Longtemps, je me suis couché de bonne heure...

Swann's Way, Page 240.

Surprisingly easy going thus far. Granted, there has been precious little plot to speak of, but the Combray section seems to be regarded as a prelude to the novel. Am rather smug at the thought that I am about halfway through the first volume - though my fellow Proustians have yet to declare their hands - they may be halfway along the Guermantes Way by now, whilst I am still dawdling along past Swann's.

So, thus far, we have had the narrator tossing and turning in bed, waiting for a goodnight kiss from Mamma (~30 pages), lengthy descriptions of hawthorn bushes, encounters with various young girls, Great Aunt Leonie spying on the neighbours whilst drinking Vichy water and a curiously racy scene involving a couple of young ladies and a photograph of a deceased father. Also, the famous madeleines epsiode - recipe here, courtesy of Rick Stein.

The subject title of this post, incidentally, is rather predictably the first line of the novel, and has presented problems for translators due to Proust's distinctive use of the perfect tense. Several years ago, Penguin held a competition amongst readers to translate this famous first line - a notable entry, which may or may not have snatched the top prize, was “For absolutely bloody ages it was lights out early.”

Myself, I shall settle for "resting", like Aunt Leonie, and tackling the novel-within-a-novel that is Swann in Love.

The Search Begins...

Just 12 hours away from the Opening Ceremony. In a suitably Proustian fashion it should perhaps entail all the pomp and bombast involved with sitting in bed alone, dipping madeleines into lime blossom tea and contemplating the minutiae of life and time past... alternatively, and more probably for me, it will slip by unnoticed in the alcoholic blur of a late Friday evening following the latest installment of the Rugby WC 2007. Incidentally, the match this evening will be a titanic and apposite clash, as Proust's own nation pits itself against that of James Joyce. Fittingly, the match will be taking place in Paris - a city key in the publishing careers of both men. Neither of these sides have had a particularly impressive start to the tournament, so it remains to be seen whether Brian O'Driscoll and his men in green will Bloom at the big occasion, or whether Sebastien Chabal and Les Bleus will Swann onto the pitch and have their Way.

Well, since this will be my last pre-Proust blog I should summarise my final reading projects B.P.*. I successfully polished off Love in the Time of Cholera, which finally got going and redeemed itself at the close. I've only read two Garcia Marquez novels - the obvious two - and found that both dragged on somewhat. Since the passage of time was a major theme in both books, this is, perhaps, unsurprising. I may try his latest offering at some point - has something to do with whores doesn't it? Following Cholera, I motored through Penguins Stopped Play - a passionate tale dealing with the great themes of friendship, love, loss, death and the glory of a sweetly-timed cover drive. Good fun, and worth a read, but surpassed in the realms of amusing village cricket memoirs, I feel, by the very similar, yet ever so slightly funnier Fatty Batter. Next I knocked off Ian McEwan's latest - On Chesil Beach - in a couple of hours on Sunday morning - typical McEwan unpleasantness, and less good than most of his other books. Finally, I'm presently racing through Cormac McCarthy's The Road - Pulitzer Prize winner this year, and, more crucial for its sales figures one feels, a choice of the ever-so-odious Oprah's book club. Pretty good read though - a fable of a father and son travelling in a contemporary post-Apocalyptic world due to some unspecified natural disaster on a monstrous scale. Reminds me, a tad, of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, only without the motorcycles... or the zen for that matter... hmm, hard to put my finger on it really. Still, it's definitely worth a crack - short book and entertaining enough to pass a few hours.

So, there we have it. The Search for Lost Time begins at 11 p.m. fortunately my edition doesn't have one of those lengthy introductions from a well-respected academic, which I always feel obliged to read and get deeply irritated with after a few paragraphs. No, just the briefest of notes on the translation and we're off. Best of luck to my two fellow Proustians... let's contemplate a more considered closing ceremony for a few years hence. I suggest a collective visit to Pere LaChaise Cemetery to digest the last few pages of Time Regained and pay our respects to the Master, before retiring to a nearby cafe for madeleines and tea... or maybe something slightly stronger with which to watch Rugby WC 2011 .

Allez Les Rouges!

* Before Proust