesperado en el que pedía que volviese con cualesquiera condiciones, que haría todo lo que ella quisiese....Nunca volvió.
El mundo no está creado de una vez para todos nosotros. A lo largo de la vida, se le suman cosas que no sospechábamos."
Me gusta sobre todo el título de esta novela "La fugitiva·, por las connotaciones que tiene la palabra fuga, pero más todavía me gusta el otro titulo "Albertine Desaparecida" porque en la palabra desaparición veo una connotación mucho más compleja, amplia; la fuga/huida no tiene porque ser una pérdida pero la desaparición lo es en todo el sentido de la palabra, y aquí es dónde tendría que sacar a relucir la adaptación al cine de Chantal Akerman, "La Captive", que a mi modo de entender, aborda una cuestión que quizás Proust en su época no tuvo valor para abordar sobre la desaparición, la Akerman sí lo hizo, pero no voy a profundizar en ello ya que solo serían elucubraciones mías. La huida de Albertine se convierte en una desaparición que deja un vacío no solo en Marcel, sino en el lector. "El corazón palpita y, por otra parte, la mujer que se ha marchado ya no es la misma que la que estaba aquí." En el final de La Prisionera habíamos visto como Marcel cansado de Albertine, le sugiere/ordena una separación. Y sin embargo, cuando ya al comienzo de este sexto volumen, Marcel se encuentra con que Albertine se ha ido/ fugado/desparecido, entra en un periodo de negación y de dolor… una reacción contradictoria se podría pensar, pero es que Marcel solo parece vivir el amor cuando no lo posee, cuando lo desea: mientras tenía a Albertine comiendo de su mano, se muestra indiferente y aburrido, pero la desaparición de Albertine vuelve a sumirle en ese estado vivo del deseo, de los celos.
"Mi separación de Albertine, el día en que Françoise me había dicho: La señorita Albertine se ha marchado, era como una alegoría de tantas otras separaciones, pues con mucha frecuencia, para que descubramos que estamos enamorados, tal vez incluso para que lleguemos a estar-lo, debe llegar el día de la separación."
La novela dividida en cuatro capítulos, hace transcurrir este primer capítulo entre las divagaciones de Marcel en torno a la ausencia de Albertine. Marcel se sumerge en un periodo de angustia más que por la pérdida de Albertine, por el hecho de que le pillara por sorpresa, no estaba preparado quizás para esta pérdida repentina. ("...en el que las horas no estaban marcadas por la posición del sol, sino por la espera de una cita, en que la duración de los días o los avances de la temperatura se median por el vuelo de mis esperanzas, los avances de nuestra intimidad, la transformación progresiva de su rostro, la frecuencia y el estilo de las cartas que me había dirigido durante una ausencia...") Sin embargo, la fuga de la amante lo vuelve a sumir en un estado de estar vivo, su mente se sumerge en los celos, investiga esa otra vida de Albertine con sus amigas en un continuo bucle claustrofóbico y obsesivo. En la Prisionera parecía tenerla controlada, encerrada en su propia casa con una obsesión continua porque no se le escapara y solo cuando Albertine dormía parecía sentirse liberado. Ahora que Albertine no está, debería sentirse liberado, pero no, Marcel se siente prisionero de su mente, de sus celos por un fantasma que ya no está pero a la que recuerda con una vida propia y paralela mientras estaba con él. Sin embargo, los sentimientos sucumben frente al paso del tiempo (sobre todo en una persona como Marcel que solo se interesa por sí mismo) y acaban cayendo en el olvido.
"- No, no voy al teatro. He perdido a una amiga a la que quería mucho-. Tenía casi lágrimas en los ojos al decírselo, pero aún así, por primera vez casi me daba cierto placer hablar de ello. A partir de aquel momento fue cuando empecé a escribir a todo el mundo que acababa de sentir una gran pena y a dejar de sentirla ."
En los tres siguientes capítulos, ya salimos de ese mundo claustrofóbico y asfixiante que había supuesto el bucle de Albertine, y Marcel se encuentra con Gilberte Swann, su primer amor. Aquí llegará a la conclusión de que de la misma forma que olvidó a Gilberte en su momento, así lo hará con Albertine, y aunque Marcel descubra que ya ha dejado de amar a Albertine ¿realmente en algún momento la ha amado de verdad? pero de esto ya hablé en mi comentario de "La Prisionera", así que aquí lo dejo. El capítulo tercero y cuarto transcurren en un viaje a Venecia con su madre y la vida social de Guermantes con matrimonios y compromisos en los que se hace evidente que la alta aristocracia tan snob y tiquismisquis a la hora de relacionarse fuera de su clase social, ya no le importa concertar matrimonios por dinero con clases “inferiores” e incluso con judíos, de los que habían abjurado tanto. Son los nuevos tiempos.
"La desdicha de las personas es la de ser para nosotros simples láminas de colecciones muy utilizables en nuestro pensamiento. Precisamente por ello basamos en ellas proyectos que tienen el ardor del.pensamiento, pero este se fatiga, el recuerdo se destruye…"
Marcel/Proust que siempre ha sido un voyeur, que se ha pasado la vida observando, controlando, escondido tras una ventana, descubre que mirar no es tan fácil porque de aquí puede sobrevenir el desengaño. Las expectativas que se monta en su mente nunca estarán a a altura de la realidad. Es difícil que coincida la imagen desde una distancia con la del primer plano cuando se tiene a la persona frente a sí pero el problema probablemente lo tenga Marcel más que los demás porque realmente él tampoco se ha preocupado demasiado por estar cerca (y su voyeurismo ya lo está definiendo, no quiere implicarse) sino que se ha obsesionado porque estas personas, cuando las tenía frente a él, siguieran respondiendo a su imagen idealizada. Marcel es consciente de ello y de aquí que este volumen sea para mí el más pesimista de los que llevo leídos. Marcel a su vez sufre un desengaño por la forma en la que Gilberte, por ejemplo, obvia a su padre tras su muerte, pero realmente ya había ocurrido lo mismo en el volumen anterior cuando Marcel apenas le había dedicado un par de lineas a su muerte, a la muerte de Swann. En el mundo de Marcel se olvida a los muertos con un simple clic, y esto vuelve a ocurrir con la ausencia de Albertine…y sin embargo, la muerte es quizás uno de los temas más esenciales de toda la serie.
"La costumbre de pensar impide a veces experimentar la realidad, inmuniza contra ella, la hace parecer pensamiento otra vez."
No quiero seguir alargándome sobre esta sexta novela de la serie porque tampoco quiero spoilear demasiado, pero resulta muy interesante en lo que deviene esta novela después de "La Prisionera". Aquí Marcel ha perdido el control de la que había sido su prisionera y él como buen masoquista sigue alargando sus celos y su toxicidad en su mente, pero llegado un punto, el tiempo todo lo cura, Para Proust, el amor es una enfermedad que solo encuentra cura con la indiferencia o con el desamor. Otra etapa más de "En Busca del Tiempo Perdido", en esta ocasión en torno a la pérdida, la ausencia y al desengaño, que van completando la perspectiva de la obra como conjunto.
"Algunos filósofos dicen que el mundo exterior no existe y que dentro de nosotros mismos es como desarrollamos nuestra vida. Sea como fuere, el amor, incluso en sus comienzos más humildes, es un ejemplo llamativo de lo poco que es la realidad para nosotros."
♫♫♫ Runaway Train - Soul Asylum ♫♫♫
"¡Mademoiselle Albertine se ha marchado!
Y, adivinando confusamente que si un momento antes, cuando yo no había llamado todavía, la marcha de Albertine habría podido parecerme indiferente, incluso deseable, era porque la creía imposible..."
Me había equivocado creyendo ver claro en mi corazón. Pero este conocimiento, que las más finas percepciones de la inteligencia no habían sabido darme, me lo acababa de traer duro deslumbrante, extraño, como una sal cristalizada, la brusca reacción al dolor."
A estas alturas, intuyo que más que un comentario sobre ya la sexta novela de esta serie, lo que me van a salir son una serie de reflexiones, quizás inconexas, fragmentadas sobre Marcel en una etapa de su vida en la que parece haber dejado atrás la ingenuidad inicial y haberse encontrado con una serie de decepciones, pérdidas y ausencias que le irán definiendo; siempre fue un niño solitario, mucho más cómodo sumido en sí mismo que rodeado de gente, pero a lo largo de estas cinco novelas anteriores a medida que iba relacionándose, enamorándose, haciendo amigos, quizás confiaba en que podrían ayudarle a salir de sí mismo y sin embargo, la realidad de las relaciones humanas es mucho más dura de lo que sus expectativas le habían marcado. En La Fugitiva se hace palpable el desengaño que le acaban suponiendo los demás para Marcel, la amistad, el amor, todo acaba en saco roto ...
"Renuncié a todo orgullo para con Albertine, le envié un telegrama desesperado en el que pedía que volviese con cualesquiera condiciones, que haría todo lo que ella quisiese....Nunca volvió.
El mundo no está creado de una vez para todos nosotros. A lo largo de la vida, se le suman cosas que no sospechábamos."
Me gusta sobre todo el título de esta novela "La fugitiva·, por las connotaciones que tiene la palabra fuga, pero más todavía me gusta el otro titulo "Albertine Desaparecida" porque en la palabra desaparición veo una connotación mucho más compleja, amplia; la fuga/huida no tiene porque ser una pérdida pero la desaparición lo es en todo el sentido de la palabra, y aquí es dónde tendría que sacar a relucir la adaptación al cine de Chantal Akerman, "La Captive", que a mi modo de entender, aborda una cuestión que quizás Proust en su época no tuvo valor para abordar sobre la desaparición, la Akerman sí lo hizo, pero no voy a profundizar en ello ya que solo serían elucubraciones mías. La huida de Albertine se convierte en una desaparición que deja un vacío no solo en Marcel, sino en el lector. "El corazón palpita y, por otra parte, la mujer que se ha marchado ya no es la misma que la que estaba aquí." En el final de La Prisionera habíamos visto como Marcel cansado de Albertine, le sugiere/ordena una separación. Y sin embargo, cuando ya al comienzo de este sexto volumen, Marcel se encuentra con que Albertine se ha ido/ fugado/desparecido, entra en un periodo de negación y de dolor… una reacción contradictoria se podría pensar, pero es que Marcel solo parece vivir el amor cuando no lo posee, cuando lo desea: mientras tenía a Albertine comiendo de su mano, se muestra indiferente y aburrido, pero la desaparición de Albertine vuelve a sumirle en ese estado vivo del deseo, de los celos.
"Mi separación de Albertine, el día en que Françoise me había dicho: La señorita Albertine se ha marchado, era como una alegoría de tantas otras separaciones, pues con mucha frecuencia, para que descubramos que estamos enamorados, tal vez incluso para que lleguemos a estar-lo, debe llegar el día de la separación."
La novela dividida en cuatro capítulos, hace transcurrir este primer capítulo entre las divagaciones de Marcel en torno a la ausencia de Albertine. Marcel se sumerge en un periodo de angustia más que por la pérdida de Albertine, por el hecho de que le pillara por sorpresa, no estaba preparado quizás para esta pérdida repentina. ("...en el que las horas no estaban marcadas por la posición del sol, sino por la espera de una cita, en que la duración de los días o los avances de la temperatura se median por el vuelo de mis esperanzas, los avances de nuestra intimidad, la transformación progresiva de su rostro, la frecuencia y el estilo de las cartas que me había dirigido durante una ausencia...") Sin embargo, la fuga de la amante lo vuelve a sumir en un estado de estar vivo, su mente se sumerge en los celos, investiga esa otra vida de Albertine con sus amigas en un continuo bucle claustrofóbico y obsesivo. En la Prisionera parecía tenerla controlada, encerrada en su propia casa con una obsesión continua porque no se le escapara y solo cuando Albertine dormía parecía sentirse liberado. Ahora que Albertine no está, debería sentirse liberado, pero no, Marcel se siente prisionero de su mente, de sus celos por un fantasma que ya no está pero a la que recuerda con una vida propia y paralela mientras estaba con él. Sin embargo, los sentimientos sucumben frente al paso del tiempo (sobre todo en una persona como Marcel que solo se interesa por sí mismo) y acaban cayendo en el olvido.
"- No, no voy al teatro. He perdido a una amiga a la que quería mucho-. Tenía casi lágrimas en los ojos al decírselo, pero aún así, por primera vez casi me daba cierto placer hablar de ello. A partir de aquel momento fue cuando empecé a escribir a todo el mundo que acababa de sentir una gran pena y a dejar de sentirla ."
En los tres siguientes capítulos, ya salimos de ese mundo claustrofóbico y asfixiante que había supuesto el bucle de Albertine, y Marcel se encuentra con Gilberte Swann, su primer amor. Aquí llegará a la conclusión de que de la misma forma que olvidó a Gilberte en su momento, así lo hará con Albertine, y aunque Marcel descubra que ya ha dejado de amar a Albertine ¿realmente en algún momento la ha amado de verdad? pero de esto ya hablé en mi comentario de "La Prisionera", así que aquí lo dejo. El capítulo tercero y cuarto transcurren en un viaje a Venecia con su madre y la vida social de Guermantes con matrimonios y compromisos en los que se hace evidente que la alta aristocracia tan snob y tiquismisquis a la hora de relacionarse fuera de su clase social, ya no le importa concertar matrimonios por dinero con clases “inferiores” e incluso con judíos, de los que habían abjurado tanto. Son los nuevos tiempos.
"La desdicha de las personas es la de ser para nosotros simples láminas de colecciones muy utilizables en nuestro pensamiento. Precisamente por ello basamos en ellas proyectos que tienen el ardor del.pensamiento, pero este se fatiga, el recuerdo se destruye…"
Marcel/Proust que siempre ha sido un voyeur, que se ha pasado la vida observando, controlando, escondido tras una ventana, descubre que mirar no es tan fácil porque de aquí puede sobrevenir el desengaño. Las expectativas que se monta en su mente nunca estarán a a altura de la realidad. Es difícil que coincida la imagen desde una distancia con la del primer plano cuando se tiene a la persona frente a sí pero el problema probablemente lo tenga Marcel más que los demás porque realmente él tampoco se ha preocupado demasiado por estar cerca (y su voyeurismo ya lo está definiendo, no quiere implicarse) sino que se ha obsesionado porque estas personas, cuando las tenía frente a él, siguieran respondiendo a su imagen idealizada. Marcel es consciente de ello y de aquí que este volumen sea para mí el más pesimista de los que llevo leídos. Marcel a su vez sufre un desengaño por la forma en la que Gilberte, por ejemplo, obvia a su padre tras su muerte, pero realmente ya había ocurrido lo mismo en el volumen anterior cuando Marcel apenas le había dedicado un par de lineas a su muerte, a la muerte de Swann. En el mundo de Marcel se olvida a los muertos con un simple clic, y esto vuelve a ocurrir con la ausencia de Albertine…y sin embargo, la muerte es quizás uno de los temas más esenciales de toda la serie.
"La costumbre de pensar impide a veces experimentar la realidad, inmuniza contra ella, la hace parecer pensamiento otra vez."
No quiero seguir alargándome sobre esta sexta novela de la serie porque tampoco quiero spoilear demasiado, pero resulta muy interesante en lo que deviene esta novela después de "La Prisionera". Aquí Marcel ha perdido el control de la que había sido su prisionera y él como buen masoquista sigue alargando sus celos y su toxicidad en su mente, pero llegado un punto, el tiempo todo lo cura, Para Proust, el amor es una enfermedad que solo encuentra cura con la indiferencia o con el desamor. Otra etapa más de "En Busca del Tiempo Perdido", en esta ocasión en torno a la pérdida, la ausencia y al desengaño, que van completando la perspectiva de la obra como conjunto.
"Algunos filósofos dicen que el mundo exterior no existe y que dentro de nosotros mismos es como desarrollamos nuestra vida. Sea como fuere, el amor, incluso en sus comienzos más humildes, es un ejemplo llamativo de lo poco que es la realidad para nosotros."
♫♫♫ Runaway Train - Soul Asylum ♫♫♫
June 3, 2018
به نام او
پس از اسیر که به نظر من افتی در کتاب «در جستجوی زمان ازدست رفته» است. گریخته یک برگشت خوب و قابل قبول است خصوصا 100 صفحه ابتدایی که روایت هجران راوی ست.
به صفحات پایانی در جستجو نزدیک می شویم
پس از اسیر که به نظر من افتی در کتاب «در جستجوی زمان ازدست رفته» است. گریخته یک برگشت خوب و قابل قبول است خصوصا 100 صفحه ابتدایی که روایت هجران راوی ست.
به صفحات پایانی در جستجو نزدیک می شویم
March 11, 2020
در این جهانی که همه چیز می فرساید و می پوسد، آنی که از همه کامل تر فرو می ریزد و خاک می شود، و از آن حتی کمتر از زیبایی اثری می ماند غصه است.
September 25, 2022
If you end up simultaneously reading book 6 of A la recherche du temps perdu and watching series 6 of Engrenages, what can you do but write:
Celebrity Death Match Special: Marcel Proust versus Caroline Proust
Le bureau de LAURE BERTHAUD. LAURE, HERVILLE, GILOU, TINTIN. Ils regardent un livre.
LAURE: Putain ! Mais c'est quoi ce bordel ?
HERVILLE: Albertine disparue. Le sixième livre de Marcel Proust.
LAURE: Et en quoi ça nous regarde ?
HERVILLE: Vous ne trouvez pas la mort d'Albertine un peu—
GILOU: Albertine ? Sa gonzesse ?
HERVILLE: Oui. Morte « jetée par son cheval contre un arbre ». Il écrit qu'il ne fait que pleurnicher toute la journée, mais—
LAURE: Mais ?
HERVILLE: Je crois qu'il tourne la page bien vite.
LAURE: Ça veut dire quoi, patron ?
HERVILLE: Bof—
TINTIN: Il baise sa meilleure amie. L'italienne aussi. Cette histoire de détournement de mineur—
LAURE: Alors, bref, c'est possible qu'il a buté sa meuf ?
HERVILLE: Qu'en penses-tu ?
LAURE: Moi je n'en sais rien, j'ai pas lu. C'est comment ce roman ?
TINTIN: Tu veux savoir ce qu'il en écrit lui-même ?
LAURE: Vas-y.
TINTIN: Ces phrases de mon article, lorsque je les écrivis, étaient si pâles auprès de ma pensée, si compliquées et opaques auprès de ma vision harmonieuse et transparente, si pleines de lacunes que je n'étais pas arrivé à remplir, que leur lecture était pour moi une souffrance, elles n'avaient fait qu'accentuer en moi le sentiment de mon impuissance et de mon manque incurable de talent. Mais maintenant, en m'efforçant d'être lecteur, si je me déchargeais sur les autres du devoir douloureux de me juger, je réussissais du moins à faire table rase de ce que j'avais voulu faire en lisant ce que j'avais fait. Je lisais l'article en m'efforçant de me persuader qu'il était d'un autre. Alors toutes mes images, toutes mes réflexions, toutes mes épithètes prises en elles-mêmes et sans le souvenir de l'échec qu'elles représentaient pour mes visées, me charmaient par leur éclat, leur ampleur, leur profondeur. Et quand je sentais une défaillance trop grande, me réfugiant dans l'âme du lecteur quelconque émerveillé, je me disais: «Bah! comment un lecteur peut-il s'apercevoir de cela, il manque quelque chose là, c'est possible. Mais, sapristi, s'ils ne sont pas contents! Il y a assez de jolies choses comme cela, plus qu'ils n'en ont l'habitude.»
LAURE: Tu te fous de ma gueule ?
HERVILLE: Traduit, pour lui c'est de la merde, pour nous autres c'est de l'or pure.
GILOU: A mon avis c'est plutôt l'inverse.
LAURE: Putain !
Winner: the application of Kantian epistemology to romantic relationships
Celebrity Death Match Special: Marcel Proust versus Caroline Proust
Le bureau de LAURE BERTHAUD. LAURE, HERVILLE, GILOU, TINTIN. Ils regardent un livre.
LAURE: Putain ! Mais c'est quoi ce bordel ?
HERVILLE: Albertine disparue. Le sixième livre de Marcel Proust.
LAURE: Et en quoi ça nous regarde ?
HERVILLE: Vous ne trouvez pas la mort d'Albertine un peu—
GILOU: Albertine ? Sa gonzesse ?
HERVILLE: Oui. Morte « jetée par son cheval contre un arbre ». Il écrit qu'il ne fait que pleurnicher toute la journée, mais—
LAURE: Mais ?
HERVILLE: Je crois qu'il tourne la page bien vite.
LAURE: Ça veut dire quoi, patron ?
HERVILLE: Bof—
TINTIN: Il baise sa meilleure amie. L'italienne aussi. Cette histoire de détournement de mineur—
LAURE: Alors, bref, c'est possible qu'il a buté sa meuf ?
HERVILLE: Qu'en penses-tu ?
LAURE: Moi je n'en sais rien, j'ai pas lu. C'est comment ce roman ?
TINTIN: Tu veux savoir ce qu'il en écrit lui-même ?
LAURE: Vas-y.
TINTIN: Ces phrases de mon article, lorsque je les écrivis, étaient si pâles auprès de ma pensée, si compliquées et opaques auprès de ma vision harmonieuse et transparente, si pleines de lacunes que je n'étais pas arrivé à remplir, que leur lecture était pour moi une souffrance, elles n'avaient fait qu'accentuer en moi le sentiment de mon impuissance et de mon manque incurable de talent. Mais maintenant, en m'efforçant d'être lecteur, si je me déchargeais sur les autres du devoir douloureux de me juger, je réussissais du moins à faire table rase de ce que j'avais voulu faire en lisant ce que j'avais fait. Je lisais l'article en m'efforçant de me persuader qu'il était d'un autre. Alors toutes mes images, toutes mes réflexions, toutes mes épithètes prises en elles-mêmes et sans le souvenir de l'échec qu'elles représentaient pour mes visées, me charmaient par leur éclat, leur ampleur, leur profondeur. Et quand je sentais une défaillance trop grande, me réfugiant dans l'âme du lecteur quelconque émerveillé, je me disais: «Bah! comment un lecteur peut-il s'apercevoir de cela, il manque quelque chose là, c'est possible. Mais, sapristi, s'ils ne sont pas contents! Il y a assez de jolies choses comme cela, plus qu'ils n'en ont l'habitude.»
LAURE: Tu te fous de ma gueule ?
HERVILLE: Traduit, pour lui c'est de la merde, pour nous autres c'est de l'or pure.
GILOU: A mon avis c'est plutôt l'inverse.
LAURE: Putain !
Winner: the application of Kantian epistemology to romantic relationships
November 20, 2018
kayıp zamanın izinde serisinin altıncı cildi, önceki ciltlerde başlangıcını, ilerleyişini, şiddetlenmesini izlediğimiz aşk hikayesinin sonuna odaklanıyor. bağlanma sürecinden sonra kopuş, kayıp ve yas. romanın özellikle ilk bölümü, serinin en yoğun-en güçlü-en güzel bölümlerinden biri. kahramanımız yokluğun, aşkla bağlı olduğu albertine’in yokluğunun yaşatacağı her duyguyu yaşıyor, bu duyguyla girişilebilecek tüm eylemlere girişiyor ve elbette sonradan bu duyguların, eylemlerin incelikli, derinlikli bir incelemesini sunuyor.
beklenmedik bir anda acıyla karşılaşmak, acıyı anlamaya çalışmak, bazen yüzleşme ve sonuna kadar acıyı yaşama-tüketme cesareti bazen kaçmak, acıdan kurtuluşun ya da tesellinin peşinde koşmak…bir kayıp-yas sürecinin tüm aşamalarından geçtikten sonra fiziksel olarak ayrı düştüğü albertine’den zihnen de kopuyor kahramanımız. bir süreç bitiyor, bir dönem kapanıyor hayatında ve sonra yeni bir dönem, nihayet kayıp zamanın izini süreceği dönem başlıyor.
kayıp zamanı arayış, arzudan, hazdan, acılardan, tüm duygulardan, mutluluktan, yalnızlıktan, aşktan, ayrılıktan hayatın yapısına-anlamına yönelmek demek kahramanımız için. yaşadığı deneyimden, edindiği bilgiden, gözlemlerinden, keşiflerinden sonra hayatının gerçeğini ortaya çıkarmaya çalışmak demek. kahramanımızdan çalışmasının son cildinde görüşmek üzere ayrılıyoruz.
beklenmedik bir anda acıyla karşılaşmak, acıyı anlamaya çalışmak, bazen yüzleşme ve sonuna kadar acıyı yaşama-tüketme cesareti bazen kaçmak, acıdan kurtuluşun ya da tesellinin peşinde koşmak…bir kayıp-yas sürecinin tüm aşamalarından geçtikten sonra fiziksel olarak ayrı düştüğü albertine’den zihnen de kopuyor kahramanımız. bir süreç bitiyor, bir dönem kapanıyor hayatında ve sonra yeni bir dönem, nihayet kayıp zamanın izini süreceği dönem başlıyor.
kayıp zamanı arayış, arzudan, hazdan, acılardan, tüm duygulardan, mutluluktan, yalnızlıktan, aşktan, ayrılıktan hayatın yapısına-anlamına yönelmek demek kahramanımız için. yaşadığı deneyimden, edindiği bilgiden, gözlemlerinden, keşiflerinden sonra hayatının gerçeğini ortaya çıkarmaya çalışmak demek. kahramanımızdan çalışmasının son cildinde görüşmek üzere ayrılıyoruz.
May 10, 2020
La perdita, l'oblio, l'adorazione del ricordo che, con l'avanzare del tempo, sbiadisce sino a divenir dimenticanza. L'amore cercato ormai solo tra le memorie che, sfuggenti, si destano nei momenti più impensati, sollecitate da eventi fortuito. Un monumento al ricordo di un amore che s'alterna in un susseguirsi di tristezza, disperazione, egoismo puro, mera celebrazione di sé attraverso il riflesso del sentimento vissuto. Una prosa stilisticamente soffusa, profonda, sublime come solo la prosa di Proust sa essere.
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November 13, 2018Still thinking about how to begin the review of this volume in which the narrator finally gets to travel to Venice...
Meantime, here's Proust in Venice in 1900, still thinking about how to begin the Recherche...
Meantime, here's Proust in Venice in 1900, still thinking about how to begin the Recherche...
July 6, 2018
جانها در فضا همانند بدن ها در فضا در حرکت اند.
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و در واقع آیا میان تو و زنی که دیگر دوست نداری و پس از سالها دوباره می بینی،به همان اندازه مرگ حایل نمی شود که میان تو و او اگر از دنیا رفته بود،زیرا چون دیگر عشقی میانتان نیست اوی آن زمانها یا خود توی آن زمانها دیگر مرده اید؟
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قلبی بیش نبودم که می تپید.
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مارسل پروست
فارسی مهدی سحابی
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و در واقع آیا میان تو و زنی که دیگر دوست نداری و پس از سالها دوباره می بینی،به همان اندازه مرگ حایل نمی شود که میان تو و او اگر از دنیا رفته بود،زیرا چون دیگر عشقی میانتان نیست اوی آن زمانها یا خود توی آن زمانها دیگر مرده اید؟
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قلبی بیش نبودم که می تپید.
.
.
مارسل پروست
فارسی مهدی سحابی
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