The Habit of Finding Life Interesting

Page: I have just finished Swann's Way.
Pages since last post: hard to tell exactly; I have been forced to switch from the Vintage edition to the Modern Library one. The ML is, however, a rather handsome 6 volume set.
Smugness: 100%
Books read since last post: Blackwell Companion to Mark Twain. (Well, if we're allowed work books ...)

Maillot jaune

Current page: Loitering betwixt and between Swann's Way and Within a Budding Grove
Pages read since last post: None
Running total of days reading Proust: 16
Other books read since last post: The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios by Yann Martel

Firstly, don't bother with the Martel. Some interesting ideas for short stories but written whilst a student... and believe me, it shows.

Secondly, and the main point of this post, some decisions regarding regulation of Proust-reading have been decided upon, by email correspondence, sadly, not on this blog. I will therefore summarise.

1. Upon the completion of a volume, the individual will pause in his search of lost time, to allow the others to catch up.
2. Proust-reading will then recommence, hopefully in synchrony, one month after the first completion (i.e. 8th November for Budding Grove), unless the remaining individuals finish sooner, in which case the new volume can begin sooner. The start date is very much a movable feast, however, providing all parties are in agreement.
3. The tally of days spent reading Proust for each individual will therefore be halted upon completion of a volume, and restarted on the new commencement date.

These rules should thus give the most accurate quantification of one's efficiency of Proust consumption, will maintain coherence in the blog and allow for gentlemanly breaks in Proust for the reading of more frivolous material, which is a good thing, providing one doesn't select the early short stories of a one-hit-wonder Booker Prize winner.

In search of a tight forward-moving plot...

Current page: Swann's Way 513 (last page)
Pages read since last post: 273
Other books read since last post: Living Without Oxygen (Closed and Open Systems in Hypoxia Tolerance) by Peter Hochachka

I am, I feel, entitled to a measured amount of smugness in having finished Swann's Way this morning at ~ 8.45 just as the bus deposited me on Silver Street on my way into work. I now feel vindicated in having forced my way through Swann in Love on Saturday, and am pleased to report that the odd, little final section recaptures, to some extent, the glories of Combray (albeit in Paris this time around). There are also hints at some of the themes of Swann in Love, as the protagonist develops an infatuation with the indifferent daughter of Swann and Odette. The analogy of Marcel as Swann, Gilberte as Odette, and the children playing in the parks of the Champs Elysees as the salon society of the previous section is very obvious, yet surprisingly it does knit the book together rather better than I'd expected. It is hard, however, to see exactly where this is all going to go from here. We have been assured, as M. Garrood has pointed out, of a tight forward-moving plot from the novel as a whole, and some of the amazon.co.uk reviews for volume 2 hint that it lies therein.

I have now purchased Within a Budding Grove (from Waterstones Cambridge), and am poised to begin. In the interest of long-term progress, however, I may adopt a policy of punctuating my completion of each volume with something shorter and more frivolous, by way of reward. I have a limited selection available, due to the extremely gradual nature of my relocation from Oxford, however I may try out Yann Martel's curiously-titled collection of pre-Life of Pi short stories - The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios - a Hay-on-Wye purchase of some years ago... quite possibly on that very most famous of stag weekends.

Second Life

Current Page: 175
Other books read: 1 (Alan Bennett, The Uncommon Reader)
Books about to be purchased today at second-hand book sale near here: Think Hay-on-Wye proportions.

If my first post comes a little late, it must surely be out of shame: I am languishing in 3^rd place with a very paltry amount of reading done to date. I am barely two thirds of the way through Combray, but I am now on my Fall Break, so prepare to be overtaken! And yet, it seems strangely appropriate to be taking my time over this book. So far, I found the cake section the least interesting, and I can’t help but say (with one of Alan Bennett’s characters) that it might work with Fuller’s cakes, but not with madeleines. What I do love, though, is Proust’s manifesto on reading around p. 100, and his description of how the novelist’s “happy discovery was to think of substituting for those opaque sections, impenetrable to the human soul, their equivalent in immaterial sections, things, that is, which one’s soul can assimilate”. Bennett’s own novella (a good antidote to the length of ALRDTP) puts it so much better, though: “Books are not about passing the time. They’re about other lives.” In this respect, reading Proust seems like a more interesting version of Second Life (only our avatar here is an asthmatic Frenchman).

I am fast approaching the point of my furthest prior explorations into ALRDTP, so I am looking forward to Swann in Love, even if it has not received entirely favorable reviews from Monsieur G.

In lieu of actually reading, though, I have thought of a future project: The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. What do you think?

"bores"

Current page: 366
Pages read since last post: 142
Other books read since last post: 1 (Alan Dean Foster, Clash of the Titans) & 2 halves (A history of Morocco; Roth, My life as a man)

Swann in love is really quite tedious. I cheerfully rambled through Combray, which I thought was simply lovely, even though, as we have cheerfully observed, nothing happens. However, this second section is proving a seriously debilitating slog. I have been ill for the last few days which had impeded my ability to move at any pace, but mostly, it is the tedious antics of the Verdurins. I know they are supposed to be petty minded and absurd, but do we really need 235 hundred pages (the length of many of many many good and great novels) to tell us this? We've definitely got it by now and there are a hundred pages to go, though there is doubtless some key plot to come for the inside cover assures me that the novel has a "tight, forward-moving plot" - I don't think it will be a surprise. I'm going to restrain myself on the troubles of believability of the section, which I just just find (so far) bizarre and rest content in the knowledge that I've got the bugger down to less than 100 pages to go for this section.

I'm putting my order for the second volume on hold

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