Du temps perdu, perdu

Days reading Proust: 30 (ish)
Page: 450 (WABG)
Pages Read Since Last Post: 946
Books Read Since Last Post: Swann's Way, The Princess Bride

Belated greetings from a fellow traveller down the way of Swann. I shall summarise my position briefly.

Having started Swann's Way once earlier this year I went into this with my eyes open, but even so I have been surprised at how slow, not to say soporific, the task at hand can be. I have lost count of the number of times I have come to, Proust in hand, confused and unaware I had even drifted off. Fortunately I have not yet done so on public transport.

However, I have become firmly convinced that the endeavour is worthwhile. Currently three quarters of the way through Budding Grove, I am struck by the fact that since not much happens but is described in (occasionally excruciating) detail, the reader builds up a kind of false memory of the narrator's experiences. Quite bizarre but not something I have ever experienced in a book before (and possibly quite difficult to explain, for which apologies).

Although I fear my own writing style has begun to suffer from the disease which appeared to afflict M. Proust, to whit the regressive comma, the only known cure for which is a cold shower, a stiff brandy, and a large helping of Hemingway, that grizzled old sea salt dog, whose terse stylistics so changed us, indeed the very face of literature, forever.

And breathe.

After Swann's Way I had to take a palate cleanser of The Princess Bride. Highly recommended, both for this purpose and in its own right.

Then straight back into Budding Grove, which I have found to be both much slower going than the first volume and much faster, the cameos in the dining room in particular have flown by. The illusion of things actually happening seems to do the trick for me; it has now been some time since I have had to put the book from me in exasperation at the narrator's apparently infinite ability to think about things too much.

And perhaps those moments in the book are only so unbearable because I recognise parts of myself in there...

Although since starting this post some days ago I have in fact lost my copy of Within a Budding Grove (worn and dog-eared as it was starting to get) and so will have to buy another one if I am to finish by year's end. I feel it would be somehow inappropriate to appropriate a fellow Proustonaut's copy for my own ends.

Forcing the pace

Books Read Since Last Post: 13


W. Dalrymple, The Last Mughal: The Fall of a Dynasty, Delhi, 1857
K. Desai, The inheritance of loss
R. Gunesekera, Monkfish Moon
_____ The Sandglass
E. Gibbon, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, vol.4
M.M. Kaye, The Far Pavilions
R. Knox, A historical account of captivity in Ceylon
C. Muller, The Jam Fruit Tree
V.S. Naipaul, In a Free State
_____ A bend in the river
_____ An area of darkness
M. Ondaatje, Running in the Family
R. Prawer Jhabvala, In Search of Love and Beauty


Not a long post. Just to update on my reading while away. The standouts for me were Gibbbon (who is as good as he is meant to be, though in many ways superceded), Dalrymple and Genesekara's Monkfish moon. All excellent. I was disappointed by Desai and Naipaul, especially An area of darkness.


I sense an impasse developing on the progress of vol 2; so I suggest that we aim to all be wrapped up by Christmas, and recommence on New Year's day. I can think of no better book to read hungover and on limited sleep than Proust....

Can I also suggest we discipline ourselves to post at least every 3 weeks on progress thereafter, even if none has been made.

AWOL

Page: 209 (out of 743).
Pages Read Since Last Post: 209
Books Read Since Last Post: (3). A. R. Burn, Penguin History of Greece, Melville, Billy Budd, Hermione Lee, Virginia Woolf’s Nose, & various Dilbert books)

Gentlemen,

My apologies for my prolonged absence from the blog. If only it signaled that I was deeply engrossed in WABG, but alas it merely signifies the fact that I’ve been making pretty slow progress through it too. I’m not sure if the true Proust experience can be obtained a few pages at a time, but there’s little option right now.

I had been hoping to make some pretty impressive progressive over Thanksgiving, but instead I have been grading papers and attending antique fairs. Middle age has apparently struck early, but I’m loving every minute of it.

I know we’re not supposed to declare work books, but I would thoroughly recommend Lee’s splendid book on biography (which, at 115 pages or so, has much to recommend it to people on the Proust quest). Proust even gets a mention there: Lee notes that Claire Tomalin’s biography of Pepys compares the two figures a lot. I must confess that Proust could well do with some Pepysian escapades, and I was hopeful when Bloch introduces the narrator to brothels, but nothing else has materialized so far.

I’m certain that my previous comment reveals my complete ignorance of what is yet to come in the novel, but I am rather enjoying reading a novel where the outcome remains something of a mystery.

I anticipate further slow progress until the end of the semester (only 2 weeks away).

Absence

Page: n/a
Pages read since last post: 0
Days elapsed reading Proust: 30 (23, 7)
Books read since last Post: 4 (R.W. Johnson, South Africa, C. Thubron, In Siberia, L.
MacNeice, Autumn Journal, J. Roth, The White Cities)

I remain smug, though less so this morning as I am freezing in my house while a may fixes my radiators. However, that will pass. I post to highlight two absences.

1) I am off to the Raj tomorrow, and will not be taking Proust with me. I return on the 3rd, ready for action. I am taking the opportunity to take a pile of Indian and Sri Lankan writing with me and will report back.

2) More seriously, if we can characterise my absence as with leave, Alexis must surely be without. For this blog must have posts or it will shrivel and die or loneliness, which, while a true Proustian sentiment, is not the point. I demand posting.

Since Proust I have also read a fine crop of books. With the exception of the Thubron (which was fine), all the above books are excellent. Roth and MacNeice are prticularly fine, though both lend themselves to reading in small sections rather than at once. Roth makes me want to go to the Midi as soon as possible and I am hastily rearranging my holidays for next year.

Reader's Block

Page: 104
Pages read since last post: 0
Days elapsed reading Proust: 32 (16, 16*)
Books read since last Post: 0 (unless the Observer Book of Space, which came free with yesterday's paper counts)

Aargh! What is my problem? I know it's good. I actually quite like it. There's just so bloody much of it and I can't get going, even though I want to.

I'm now (at least) in 2nd place overall, and have taken as many days to read near enough to bugger all of volume 2 as it took me to knock off the entirety of Swann's Way. The extent of my proustcrastination even dictates that I should be preferentially blogging the fact I haven't touched it over the past weekend to actually reading the damn thing... although I think I deserve some kind of acknowledgement of bravery for posting the first mid-volume 0 page blog.

It's fast becoming hopeless. We all knew there'd be moments of hesitation, doubt and self-loathing - but only 600 pages in?!?! That's a little under one fifth of the whole novel. What's a boy to do? And still, that pink portrait of Proust perpetually gazes down on me from the bookshelf as I sleep, as I stir, as I lie awake at night thinking of all the other books I could be reading... Help me! Someone, anyone, HELP ME!

P.S. Proust tribulations aside it's been a splendid autumn weekend here on the Fens. I saw a corking firework display at Ely Cathedral on Saturday night and had a lovely dinner with friends afterwards. I even got my ironing done yesterday afternoon whilst listening to the dramatisation of Dr Zhivago on Radio 4 (with dodgy regional British accents). All very pleasant.

Stuttering

Page: 104
Pages read since last post: 104
Days elapsed reading Proust: 29 (16, 13*)
Books read since last Post: 3 (Jan Morris, Hav; Haruki Murakami (ed.), Birthday Stories; Woody Allen, Mere Anarchy)

I write this on the eve of my surrendering an outright share of the lead to M. Garrood. I am relaxed about this.

My ever so slow start to Volume 2 is even slower than is immediately apparent since at least 75 pages were knocked off on an Easyjet flight home from Munich. I attribute this inactivity to a number of causes.

Firstly, it was clearly a mistake purchasing all 5 remaining volumes en masse. Instead of monitoring my progress through a single volume and thus maintaining momentum, I can only see my meagre progress in terms of the entire novel. The edition we are using displays a rather glowering portrait of Proust tugging on the lapels of his jacket along the spines of the volumes when placed adjacent to each other and in the correct order. I have, thus far, not even reached the great man's kneecap - his splendid whiskers remain nearly two volumes away!

Secondly, I have recently moved job, sold a flat, bought a house, contemplated the move, made several trips back to Oxford and generally felt rather unsettled in my life. Scant opportunity therefore for idling away the hours with ALRDTP.

Thirdly, I have been distracted by some fairly wonderful and crucially, shorter, other books. Morris is a national treasure, and Hav is one of her most glorious books - every bit as enthralling as her other travel books on Venice, Oxford and the ascent of Everest, but all the more remarkable, given Hav is an entirely fictional place. Birthday Stories is a mixed bag, but an interesting enough one. Mere Anarchy, whilst lacking some of the punch of his earlier prose collections, is a worthy product of Allen's genius for the surreal, bizarre and generally absurd.

So, the plan. I will take M. Garrood's advice, I think, and devote a chunk of this weekend to allowing myself to be swallowed up by the prose. I agree, by the way, that this volume is superior to much of volume 1, which makes my inability to read it even more frustrating. Hopefully I can break the back of it this weekend, and perhaps hold on for a 2nd place finish. If not, I will remain in lethargy, knowing at least, by way of consolation, that Proust would almost certainly approve.

Smugness

Page: 618
Pages read since last post: 338
Days elapsed reading Proust: 30 (23, 7)
Books read since last Post: 4 (A. Oz, My Michael; R. Harris, Pompei; R. Kapuscinski, The Emperor; A. Steinsaltz, The Essential Talmud)

I finished on Friday (I've been in Wales since and no Internet there). I am now very smug. I'm even more smug given I have also managed to polish off several other books this weekend. I haven't done a great deal else to be fair. While Budding Grove didn't quite sustain the high notes of the first section, it is still magical. The section on Balbec (actually sections, as it doesn't have the same unity as the Paris section) is still enchanting, though more variable. The emergence of ancillary characters is a joy to behold. I'm not sure how much we see of Bloch, Saint Loup and the various girls around Albertine in future, but it was a pleasure to see them this time. Albertine herself is a little annoying, as is (increasingly) the narrator. And, while this bodes badly for the rest of the books, it doesn't spoil this one.

In other news, The Emperor is astounding (if odd) and I have been seduced by My Michael, though I'm still not quite convinced. Robert Harris does what he always does well, but it's a bit cartoonish, while Steinsaltz on the Talmud overcomplicates the task before him.

I'm in India in a fortnight, and not back till the 3rd Dec. I suggest we extend our start date for volume 3 to the 4th Dec. I am happy to postpone it to the New Year.