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When one finds the bottom of a barrel being energetically scraped, it is proof, at least, that whatever was once floating on the top must have been very delicious indeed. What comes after is mostly academic commentary. But with the biography, the letters, and the journals long in the rearview mirror, the popular secondary works on Proust continue to appear in manic numbers, essays in love writer de botton crossword clue.
Anything Proustian, it seems, gets published now. Not long ago, we were given a book made up solely of his desperately polite, querulous letters to his upstairs neighbors in one of his last apartment buildings, on the Boulevard Haussmann, complaining about the noise—and sounding exactly like a classic S. Perelman casual.
The books are often illustrated with the intensity of religious tracts. In one, we are given a detailed diagram of the apartment with the cork-lined room where Proust spent his reclusive late years. Why some writers get this kind of attention—rooted in encompassing appetite rather than in mere admiration—and some do not is hard to know and interesting to contemplate. Chekhov, born a decade earlier, is a writer of similar stature, and his plays are genuinely popular.
But only specialists debate his translators, and there are no books delving into the originals of his characters, essays in love writer de botton crossword clue, or providing recipes for Chekhovian blini, or explaining how Chekhov can change your life, or presenting photographs of his intimates, essays in love writer de botton crossword clue.
Proust, by contrast, is a sort of improbable Belle Époque Tolkien, the maker of a world with passports and maps and secret codes, essays in love writer de botton crossword clue, to which many seek entry.
Proust, even after he essays in love writer de botton crossword clue the first volume of his great work, inwould not have seemed a natural for such a role. His terrain is, rather, the strangled loves and pains of a small, fashionable circle, with much of the novel spent with the narrator going back and forth to beach resorts and feeling things, and many more pages, particularly in the middle books, where he simply takes trains, feels jealous, then feels less jealous, then more.
The peripheral Proust may persist as part of our search for a skeleton key to all the others—a way inside. Then there is the Political Proust, the Jewish writer who diagrammed the fault line that the Dreyfus Affair first cracked in French society, and that the war pulled apart. The profound bits in Proust are the most commonplace, while the commonplace bits—the descriptions, the evocation of place, the characterizations, the jokes, the observations, and, most of all, the love stories—are the most profound.
His is the most militant tract of aestheticism ever attempted, and understanding why it has been the most successful at making converts is the key to all the other nested Prousts. None of them, essays in love writer de botton crossword clue, however, thought him much more than a dilettante. A timid, wealthy woman discovers that the thrilling love note she has received—which sets off a fantasy of making love to a soldier, complete with sword and spurs—was actually written by her closest woman friend.
Proust often used lesbian love as a way into writing about homoerotic desire, partly because the female kind was, if not socially acceptable, at least a standard source of aesthetic frisson, and partly because it gave him an acceptable distance from which to write about his own same-sex desires.
and Z. The joy of receiving your letter infinitely surpasses any I should have had at being published by the N. How I should like to be able to give someone I loved as much pleasure as you have given me.
The exchange underlines several aspects of Proust as a phenomenon. First, Proust landed on his contemporaries with something of the same revelatory shock that he delivers to us. Perhaps only the abrupt celebrity of Karl Ove Knausgaard has had the same effect in our time.
Essays in love writer de botton crossword clue made the metamorphosis? He found a voice by hearing his own. But the exchange with Gide also reminds us of a less high-minded truth: that Proust was part of the beau monde of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and that his enthusiasm for the high life—call it snobbery, as Gide did—was unmistakable.
Proust had conventional Parisian haute-bourgeois tastes of the time, from dinner in the Ritz garden to sexual frolics in the Right Bank brothels.
Proust front-loads his novel with his philosophy of time. One of the oddities is that its most famous incident happens within the first dozen pages, and is, nonetheless, isolated from the rest: the narrator Proustians haughtily resist identifying him with Essays in love writer de botton crossword clue himself, or referring to him as Marcel, though he obviously is eats the crumbs of a madeleine dipped in lime-blossom tea and is suddenly thrust back to his childhood at Combray.
The town was based on Illiers, an hour outside Paris, though in later volumes Proust quietly moved Combray much farther north and east, essays in love writer de botton crossword clue, so that it could participate in the battles of the Great War. His premise is that everything remains inside ourselves, including the past, not just in schematic outline but in its full sensory elaboration.
The little smells and sounds are in there along with the big traumas and events. On the contrary, the event is the result of an effortful process often met with failure:. Will it ultimately reach the clear surface of my consciousness, this memory, this old, dead moment which the magnetism of an identical moment has travelled so far to importune, to disturb, to essays in love writer de botton crossword clue up out of the very depths of my being?
I cannot tell, essays in love writer de botton crossword clue. Now I feel nothing; it has stopped, has perhaps sunk back into its darkness, from which who can say whether it will ever rise again? Ten times over I must essay the task, must lean down over the abyss.
And each time the cowardice that deters us from every difficult task, every important enterprise, has urged me to leave the thing alone, to drink my tea and to think merely of the worries of today and my hopes for tomorrow, which can be brooded over painlessly.
But the similarities are strictly limited. In any case, a great novel could be written that intimates and parallels Einstein, and a bad one could be written that intimates and parallels Einstein. We think that we are living in the world, he insists, when we are living only in our minds. Again, the first volume sets the template, oft repeated later. He is triangulated by his own intensities.
Jealousy, the key emotion in Proust, is self-generated; we go hunting for rumors or images of our beloved entangled with another, to refresh the pain that has become synonymous with love.
Our emotions move us right through a sequence of feelings, from the lightest to the darkest and back again, giving the illusion of walking in the park when we are merely once again touring the attic. And his intimates were often boys—sixteen and seventeen. We are vastly more tolerant of sexual difference today, but we police age differences far more aggressively. Yet there is nothing humanly unconvincing about Albertine as an invented woman, essays in love writer de botton crossword clue, or about the ring of girls on the beach as girls.
Yet, whatever defensive tap dancing past the police is at work here and Proust was arrested at least once in a male brothelthe portrait of male homosexuality is meant to be intricately humane. The idea of the man-woman is not a derogation of homosexuality but an explanation of its normalcy: people, being people, contain opposites within themselves.
It just is. We are all double in ourselves, he insisted—a formulation that he took from Montaigne, who he knew was part Jewish and who he may have thought was homosexual. There is, however, a tear within the Matrix. The disdain that Proust shows for lesbian lovers seems the one unresolved spot in his transpositions of desires. His lesbians are actually straight women who might seduce his own male lover, represented as a girl. Proust himself has a hard time keeping all the reflections in focus in this house of mirrors.
He is reported, with what truth it is hard to say, to have had a taste for sadistic sexual rituals—in one particularly grotesque account, bringing himself to climax by watching rats forced to fight with one another in his presence. Yet in the pages of his book the dramatized relationship between cruelty and tenderness is so constant that it is no surprise that one might become a mirror image of the other. In Proust, fetishized desires are not seen as intrusions into an otherwise healthy persona but as naturally paired within one.
It is entirely Proustian to imagine that the more kindness the more kink, the more appetite for delicacy the more desire for humiliation or fetishized savagery. In the last volume of the novel, Proust has his hyper-refined Baron de Charlus, after paying to be beaten in a brothel, protest that his punisher was not of sufficiently essays in love writer de botton crossword clue origins—not an authentic brute but only a pretend one. For Proust, there was no hypocrisy in the exquisite aesthete who wants to be roughed up or even in that of the family man who achieves climax by cursing his family a specific case known to him.
The truth of the battery is, for Proust, the truth of humankind; it must have two poles or it can carry no charge. Today, the most present of Prousts is, inevitably, a Political Proust. Proust, being both gay and Jewish, participated in the two dissident cultures that are at the heart of so much modernist art.
Proust, who, though the son of a Jewish woman, was raised in the Catholic Church, was astonishingly courageous during the Dreyfus Affair.
He had no personal incentive to take such an outspoken stand, and he could win no points with the leftist opposition, since he was regarded as a comically marginal figure by the people he admired.
Taylor insists that this was a genuine act of pure principle. Proust recognized the injustice and found it intolerable. Proust was not one of them. He began to think of himself as a republican intellectual, a citizen with a pen and a conscience, as much as the aesthete he had been, essays in love writer de botton crossword clue. Yet all other Prousts turn back, finally, to the Poetic Proust. We hear him clearly on the Milstein album; in the Saint-Saëns melody, we recognize at once the world Proust has conjured, its violet pangs and waves of emotion.
Coming after the romance of the adults, it recapitulates all of its themes, though in a tenderly comic register:. Doubtless the various reasons which made me so impatient to see her would have appeared less urgent to a grown man. As life goes on, we acquire such adroitness in the cultivation of our pleasures, that we content ourselves with the pleasure we derive from thinking of a woman, as I thought of Gilberte, without troubling ourselves to ascertain whether the image corresponds to the reality.
But at the period when I was in love with Gilberte, I still believed that Love did really exist outside ourselves. The book dispels this illusion of love, only after having first realized it perfectly here.
It is a tonal triumph. Proust has been called a novelist of manners, meaning a student of mores, of social rituals, but he is also a novelist of manners in another sense, a writer to whom courtesy is of exceptionally, almost supremely, high value. This pattern of French manners, so different from the British upper-class habit of creating maximum awkwardness to display status, is not cosmeticized.
Come and have lunch. The most telling of the peripheral Prousts newly on hand might be found in that strange volume of letters to his upstairs neighbors translated by Daviswhere he filters his ornery neurasthenia through the sieve of good manners, constantly sending gifts and praise along with his complaints. One finds Proust here in pure, and necessarily comic, form.
For Proust, manners make humankind tolerable, as the one way to escape our own inevitable egotisms. We fall in love with ourselves, and the only way out is not through others—the standard ethical insistence—but through art, which connects us with others in a kind of psychic network of solipsisms.
They, too, have their story. There is happiness to be found in his fatalism. If Proust, for Updike in the God-haunted nineteen-fifties, was the last Christian essays in love writer de botton crossword clue, we may see him now in more secular terms, as a writer who, perversely, sought serenity not in detachment and self-removal but in attachment and reattachment—a monk within a metropolitan monastery.
Enjoy, emote, repeat, remember: there are worse essays in love writer de botton crossword clue for living. Adam Gopnika staff writer, has been contributing to The New Yorker since More: Marcel Proust Novelists Remembrance of Things Past Books Novels French Novelists Anthologies.
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