Rating: 
Summary: Number 53--pourquois pas?
Review: Yes, one more review of this monster, only because I have some different views on a few of its features. But first, to reinforce what others have written, it's a tremendously satisfying read. I read it twenty years ago and am now almost finished for the second time. I picked it up again because I was so tired of flailing around looking for something worthwhile to read--with all the jillions of books out there, the number of truly rewarding ones is remarkably small.But it's amazing how different the experience is the second time around. The first time, I was so completely enchanted by the style alone, and gave my concentration to it so completely, that I missed a lot of the "story" (if it could be said to have one). Now I'm beginning to think that that is part of Proust's enormous joke on the reader. Here is a narrator who succeeds wonderfully in rendering every character in his story--every character, that is, except himself. Even his girlfriends--given what we now know about Proust's having modelled them after men he was obsessed with--come across as quite believable females, even if they are a bit hazy around the edges compared with, say, the vibrant and robust portrait of Robert de Saint-Loup that fairly leaps from the page. And in Mme Verdurin and Baron de Charlus he creates two of the great characters--the great people--of all literature. But he fails to create a believable person in his narrator! For despite the narrator's claims that his company is ardently and constantly sought by everyone from soldiers in their barracks to dukes and duchesses in their drawing rooms, he never--NEVER, in the course of thousands of pages--gives us one instance of his wit or charm when interacting with others. In fact, he impresses one as a rather repulsive little creep, neurotic and neurasthenic in the extreme, and rather cruel. This is not to say that he fails to be witty and charming as a narrator--far from it. First of all, there are the marvelous characters mentioned above. And if the reader can somehow weather the tedious, meticulous, seemingly endless analyses of his "love" for Gilberte and, even more remorselessly, for Albertine, one encounters passages of great lyric beauty, sentences that are entrancingly serpentine, metaphors stunningly original and transitions masterfully seamless.
Rating:
Summary: Truth and Reality
Review: I first picked up the first volume way back in 1987, and now (2001, Oct), I finally finished the entire works. In the last book ("Time Regained") Proust lucidly laid out his philosophy of Truth and Reality. In doing so, he contrasted the traditional Plato's sense of objective-reality as "things in themselves", Truth as a notion independent of any human observation, to what will be the precursor of Modern Analytic Philosophy (of latter Wittgenstein's and American Pragmatism) in which reality and truth are defined as "things that are experienced". For Proust, reality and truth are embedded in the way we remember the past. What makes the church in Combray real, is my rememberance of it, and all of my sensation, emotion, and feeling that comes with that memory. This is an extremely radical view of reality and truth for his time, since it amounts to say that truth and reality are subjective, not objective. Proust, however, wanted to go further that this. He made the connection between reality/truth and arts. For him, arts is a unique way of remembering and experiencing the past. Only by remembering and conjuring all of your past memory of the past, can arts be borned.
Rating:
Summary: Time....again
Review: The greatness of this book in my belief is not anything having to do with the title. The French title In Search of Lost Time refers to Marcel's endeavor to recapture a lost past. Strictly speaking all great fiction does this. Proust's memory does prove important but it is not his theory of perfectly recapturing the past which makes for a sumptuous read but his effort to do so which is quite a different thing. Proust reimagines things in a way they could not possibly have occurred. He imagines a thing in the way a child dreams a thing. The fact is that a child usually finds his imaginings are far better than anything the world suggests. Proust chose to believe differently and thats fine with me because what he imagines his past to have been like is something I believe no one has ever lived. To my ears his theory of recapturing time is just a necessary illusion for creating great fiction. And he does that. The first book of this multi volume set is the story of Swanns love affair with Odette told in such a way that we all know that this is a modern fiction writer who is writing a modern piece of fiction with as much self consciousness as Manet had when he painted Luncheon on the Grass. Later in this grand and intricately woven set of novellas we find Marcel at the Opera. And we find him enjoying this Opera in the way only a Flaubertian student of fiction enjoys fiction. Don't be fooled but don't miss the pleasures afforded in time spent here. This was the decadent era after all and authors were given free reign to invent. He writes like a Prince. Of that you need no proof of lineage. Buy this because nothing else like it exists. It is a document, though forged by a romanticist, of turn of the century France. Everything here is superbly written and entirely fake. Why do people write fiction? To make things right in the second draft.
Rating:
Summary: I love this book
Review: It seems to be tempting to write long, complex reviews on a la recherche. Proust was asking for it I suppose. In short: Brilliant But why? For sentences that last for ever. For being forced to read about people never wanted to read anything about, but still you read on. For meandering thoughts. For wanting to shout at the pages: Get a life, but this is life I suppose. For reading in the garden, in bed, on the beach, in a park, anywhere wihout being able to stop. For being annoyed with the constant whimpering of the narrator (thank God he is not my patient, I might .... him.) For...................
Rating:
Summary: Brilliant psychological detail
Review: If you're here reading this review, then you're presumably thinking of reading Proust. Given that, you also probably know that it's supposed to be one of the greatest works of literature ever written, an opinion I happen to agree with. But what makes it so great? And should you give it a try? To answer the first part, while different people will find different things, what I enjoy most is Proust's tremendous psychological insight, and his ability to move from the specific to the general. The work is full of small events which Proust uses as springboards to illustrate general characteristics, many of which you will read with the shock of recognition that true insight provides. And Proust tackles the big questions: love, art, and memory are all major themes, just to pick the most notable examples. But it is not all heavy, serious drudgery. Proust is also a very funny writer, and there are large sections which show a wonderful comedy of manners or social satire. So should you try it? I would definitely recommend it, with a few caveats. First, while I think his reputation is a bit overblown, Proust can be a difficult writer. The biggest hurdle is his style; he writes very long, involved sentences that pile clauses upon clauses. But given this length and intricacy, it is remarkable how clear Proust's prose actually is. Only very rarely will you have to stop and recatch the drift of a sentence. And when that happens, it's usually because your attention has wandered, not because of any inherent opaqueness. And after you become accustomed to it, Proust's writing style becomes one of the charms of the work, immersing you in a different world every time you pick up the books. It is also unfortunate in a way that probably the most difficult section of the book is the very first, "Combray." However, even if you find that tough going, things pick up with the second section, "Swann in Love." (Although it is never a page turner in the usual sense.) And if you can read and enjoy the first 50 pages, then you can make it through the whole thing. The length also puts many prospective readers off, but I wouldn't worry about that so much. The total cast of characters is relatively large, but not huge, and they are so well presented and disntinctive that I never had any trouble keeping them straight. And because the work is not driven by details of the plot, it can be set down and picked up a little later without losing much, if your motivation lags. (This is a last point to keep in mind: the work will not carry you along with the plot or keep you guessing about what will happen. Instead, it will captivate you with the detail and insight it brings to present the everyday occurences of life.) Obviously, there's much more I could write, but hopefully this will give you some idea of the work and whether you would like it, which is what a review is all about...
Rating:
Summary: Word painting
Review: It's hard not to gush about this book, but I'll try. There's are many things that this books does, almost all of them well (my one caveat are the town name etymology discussions); I'll limit myself to two: (1) describing the indescribable - it is easy to say that some things about emotion and sensation simply cannot be put into words; while this is certainly true, Proust shows that a lot more can be put faithfully into words than you would have imagined, (2) shock of recognition - the things you think to yourself at times when you have a lot to think about and the solitude and time necessary to think them are here--I'll just leave it at that. Very shortly, this book is a world within the world, and there is nothing else like it. Reading this book is time well spent regardless of how long it takes you to do it.
Rating: 
Summary: 3 stars, but itÕs not MarcelÕs fault
Review: Before we are going to lose ourselves in superlatives, a few pointers might be in place: (1) ProustÕs novel had been published this side of the turning century and therefore it counts as FranceÕs contribution to the modernist movement of the 20th century. It is not. It still belongs to the Victorian three deckers of the 19th century, in a class with Tolstoy and Eliot, the English novelist, whom Proust admired most. (2) When going through Jean-Yves TadiŽÕs monumental biography of Marcel Proust I found little evidence that Proust actually cared very much for Montaigne. Given his time and curriculum it stands to reason that Montaigne had been a must read, too familiar to fuss about. But with both, I feel the same warm hospitality oozing from the pages, just to sit down for a good gossipy read. (3) This is a French novelist, with a French education, a French perspective on things, a French sensibility, and a French delight in surrounding absolutely everything in an iridescent halo of words. And by the way! Should you ever try to read the thing in one go, make sure you have plenty of leisure. Sell your telly and donÕt go to the movies; keep your sex life to a minimum. And should you not speak French, you have a problem. Against all appearances, ProustÕs Gallic, gently malicious wit, his belle esprit is really there, but in this translation it tramples along on heavy feet. My French too is not quite up to the task of reading Proust the way he should be read, so like many I depend on MoncrieffÕs translation -- there is only his, in several editorial revamps, none of which has much to speak for itself. For instance we read in ÒSwannÕs Way:Ó Ò... a reflection of the sunlight had contrived to slip in on its golden wings, remaining motionless, between glass and woodwork, in a corner like a butterfly poised upon a flower.Ó This is Victorian imitation kitsch. And what did Proust write? Ò... a reflection of the sunlight had made its yellow wings slip in and remained motionless, between glass and woodwork, in a corner, like a folded butterfly.Ó Less of cheap glitter, more sensuality. Am I nitpicking? Is this not a trifle of little consequence? Well, IÕm sorry, but if you really want to read Proust, this is the meat of the matter. Whatever else it might be, ProustÕs novel is a complete world in itself, projected and laid out in the most elaborate mosaic ever; and every little majolica shard counts. Every author creates his own pedigree, says Borges somewhere and Proust took great pains to establish a huge family tree that reaches down all the way to Rousseau and St.Augustine who provided the overall form for ProustÕs novel, the analytical confession. Most of us, especially in the translation, will miss out on all the little touches and mocking voice imitations of countless French authors, nobody outside of France has ever heard of. Ventriloquism is an act of comedy and this element is surely lost. Personally I think of Proust, as a great French essayist. Try to forget for a moment that the ÒRechercheÓ comes as a novel: we would still be left with a whole plethora of essayistic genres: character sketches, explorations into the world of plant and beast, meditations on sexuality and the nature of time, all of which could exist independently of its context. Another French, Emile Zola I believe, characterized art as Ònature seen through a temperament,Ó and Proust exactly fits the description. Sometimes we heard Proust insisting that his novel had the architecture of a Gothic cathedral -- which reminds me of a heated debate we students once had, whether it was possible to build a cathedral or the pyramids like bees construct their hives. I really donÕt know the answer, but I suspect ProustÕs cathedral might support the honey-comb theory. I mean once we get to the bottom of his multi-layered technique there is not much of a story left to go anywhere. James Joyce is one of the few authors in English who received an education very similar to Marcel ProustÕs, and even roughly at the same time. There was not much else the two had in common, ProustÕs family swam comfortably on the upper end of FranceÕs bourgeoisie, while JoyceÕs Irish parents were most of the time broke and struggling. But by and large he of all contemporaries certainly had the credentials to pass judgement; and he characterized ProustÕs sentences as Òpredictable.Ó Geniuses alone in their rarefied atmosphere -- lesser mortals like us, are not included. I for once, rather enjoy the surprises. And of course, Proust did create real characters, as real as anybody I know in the Òreal world,Ó but they seem not much to be doing, except for having pleasant conversations, frequent aristocratic dinner tables, fret over their latest crush and occasionally visit the museum. ThatÕs alright, most of us donÕt do much else, especially after retirement, but do we really need 3.000 pages to read about? Even Proust seems to agree that we donÕt, so he regales us to countless batches of his Gallic pastiches, and they are sure worth reading, though they lack the sinuous muscle of Voltaire. Proust can be flabby at times. But so did Montaigne and once you feel comfortable in your armchair, you donÕt really mind and just enjoy the hospitality. Ok, this might not be quite fair. Only the first two volumes had been published during ProustÕs own lifetime. These volumes in fact do show considerable unity and architecture. Proust was every publisherÕs nightmare and liked to edit copiously the galley proofs, who knows what this could have done to the other 4 volumes. As it is, we see a warehouse full of fluffy stuff, wrapped in plenty of scented cotton wool. But the chrysanthemums are really good.
Rating:
Summary: everyone's autobiography
Review: A star system doesn't work for Proust, any more than it would for Shakespeare. Both are too big, although in very different ways. I started reading SWANN'S WAY when I was twenty and thought it boring. I got through the first two volumes and quit. When I turned thirty-eight I felt a strong need to read it in its entirety; I wasn't sure why. It took two years but I finished it before I was forty and felt refreshed in a way I never had on completing any other book. I saw that I was ready to enter the stage of my life when memory transforms all current reality. I pursuaded my husband to give it a try, and although he only read the first four volumes, he called it "everyone's autobiography", a perfect description. Nothing that has ever been written compares with this long, extended daydream on memory, love, loss, and the transforming power of art. As a painter, I learned new ways to look. (Proust is the only fiction writer I've ever read who understands and can express what a painting can say.) Admittedly this very great book is not for everyone. Perhaps that's because it's so unlike other reading experiences. You have to read it with discipline and dedication, just as you approach meditation. More than twenty years have passed since I finished it. Now I am re-reading it. Time lost in one's own life transforms this masterpiece so that it offers up new treasures, new insights, and becomes a different book. It's an organic, living, unique work of art that goes far beyond praise.
Rating:
Summary: Marcel Proust in the new millenium
Review: To read a book as this one it is difficult to give any stars for it as per t is beyond this type of rating. Proust novel is a classic of the XXth century that will be read an analyze in years to come by scholars and ordinary people. The memories and emotions he describe are a forever constant in human life: love, hate, jeaslouly, passion, coldnest, time to forget and forgive. As the Master said "the time we encounter ourselves is when we forgive and we are forgiven" A masterpiece.
Rating:
Summary: Derivative; read Keane or Murasaki first...
Review: No man is an island, and Proust's masterpiece is informed by subjects as diverse as Krazy Kat, and, of course, the Master, Bill Keane. The character Swann is a not-too-thinly disgused, Francophone version of Billy. Albertine is the stand-in for Dolly, and Ida Know is of course Odette.
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