PeacockeryÂ… Exclusive circles exist under the sign of swaggerÂ…
However, wishing to magnify themselves in the eyes of the princely or ducal families which are their immediate superiors, these aristocrats also know that they can do this only if they enhance their name with something extraneous to it, something which, other names being equal, will make theirs prevail: a political influence, a literary or artistic reputation, a large fortune.
Time runs, now the narrator is a hypochondriac, nervous and susceptible youth and he is a product of his milieu. He falls in love but his love is unrequited and his heart is broken. He finds a refuge by the sea and spends his days immersed in romantic daydreams and amorous fantasies.
The lovelorn live under the sign of sufferingÂ…
In love, happiness is an abnormal state, capable of instantly conferring on the pettiest-seeming incident, which can occur at any moment, a degree of gravity which in other circumstances it would never have. What makes one so happy is the presence of something unstable in the heart, something one contrives constantly to keep in a state of stability, and which one is hardly even aware of as long as it remains that. In fact, though, love secretes a permanent pain, which joy neutralizes in us, makes virtual and holds in abeyance; but at any moment, it can turn into torture, which is what would have happened long since, if one had not obtained what one desired.
Perusing the past Marcel Proust meticulously describes every minute detail so any insignificant trifle turns into an important and special thingÂ…
Theoretically we are aware that the earth is spinning, but in reality we do not notice it: the ground we walk on seems to be stationary and gives no cause for alarm. The same happens with Time. To make its passing perceptible, novelists have to turn the hands of the clock at dizzying speed, to make the reader live through ten, twenty, thirty years in two minutes. At the top of a page, we have been with a lover full of hope; at the foot of the following one, we see him again, already an octogenarian, hobbling his painful daily way round the courtyard of an old peopleÂ’s home, barely acknowledging greetings, remembering nothing of his past.
High society exists under the sign of hypocrisyÂ… They smile at each other sweetly and stab each other in the back.320 s3 comments Ahmad Sharabiani9,564 50

(Book 685 From 1001 Books) - À la recherche du temps perdu II: À l'ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs (À la recherche du temps perdu #2) = In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower (In Search of Lost Time, #2), Marcel Proust

Writing about this novel should be a separate book in itself. You do not know where to start, as if you want to describe the pyramids of "Egypt" stone by stone, and you really do not know how to deal with the storm of words, the glorious word is small for this novel. Far superior to the Gothic cathedrals, the opera's of Wagner, Beethoven, and all of the Expressionists. But what we learn most about this novel is that, the book is full of a concern, a concern called the fear of death, and the fear of dying, and not saying all the words that eat your mind. This may or may not be understandable to many people. That your brain is full of words, that knock themselves on this door and that wall, to get out, but they can not, they despise life, and devote themselves to an incredible imagination, with which nothing can be equal to it.

?? ?????? ???? ?? ??? ????? ???? ??? - ????? ????? (????) ??????? ????? ?????? ????? ??? ?????? ???1994??????

?????: ?? ?????? ???? ?? ??? ????? ???? ???: ?? ????? ? ???????? ?????? ???????: ????? ?????? ?????: ???? ?????? ?????? ??? ????? ???1372? ????9643052176? ??? ???? ???1385? ????? ????????? ????????? ?????? - ???20?

???? ????: «??? ???? ????»? ???? ???: «?? ???? ???????? ?????»? ???? ???: «??? ?????? ??»? ???? ?????: «??? ?????? ??»? ???? ????: «???? ? ?????»? ???? ??? «????»? ???? ???? «??????? ????? (??????)»? ???? ????: «???? ????????»?

????? ?? ???? ? ??? ????? ??? ???? ????? ??????? ????? ???????? ?? ??? ???? ????? ?? ???? ??????? ??? ?? ??? ????? «???» ??? ????? ??????? ? ????? ????????? ?? ????? ???? ?? ? ?????? ????? ?????? ????? ???? ? ??????? ???? ??? ????? ???? ???? ????? ?? ????? ???? ?? ??????? ???????? ???? «?????»? ??????? «?????»? «??????»? ? ???? «????????????»??? ??? ???? ??? ??? ?? ?? ???? ?? ??? ???? ?????????? ??? ???? ?? ????? ?? ?? ?????? ????? ???? ????? ?? ?? ??? «???? ?? ???»? ? «??? ?? ?????»? ? ????? ?? ??? ???? ?? ??? ??????? ?? ???????? ???? ???? ???? ?????? ??????? ???? ??? ?????? ? ????? ????? ?????? ?? ?? ???? ???? ????? ?? ?????? ??? ?? ??? ?? ? ?? ????? ???????? ?? ???? ????? ??? ?????????? ????? ??? ????? ????????? ? ??? ??? ??? ????? ???? ????? ? ?????????? ??????? ?? ??? ??? ??? ????? ?????? ?? ?? ????? ??????? ?????? ?? ?????? ??? ??? ?? ???????? ????????? ????? ??????? ?? ??? ?????? ????? ?????? ? ?? ??? ?? ???? ????? ?? ?????? ?? ????????? ????? ?? ?? ????? ???????? ????? ?????? ?? «??????????» ? «?????» ?????? ?? «????»? «?????»? «??????»? «?????»? «????» ? «????»? ? ...? ??????? ???? ?? ??????????? ?? ??????? ???? ? ????? ??? ???????? ?????? ?? ??????? ??????? «?? ??? ? ??? ???? ?? ??? ????»? ??? ?? ???? ??????????

????? ?????? ????? 01/11/1399???? ???????? 07/10/1400???? ???????? ?. ??????? Renato36 142

I've long debated with myself - and friends - the actual benefits of re-reading versus a fresh read of a new book. Would re-reading really bring me a considerable number of new reflections, ideas and opinions to add to the first impressions I've gathered on my first read? And wouldn't this time spent on this repeated task be better employed by reading a completely different book that would instead and therefore give me completely different reflections on different subjects I perhaps haven't touched yet? In short: would a re-read prove effective considering time spent and rewards obtained?

For being in the middle of a serious Proustmania - obsession, really - I decided to re-read all of the volumes of his Recherche, even having questioned so much and for so long the advantages of a re-read. Well, in addition to everything else which I'll address along this review, this rexperience came to show me that, for some books, a re-read is extremely beneficial - if not almost required -, especially in the case of a very long novel, with intricate plot, underlying motifs and interconnections that are impossible not only to absorb - but also to notice - on a first read.

"Thus it can be only after one has recognised, not without having had to feel one's way, the optical illusions of one's first impression that one can arrive at an exact knowledge of another person, supposing such knowledge to be ever possible. But it is not; for while our original impression of him undergoes correction, the person himself, not being an inanimate object, changes in himself, we think that we have caught him, he moves, and, when we imagine that at last we are seeing him clearly, it is only the old impressions which we had already formed of him that we have succeeded in making clearer, when they no longer represent him."
In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower starts off by addressing one of Proust's most important beliefs - and a theme that will recurrently permeate his narrative: that what we understand to be someone, how we perceive and describe them, expect them to be, are merely an effort of our own intelligence into molding all of the characteristics we've been shown and seen through our own perception into an sculpture we believe to be a fully functional person. In order to develop his point, it seems the second volume makes a case of confusing us: majestic Swann is described as someone of little prestige while buffoon Dr. Cottard is a must-have guest in any respectable dinner party. Surely the writer confused their names after such a long hiatus between volumes?


A l'ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs was only released in 1919, a good six years after the first volume was published due to the Great War. This time, however, Proust wasn't to pay for the publication costs and the book would even win the prestigious Prix Goncourt award, making him widely known and appreciated not only in France, but also across Europe.

The changes we observe in characters' reputations and actions are not exclusively confined to Swann and Dr. Cottard. Besides them, we also learn of M. Norpois and how his political views evolved over time. Just in the first twenty pages or so of this volume, the writer already sends us the clear message that people and their status are never set in stone and prepares us to a big roller-coaster ride when it comes to his characters (and that will last throughout all of the volumes). Proust's treatment of his personages feels a superposition of a multitude of layers constituted of their past beings with the addition of the most current state at that particular time, which, granted, is only at the surface for a brief period, shortly being covered by yet another fresh and new layer that is for its turn as expirable as the previous one. This constant shift is, of course, accompanied by his narrator's - and our own - which follows the same pattern and, with these ever changing subjects, arises a million possibilities as to what will happen every time a character reappears, thus making Proust's creations always exciting and never predictable.

In addition to the conditions mentioned above - of a person's own interior alterations and how our perception of those is in constant transformation as well - there is the question of change of reputation by association. Being someone respected and admired in the most prestigious and intimate circles of the Parisian society wasn't enough to keep Swann from having his esteem considerably downgraded after his marriage to Odette, those chemical elements that form a good substance while associated with hydrogen and are poisonous while in a chemical reaction with lead. Following this pattern, other characters will go up and down in the social scale depending on whom they're associated with, and also accompanying their respective ups and downs.

Just the characters change depending on the point of view they're being observed from - much the narrator's description of the Martinville steeples and their positions in relation to each other while on his car trip -, certain events on the plot also do so. Seemingly insignificant little moments - such as an insistent look from someone, a face expression, a phrase that appears to be innocently said in the midst of a longer dialogue or even a statement surrounded by a lengthy digression from the narrator that could be overlooked - retroactively take on a huge importance when analyzed from another perspective (even if that only comes 500 or 600 pages later) and one can't help to admire Proust's skillful incorporation of such "little details" that make his future events feel natural once they're fully developed, just as in life, where things certainly don't appear to us classified by importance - or even by the future importance they'll attain in our lives - and always in the right order. This is one of the characteristics that make his writing so organic and life and what, at the same time, may be perceived as boring for some readers.

Still on the subject of how an event from one volume is important and brought to life again on a subsequent volume, we continue to witness how the narrator is incapable to control his nervous impulses - an inability that was first exposed to us in the goodnight kiss drama from Swann's Way - and easily gives in to his impulses even though he's fully aware of the consequences. Only this time such matters are related to love: his ungovernable need to establish a love connection with Gilberte and to receive it back from her makes him go to such lengths and to scheme manipulations that could be easily attributed to a sociopath. Besides the aforementioned connection to the previous volume, these pages are also connected to a subsequent one, anticipating in hundreds of pages his behavior and conduct he's to develop later in another relationship.

But back to the concerned volume, while Charles Swann is no longer a renowned gentleman, he still greatly influences the narrator's life, as the falling gent seems to be the one who drives our hero to accomplish those that were mere dreams in his mind when it came to places he wanted to visit: it's because of Swann and his mention of how Bergotte (the narrator's favorite writer) admires Berma that our pupil develops his obsession with the theatre and the great actress; it's also Swann who invites him to enter the much anticipated Gilberte's world and her mother's salon life (his first one) and, to conclude the dream trinity, his trip to Balbec was rekindled in his desires after a comment made by Charles about the roman cathedral in that beach. While Swann's and the Guermantes ways were still separate paths to the narrator, it was through Swann that he was able to enter the Guermantes way, for was in Balbec (following Swann's recommendation) that he eventually met important characters that lived in that still obscure world. It is precisely because of this trip that the narrator embarked on that we can also call this volume a book of firsts: the first time he meets people from the Guermantes clan; the first time he meets the artist - Elstir - that will influence his life and art so much; and the first time he sees the young girls in flower. All events that might seem random plot directions but that, in the future, come together to form an unity.

After much longing in the first volume, the narrator finally makes a trip he's been anticipating for so long, and what a trip! Not only the change of scenery was a breath of fresh air, providing us a warm beach breeze, after the cloistered feeling that came from the first chapter (Madame Swann at Home), but this second part (Place-Names: The Place) depicts a major life changing experience: while I was reading this chapter for the second time, it hit me how much of the future developments comes from this single summer trip, one of those occasions in life where you stop and analyze what could've been if this or that event never happened, if you never went to such place or never met a certain person; you're left with no clue as to who you'd be if not for that, almost being born in a different time, country or family would make you a different person than you are now. In such a supple time in one's life - adolescence - where even going to a different school and bonding with other friends could design a different personality, imagine (and it really requires a powerful imagination to picture that) if you hadn't met three of the most important people - aside family - of your life. Aside the place and the people - or maybe because of them -, it's also at that time that the narrator stars playing with his theories and philosophies about life and art.

And now that I've mentioned 'art', I suppose it's time to talk about Elstir. Proust's brilliance in not only conceiving a fully realized painter - when he himself wasn't one - but also in developing and depicting his talents so precisely as if he actually existed impressed me so much. The way he described Elstir's painting talents is in complete relation with his own literary ones: while Proust makes use of involuntary memories (those sensations that are already in us, but that we can't recover through intelligence alone or we risk distorting them), Elstir makes use of involuntary first impressions (those visions that appear to us right before we make use of intelligence to recognize them properly and to fit them to a pattern); the difference being that Proust is revisiting a memory after it settled into his consciousness, and Elstir is painting a vision before it does so. Both artists try to isolate a singular true feeling, removing all rationalization that we've been programmed to attack with every unknown sensation that comes our way, our white blood cells fighting foreign invaders.

It seems Marcel Proust and James Joyce will remain forever linked in my mind - they who only met once and had never read each other's works (although Joyce later admitted he had read parts of Swann's Way), and who are so far apart in their writing techniques, but that to me stand so close, not just because I read them at the same time last year (and now continue to do so as I'm re-reading the Recherche and the James Joyce biography by Richard Ellmann), but also because, having stated before that I wasn't much of a visual person while reading - that is, I could never really form a fixed image of what the writer was describing, I wasn't able to build that room and enter it in my imagination, only blindly feel the sensations the words awakened in me - after reading Joyce's Dubliners, began to be a little more creative in that aspect. So another positive aspect of re-reading is that we're able to approach the same text while provided with new tools to delve into it that we've acquired ever since finishing it the first time. While I was re-reading this second volume, I could picture what Proust meant when he described not only the sea and the sun and the landscapes his narrator envisioned outside of his window, but also even Elstir's paintings, which only existed in his mind. And the whole section the narrator spent in the painter's atelier that bored me a bit on my first read for I could not envision any of the described images, now became gorgeous and alive as if he actually removed the white sheets that were covering them.

"And our dread of a future in which we must forego the sight of faces, the sound of voices that we love, friends from whom we derive today our keenest joys, this dread, far from being dissipated, is intensified, if to the grief of such a privation we reflect that there will be added what seems to us now in anticipation an even more cruel grief; not to feel it as a grief at all—to remain indifferent; for if that should occur, our ego would have changed, it would then be not merely the attractiveness of our family, our mistress, our friends that had ceased to environ us, but our affection for them; it would have been so completely eradicated from our heart, in which today it is a conspicuous element, that we should be able to enjoy that life apart from them the very thought of which today makes us recoil in horror; so that it would be in a real sense the death of ourselves, a death followed, it is true, by resurrection but in a different ego, the life, the love of which are beyond the reach of those elements of the existing ego that are doomed to die."
Taking this review a bit to the personal side, one of the reasons this volume specifically resonated so deeply with me was due to the developed theories about loss and forgetting that Proust attributed to his narrator when he was obsessing about the end of his love for Gilberte or even for Albertine, but that can generally be used in the context of getting over someone - even with whom no romantic link is involved - that's gone away. I've always had a little trouble with that future when someone that is now so important, so vital, so present in my daily activities, simply won't be missed because time - and habit - will have worked their magic in making me comfortable with the new situation. As paradoxical as it can be - suffering because of a future time where we won't be suffering and fearing to forget exactly that which we won't remember -, it feels an actual loss and it gets to me every time; whenever I changed schools, changed cities, changed jobs, I mourned about those friendships that I knew would cool down because of what would come from such situations.

I find it mesmerizing how Proust was able to write that in a work of fiction (of course there's a lot of himself here and the very ideas he's developed his entire life), but for someone not currently experiencing all the situations while writing his book, it's pretty impressive how he could take a moment to dissect just about every possible feeling so well. And when you find yourself - or rather a piece of you - so masterfully depicted in a work of art, being thoroughly analyzed, looked at from every possible angle, considering all hypothesis and implications, you can't help but to consider it a tool to mirror life and to understand yourself better and to highly value it.

Rating: for a volume that stands on its own and gets better on second read, without losing its initial charm, but becoming even more interesting, and therefore strengthening in my not only my decision, but also my will to keep re-reading: 5 stars.

-------

For my re-reading experience of the entire À la recherche du temps perdu:

Vol 1. Swann's Way: ????? review
Vol 2. In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower: ????? review
Vol 3. The Guermantes Way: review
Vol 4. Sodom and Gomorrah: review
Vol 5. La Prisonnière (The Captive): review
Vol 6. Albertine disparue (The Fugivite): review
Vol 7. Time Regained: review100-best-books-world-library 1001 2015 ...more151 s Warwick877 14.8k Read

The only book I've ever abandoned after the first sentence.

And what a sentence! But I'll come back to that. Let me first hasten to defend myself, to present my credentials, because I realise that Proust is held in such high esteem as to be almost beyond criticism – not in the real world of course, that would be ridiculous, but on Goodreads certainly. Of the 29 Goodreads friends who have rated this, 25 give it five stars, three give it four stars – one (the only French reader) gives it three. That is an astonishingly high proportion of full marks.

So my apologies to all of you. I plead only the right to a subjective opinion, one that has not been arrived at trivially. My history with Proust is as follows. I read Swann's Way very slowly over a period of several weeks, a reading experience memorable mainly for the fact that my girlfriend kept waking me up because I had dozed off halfway through a sentence. (Reading it in bed was probably a mistake.) There was a lot I d about it, but I admit I didn't quite grasp what all the fuss was about. I thought it insightful in parts, trite in others. It was also plotless and self-indulgent, but those things don't bother me on their own.

The real problem was the prose style.

For someone revered as a stylist, Proust to me seemed irritating at best, at worst barely readable. I am prepared to accept that this is my problem. In my notebook from that year I divided the page into two columns headed ‘Awesomeness’ and ‘Awkwardness’ to try and clarify in my mind the different reactions I was getting to his sentences. But I gradually got fixated on the second category. Phrases

I was well aware that I had placed myself in a position than which none could be counted upon to involve me in graver consequences at my parents' hands

strike me as being not just recondite, but fundamentally unsound – in English, and I stress that caveat because I'm aware that there may be a translation issue going on. This kind of construction plays better in French, and although I do read French, I happened to read Proust in translation just because I have a Folio Society set of the Moncrieff/Kilmartin/Enright version. If you're going to tell me that this all flows more prettily in the original, I'm prepared to believe you. I think.

After I finished Swann's Way, my dubious reaction to it niggled at me. Surely I was missing something? As a rule I'm not someone who s to follow popular opinion, but when so many people I respect seem to love this writer, maybe I have somehow failed to spot his essential charmÂ…? So one day, several months later, I got the second volume down, poured myself a drink, sat in the garden and started reading. It opens:

My mother, when it was a question of our having M. de Norpois to dinner for the first time, having expressed her regret that Professor Cottard was away from home and that she herself had quite ceased to see anything of Swann, since either of these might have helped to entertain the ex-Ambassador, my father replied that so eminent a guest, so distinguished a man of science as Cottard could never be out of place at a dinner-table, but that Swann, with his ostentation, his habit of crying aloud from the house-tops the name of everyone he knew, however slightly, was a vulgar show-off whom the Marquis de Norpois would be sure to dismiss as – to use his own epithet – a ‘pestilent’ fellow.

I calmly closed the book again, got up, went inside and put it back on the shelf, where it has remained. (I went back and finished my drink.)

I love the audacity of this sentence. That is the only thing I love about it, though. I feel that every native speaker who reads it must have the same jarring sense of dislocation when they reach the words ‘my father’, because it's natural when reading it to assume that ‘My mother’ is the subject of the sentence, albeit immediately diverted by two long subordinate clauses. But eventually (on the third scan, in my case) it dawns that the only verb governed by ‘my mother’ is ‘having expressed’, and that the main clause hasn't even started until you get to his father. So what Proust has done here is to postpone the grammatical subject of his sentence until fifty-four words in. For the opening sentence of a novel! (And it introduces five separate characters!)

This is an unusual construction, to say the least. X having done Y, A did B is unremarkable; but introducing a subordinate clause set off by commas immediately after X leaves you hanging on, open-mouthed, for a finitive verb, and hence obscures the meaning. I understand that there are people who adore this style of writing and find it charming or delicate. I don't though, I find it deeply unfriendly. More than that, I find it somehowÂ…creepy.

This is not because of the opacity itself. Because I'm a journalist, and because I thinking about the mechanics of sentence structure, some friends have accused me of being overly harsh on writers who do not go for clarity and efficiency at all times. I do respect those qualities, but I deny the charge. I love complicated baroque prose styles, and there are plenty of writers who use Proustian effects in ways that move and excite me – Henry James, Thomas Pynchon, oh there's dozens really. It's really just Proust himself that leaves me cold. It's something to do with the intricate formal correctness of it – as though he's saying, ‘Claim to be confused by this if you must; I can assure you it adheres to all the rules.’ There is an over-earnest quality, a sickly intricacy, to his sentences. They seem to be made all of elbows.

The way he expresses himself is somehow true to the letter of language, without being true to its spirit. (At least in translation.)

So that's my experience of him. I'm sorry, but I am just constitutionally unable to get past the extreme ponderousness of expression to enjoy his flashes of insight. That's not to say that I've given up on Marcel, and when I have some more time I hope to try him again in French. But for now at leastÂ…he's staying on the shelf.abandoned132 s ????1,082 1,897

???? ???????? ??

??? ??? ???????? ?????? ????? ??? ?????? ???? ???? ???? ????? ???? ???? ???? ?? ????? ???. ?? ????? ?? ?????? ?? ?? ???? ???? ??? ??? ?? ????? ???? ?? ?? ???? ?? ?? ?? ?? ??? ??????. ?? ????? ????? ??? ????? ?? ????? ?? ?? ?????? ??? ???????? ??? ?? ???? ???? ?? ?????. ???? ???? ?????? ?? ??? ??????? ?? ??????? ???? ?? ?? ????? ??? ???? ? ???? ?? ???? ??? ?????. ??? ????? ???? ?? ????? ???? ?? ??? ?????? ??? ?? ??? ?? ??? ???? ?? ????? ??? ?? ?? ?? ????? ??????? ???? ???? ??? ???? ??????? ?? ??????? ???? ??????? ?? ????????? ???? ??????? ??? ??? ?? ?? ??????.
??? ??? ????? ??????? ????? ???? ? ??? ???? ???? ?????

????? ?????? ?? ?? ???? ??? ???? ??????? ????? ?? ???? ?? ???? ?? ?? ?? ?? ??????? ???? ?? ???? ?? ???? ?? ??????? ?? ?? ???? ?? ???? ? ?? ?? ?? ?? ?????? ?? ?????? ?? ?????? ???? ??????? ??????? ?? ???. ????? ??? ??? ?? ?? ?????? ??? ????? ???? ?? ??? ? ???? ????? ???? ??? ?????? ?? ???? ?? ????? ???? ?? ?? ?? ???? ?? ??? ?? ?? ?? ?? ?? ??? ?????: ?? ??? ????? ?? ????? ????? ?? ???? ?????? ????? ?? ?? ?? ??? ???? ?? ???? ? ???? ???? ??? ?? ?????? ? ??? ???? ?? ?? ???? ?? ????? ?? ???. ?? ??? ?? ????? ??? ?????? ?????? ?????? ??? ???? ? ????? ??? ???? ?? ??? ?????? ????? ???? ???? ?? ???? ???? ?? ???? ???? ???? ??? ? ?????? ?? ??? ?? ?? ???? ?? ?? ????? ?? ????? ??? ????? ?? ?????. ??? ???? ?? ???? ?? ??? ?? ???? ????? ????????? ?? ???? ??? ??? ? ?????? ?????? ?? ?? ????? ???? ?? ?? ????? ????? ??? ?? ??? ????? ??? ????? ???? ?????? ??? ??. ?? ???? ?? ??????? ?? ???? ?? ???? ? ?? ????? ?? ?? ?? ???? ???? ?? ???? ? ???? ??? ?? ??? ?? ?? ?? ?? ???? ?? ???? ?????? ???? ?? ????? ????? ??? ?? ????? ?? ???? ??? ?? ??? ?? ???? ??? ?? ?? ?? ??? ? ??? ?? ???? ?? ?? ?? ?????? ?? ??? ?????? ?? ???? ???? ?? ???? ??? ???? ? ??? ????? ?? ?? ?? ?? ??? ????? ?? ?????? ?? ????? ???. ?...

?? ?????? ???? ?? ??? ????? ????? ?? ??? ???? ???? ?????? ???? ???? ???? ???????? ??. ????? ?? ? ?????? ??? ??????? ?? ?? ?????? ?????? ?? ???? ???? ?? ???? ?? ?? ?????? ???? ?? ?? ?????? ??????? ??... ? ??? ?? ??? ?? ??? ?? ??????? ?? ????? ??? ?????? ?????? ?? ??????.

????? ?? ????? ??? ???? ?? ??? ?? ??? ?? ?????? ?? ??? ???? ??? ????? ???? ???? ?? ?????? ??? ? ???? ???. ??????? ??? ???? ?? ??? ????? ?? ??? ????? ???? ?? ?? ?? ?? ????? ??? ?? ?? ?? ???? ??? ???? ???? ???? ?? ?? ?? ???? ?????? ?? ??????? ? ?????? ? ?????? ????? ?? ???. ???? ??????? ??? ?? ?????? ???? ???? ?? ??? ?? ??? ?? ?? ???? ?? ???? ??? ??? ????? ????? ?? ???? ????? ? ?????? ?????? ?? ??????? ???? ???? ?? ?? ?? ???? ?? ?? ??? ???? ?????. ?? ?? ?????? ?? ??? ?????? ??? ???? ?? ?? ??? ??? ??? ????? ???????? ???? ?? ??? ????? ?? ????? ???? ?? ? ???????? ????? ??? ????? ????. ????? ?? ??? «??? ????? ?? ?? ????» ????? ??????? ??? ?? ???? ?? ?? ???? ?? ????? ????? ???. ??? ?? ???? ???? ???? ?? ????? ??? ??? ?? ????? ??? ???? – ?? ?? ????? ??? ????? ??? ???? ?????? ????? ?? ??? ?? ???? – ?? ????? ????? ?????? ???? ?? ?????? ?? ?? ??? ????: ?????? ????.

??? ?? ??? ?? ??? ?? ??? ????? ????? ??? ?? ?? ?????? ???? ?? ????? ? ????? ?? ?? ??? ?? ??? ??? ???? ? ????????? ???? ??? ????? ???? ?? ?????? ?? ?? ?? ?? ?? ??? ? ?????? ????? ????. ???? ??? ?? ??? ????? ????? ??? ?? ?? ???? ??????? ?? ???? ????? ?????? ?????? ??? ?? ?????? ????? ?? ???? ?? ????? ??? ?? ???????? ? - ?? ?? ?? ?? ????? ?? ??? ???? ??? ??? ?? ??????? ??? ?? ?? ?? ??????? ?? ?? ??????? ????? ?????? ? ??????? ?? ???? ???? - ?????? ?? ??? ?? ????.??????-????? ??-????-????-????-?????? ??-????-????-?????? ...more111 s Leonard GayaAuthor 1 book1,020

Deuxième volume de la Recherche, À l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs est un roman qui, si l’on fait abstraction du long flash-back, « Un Amour de Swann », fonctionne comme en miroir du premier volume, Du côté de chez Swann.

Le début des Jeunes filles en fleurs reprend, presque sans solution de continuité, là où nous en étions restés, avec l’hiver, les quartiers ouest de Paris et Gilberte, objet du désir du jeune Narrateur depuis le milieu du premier volume. Nous faisons plus ample connaissance avec plusieurs personnages évoqués précédemment : Berma, la tragédienne ; Norpois, le diplomate pédant qui décourage les ambitions littéraires du jeune Marcel ; puis Bergotte, qui, au contraire, l’exhorte à persévérer. Surtout, le désir du jeune homme de se rapprocher de Gilberte nous introduit dans l’intimité de la famille Swann. A partir de là, nous observons comment, progressivement, la passion pour Gilberte s’estompe au profit de sa mère, Odette. Tout se passe comme si, dans ces « intermittences su cœur », le regard du Narrateur se confondait avec celui du Charles Swann amoureux, que nous avions rencontré dans le premier volume.

Le milieu du roman est marqué par une césure très nette, presque comme une pliure, avec une ellipse de deux années d’intervalle depuis l’épisode de Gilberte. La belle saison est là, le Narrateur, sa grand-mère et Françoise quittent Paris pour Balbec (une station balnéaire imaginaire sur la côte Atlantique) et nous retrouvons, dans cette deuxième moitié du deuxième volume, une atmosphère très proche de celle que nous avions rencontrée à Combray, dans la première moitié du premier livre. Ambiance estivale, visite d’église médiévale, aristocrates et bourgeois en vacances, promenades en voiture, campagne riante, parfums amoureux et, bien entendu, jeunes filles en fleurs. Les noms de Combray sont ici parfois les mêmes (Bloch, Charlus), parfois assez similaires (le beau Saint-Loup remplace le charmant Swann ; les peintures d’Elstir relaient les livres de Bergotte). Mais, surtout, la jeune aubépine Gilberte s’est maintenant métamorphosée en une multitude de fleurs, parmi desquelles le cœur du Narrateur ne cesse de butiner, hésitant toujours avant de se poser sur l’une d’elles : la vendeuse de café au lait ? Mlle de Stermaria ? la belle pêcheuse de Carqueville ? Puis, dans la petite bande : Gisèle ? Andrée ? Rosemonde ? Albertine ?...

Durant tout l’épisode de Balbec (très supérieur a l’épisode parisien qui le précède, entre nous soit dit), les affects amoureux du Narrateur sont en pulsation continue, passant du désir a la désillusion, créant ainsi, de manière subtile, un suspens perpétuel. La prose de Proust, toujours fluide et mouvante, semble, elle aussi, battre comme un cœur entre différents états. D’abord, les marivaudages indécis et les jalousies du Narrateur, que Proust analyse de manière presque clinique. Ensuite, le « kaléidoscope » social, l’aquarium du Grand-Hôtel, la satire un peu bouffonne parfois, lorsqu’il décrit les papotages de tous les clowns, pédants et culs pincés qui peuplent Balbec. Enfin, la spéculation esthétique et métaphysique, quand il tente de cerner les réalités souvent fuyantes de la perception, de la mémoire et de la création artistique – les descriptions de paysages sont parmi les plus belles pages de Proust, que ceux-ci soient aperçus directement par le Narrateur, comme la mer changeante sous la fenêtre de l'hôtel, ou qu’ils soient vus à travers la création artistique, comme dans le cas du Port de Carquethuit, peint par Elstir.

Reste toutefois que, à travers toutes ces pulsations fluides, toutes ces intermittences mouvantes, il semble qu’on ne puisse s’accrocher a rien de solide. Tout n’est qu’illusion, la beauté s’efface, les rencontres déçoivent. Ne reste au fond, comme le dit le Narrateur vers la fin du roman, qu’une résignation douce au néant :
Et c’est en somme une façon comme une autre de résoudre le problème de l’existence, qu’approcher suffisamment les choses et les personnes qui nous ont paru de loin belles et mystérieuses, pour nous rendre compte qu’elles sont sans mystère et sans beauté ; c’est une des hygiènes entre lesquelles on peut opter, une hygiène qui n’est peut-être pas très recommandable, mais elle nous donne un certain calme pour passer la vie, et aussi — comme elle permet de ne rien regretter, en nous persuadant que nous avons atteint le meilleur, et que le meilleur n’était pas grand’chose — pour nous résigner à la mort. (Pléiade, tome II, p. 300)

Sage résolution, sans doute. Rares sont ceux toutefois (et le Narrateur n’en fait pas plus partie que vous ou que moi), qui sont capables d’y plier leurs désirs.

> Vol. précédent : Du côté de chez Swann
> Vol. suivant : Le côté de Guermantesfavorites97 s Luís2,057 821

A young man, very snobbish, talks about his favorite author, Bergotte, and his disappointment when he goes to the theatre for the first time to hear Berma.
He began to take an interest in young girls whose first names were Gilberte, Albertine, Andrée, and Rosemonde. So, naturally, he falls in love with Albertine.
It is a very demanding reading, which is difficult to resume and stop.
The sentences are long but necessary to convey the finesse of the protagonist's thoughts. You must take your time, read slowly, and savor each image to let the emotions come.e-5 marcel-proust97 s MannyAuthor 34 books14.8k

[From Noms de pays : le nom]

I have just posted a LARA version of A l'ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs - you can find it here, view in Chrome or Firefox. We now have a total of 380,000 words text/42 hours audio of Proust in LARA form. As with Du côté de chez Swann, the French and English text have been taken from Gutenberg and the audio from LitteratureAudio, and I have automatically aligned them using the same methods.

Having done two volumes, I'm now confident that it'll be feasible to produce the whole thing - I'll probably be starting Côté de Guermantes over the Christmas break. I'm also wondering if people might be interested in reviving the Psycho Proustians group and doing a group read of la Recherche in this new format, starting sometime early in 2023?
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[Original review of print edition: after recent changes to the GR interface, I no longer seem to be able to post separate of different editions]

There's a lot of stuff in Volume 2 of A la recherche du temps perdu, and people see different things in it. To me, though, the unifying theme is a continuation of Proust's analysis of how romantic relationships work, which he started in Un Amour de Swann. There, he examined one particular kind of relationship. Swann spends a fair amount of time with Odette, who is very nice to him and keeps saying how she wishes she could see him more often. Without realizing it, he comes to rely on her always to be there for him. One night, she isn't, and he suddenly discovers he's hooked. The balance of power changes completely: he needs her all the time, she's hardly ever available, and his life is taken over by psychotic jealousy. If you've never had this kind of thing happen to you, count yourself lucky.

In the second volume, Proust looks at two more kinds of patterns, where the relationship isn't as clearly defined as it is with Swann and Odette. He shows how hard it can sometimes be to understand that a relationship has started or ended. With the narrator and Gilberte, he's involved with her in an early-teen way, and then, somehow, things go wrong. He's mad at her, and thinks he won't see her for a bit. Then it continues a bit longer, and he still hasn't seen her. After a while, it's clear that the relationship is over, but it's not obvious whether he ever made a real decision to end it. He examines all his shifting thoughts and emotions in the minutest detail, and you still don't know. At least, I didn't.

With Albertine, in the last third of the book, we get the case that I find most interesting. He's at Balbec (apparently it's based on the real-life resort town of Cabourg; I first learned that from a Brigade Mondaine novel). He sees this rather rowdy gang of teenage girls who go around together, laughing and indulging in various kinds of horseplay. He's a sickly kid, and their boisterous animal spirits appeal to him. There's one in particular that he keeps on bumping into by accident. Her name is Albertine, and after a while he decides he's fallen in love with her.

Being Proust, he has to carefully go though all the times they've met, and look at how his feelings evolved in response to those chance meetings. When he reconstructs everything, an interesting fact emerges: he thought he was meeting the same girl every time, but in fact he may not have. It's possible that he met different girls on the different occasions, and the feelings just crystallized out as deciding that he was in love with Albertine. He doesn't know, and they don't know! If the book had been written 15 years later, I would have wondered if this was an allusion to the new quantum theory: you have, as it were, a wave-function of girls, which collapses into the single Albertine observation. But I'm pretty sure that that was still in the future, so Proust made it all up himself. Impressive. Conceivably, the causality went the other way: perhaps some quantum physicist was inspired by Proust's novel!

The thought I find so interesting here is that, as Proust shows, you can fall in love quickly, but then there is a philosophical problem: who are you falling in love with? At one point in my life, I was kind of interested in the semantics of denotation and reference, but linguistic philosophers Kripke, Quine or Montague never seem to look at examples as complex as the ones that Proust makes up. I would love to know if someone has done an analysis of his books from this kind of angle. From the practical point of view, though, I think there is a useful lesson to be learned. If you fall in love quickly, the person you're in love with may not really exist. That's worth remembering.french fun-with-lara life-is-proust ...more98 s Guille831 2,129

Viene de... “«el Bergotte» era ante todo un elemento precioso y verdadero, oculto en el núcleo de todas las cosas y después extraído de ellas por aquel gran escritor gracias a su genio, extracción que era el fin del dulce cantor y no el de escribir a lo Bergotte.” Proust continúa en este segundo tomo con su excepcional descripción literaria de una personalísima forma de sentir, de una especial sensibilidad ante la vida y uno mismo, capaz de convertir en oro literario las naderías de una existencia tan mediocre e insulsa como la de cualquier mortal. Y lo hace a través de un personaje complejo y contradictorio, Marcel, tan atrayente como repulsivo, siendo cautivadoramente atractivo por ambos motivos.

Un ser absolutamente dependiente de las opiniones ajenas, egoísta, cobarde, putero y escritor en ciernes, patológicamente necesitado de protagonismo, de atención constante, tan profundo en sus reflexiones como superficial en sus inclinaciones (“la belleza es una sucesión de hipótesis que la fealdad reduce, al cortar la vía que ya veíamos abrirse a lo desconocido”), presa constante de extraños arrebatos sensitivos ante los más peregrinos estímulos de los que espera verdades para mí incomprensibles y que le procuran una felicidad o una tristeza indecibles de las que, en muchos casos, desconoce el motivo. “Muy pocas veces experimentaba aquel placer, cuyo objeto tan sólo presentía, que debía crear yo mismo, pero en todas ellas me parecía que lo sucedido en el intervalo carecía de la menor importancia y que centrándome exclusivamente en su realidad podría comenzar por fin una vida verdadera.” Proust tuvo siempre muy presente, y lo plasmó con una maestría única y sublime, que todo los que nos ocurre nos ocurre en el interior y que es allí donde las experiencias alcanzan su esplendor, lo que en Proust llega a extremos delirantes. El amor, la amistad, las vivencias de cualquier tipo, todo parece tener más importancia en la ausencia. La misma presencia del objeto o sujeto, dice, nos desvía de lo importante, nos hace “permanecer en la superficie de nosotros mismos en lugar de proseguir nuestro viaje de descubrimientos en las profundidades”. Del mismo modo, cualquier acercamiento a persona, objeto o lugar precisan, para gozar del encuentro como corresponde, ser soñados previamente y así solazarse en todas las posibilidades todavía no excluidas por el hecho en sí, que en verdad carece de importancia pues “sólo nosotros podemos infundir a ciertas cosas que vemos —con el convencimiento de que tienen una vida propia— un alma que después conservan y desarrollan en nosotros”. “Despojar de ella (la imaginación) nuestros placeres es reducirlos a sí mismos, a nada… Es necesario que la imaginación, despertada por la incertidumbre de poder alcanzar su objeto, cree un objetivo que nos oculte el otro y, al substituir el placer sensual por la idea de penetrar en una vida, nos impide reconocer dicho placer, probar su gesto verdadero, limitarlo a su alcance.” Y en este sentir tan especial, cómo no destacar por encima de cualquier otro la experiencia del amor, una experiencia, claro está, insatisfactoria pues siempre se desea más cuando se tiene y es atroz cuando no. Un amor que con excesiva frecuencia tiene por objeto a nosotros mismos pues nosotros somos los que creamos a las mujeres que amamos, dotándoles de esa capacidad de “prolongación, esa multiplicación posible, de uno mismo que es la felicidad” . “Al estar enamorados de una mujer, proyectamos simplemente en ella un estado de nuestra alma, que, por consiguiente, lo importante no es el valor de la mujer, sino la profundidad de ese estado, y que las emociones que nos infunde una muchacha mediocre pueden permitirnos hacer remontar a nuestra conciencia partes más íntimas de nosotros, más personales, más lejanas, más esenciales, que el placer que nos brinda la conversación de un hombre superior o incluso la contemplación admirativa de sus obras.” Leer a Proust es una experiencia compleja. Por utilizar una expresión mil veces usada por el autor, leerle es como si aráramos un campo inmensamente generoso para todo aquel que no desfallece ni se acobarda ante las muchas rocas y raíces que, en forma de largas acotaciones entre guiones o de oraciones subordinadas dentro de oraciones subordinadas, deben ser previamente desenterradas, aclaradas y muchas veces apartadas a un lado para que la reja pueda sacar a la luz todo lo que la tierra lleva dentro o, al menos, la parte que a cada uno, según su capacidad y experiencia, le es accesible. Y no es que esas incontables rocas y raíces no sean sobradamente interesantes por sí mismas, todo lo contrario, nada es desechable en los campos de Proust, pero bien cierto es que no son pocas las ocasiones en las que, a causa de ellas, nos vemos obligados a pasar la reja una y otra vez por el mismo surco hasta conseguir que la tierra por fin respire y sea todo lo fecunda que en realidad es.

Pero que mi torpeza a la hora de elegir símiles no les lleve a engaño, nada como el trabajo en el campo puede estar más alejado del mundo proustiano, lleno de arte y vacuo oropel, de sensibilidad y apariencia, de sutileza e hipocresía. Yo, que soy bastante torpe con las sutilezas, sobre todo cuando encierran una malicia que casi nunca espero y de las que tristemente soy consciente, cuando lo soy, tarde para dar cumplida respuesta, he disfrutado perversamente con esta lectura plagada de ellas. “Su esposa se había casado con él contra viento y marea, porque era una «persona hechizadora». Tenía —cosa que puede bastar para constituir un conjunto delicado y poco común— una barba rubia y sedosa, facciones agraciadas, voz nasal, mal aliento y un ojo de vidrio.” Grande es la ironía, el sarcasmo, la inteligencia maligna que se gastan estos ociosos esnobs, clasistas, racistas y muchas veces ridículos miembros pertenecientes a la alta burguesía y a la aristocracia parisina en sus comentarios y chismes de salón hacia rivales, conocidos y, en teoría, amigos, que se mueven por estas páginas. Y en ello no se queda atrás nuestro protagonista, un adolescente, por otra parte, presa de grandes picores por las frescas y traviesas muchachas en flor. “Simonet debía de ser el (nombre) de una de aquellas muchachas; ya no cesé de preguntarme cómo podría conocer a la familia Simonet y, además, por mediación de personas a las que ésta considerara superiores a sí misma, lo que no sería difícil, si se trataba de simples zorrillas de clase baja.” Angelito

Continuará...93 s Kalliope691 22


À L'OMBRE de la REPRÉSENTATION

On my review of Du côté de chez Swann I had concentrated on the pre-eminence of the visual. The careful attention paid by Proust to light, to colour, to objects that add colour such as flowers, and to painting and the visual arts in general, led me to conceive of his art as painterly writing. All those elements continue in this second volume. I could easily select another rich sample of quotes that would illustrate this visual nature. Indeed, sight is explicitly designated in this book as the principal sense. It is through seeing that we make sense of our world.

Things, peopleÂ…
…, ne sont portés sur nous que sur une plane et inconsistante superficie, parce que nous ne prenons conscience d’eux que par la perception visuelle réduite à elle-même ; mais c’est comme déléguée des autres sens qu’elle se dirige vers… (les autres sens) vont chercher...les diverses qualités odorantes, tactiles, savoureuses, qu’ils goûtent ainsi même sans le secours des mains et des lèvres (559)
This extract then introduces another aspect which is the one on which I wish to focus this time.
..et, capables, grâce aux arts de transposition, au génie de synthèse où excelle le désir, de restituer sous la couleur.., ... 559
This review will examine the concept and activity of Transposition or Representation as the very core of what constitutes artistic creation.


FASHIONING the FASHIONS

In À l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs, we see the Narrator fascinated by the way people represent themselves. When he observes those who have awakened his imagination, he pays attention to the way they dress and cloak their presence. The choice of clothes is part of the way a person manifests the self.

And although the Narrator confesses that he is infatuated with Gilberte Swann, in reality his fascination is with the mother, with Odette, who has changed her life and made herself into Mme Swann. He notices how in her self-transformation Odette has moved from the rather theatrical Japonisme décor, outfits and somewhat garish choice of clothes,--that we saw from a close up in Un amour de Swann--to a more delicate style in which subtle pastel colours in silk crêpe reflect the tender and gentle manner seen in the depictions Watteau, the painter of the gallanterie, and which suit better the wife of Monsieur Swann.

But in this new style of clothes in which she has concocted herself there are traces of her past that the Narrator can sniff, as she lets her breasts be caressed by the silk and abandons herself to the enjoyment of the new luxury, (230, desquelles elle faisait le geste de caresser sus ses seins l’écume fleurie, et dans lesquelles elle se baignait, se prélassait, s’ébattait..). Similarly the decorative buttons are a quote of those more functional which in the past would have been an invitation to their being unbuttoned. (235 déceler une intention... une reminiscence indiscernable du passé).

Odette works relentlessly at transforming and creating her own image and is completely aware of the transcendence of her self-fashioning, for herself and for the world... (522 disciplinant ses traits avait fait de son visage et de sa taille cette création),. And also 234 On sentait qu’elle ne s’habillait pas seulement pour la commodité ou la parure de son corps, elle était entourée de sa toilette comme de l’appareil délicat et spiritualisé d’une civilisation.

Because with all this calculated impersonation, Odette is acting indeed as a creator. Rightfully, she feels satisfied with her art when she conceives her toilette (254... ayant l’air d’assurance et de calme du créateur qui a accompli son oeuvre et ne se soucie plus du reste)


SALONS and THEATRICALITY

But OdetteÂ’s transformation will reach its apex and she will be in full command of her new delicate and purified self, when she can also design her own setting, her own stage, her Salon. In that composition she can become, finally, a Grande Dame. Surrounded by white flowers, by white furniture, by white accoutrements, echoes of the Pre-Raphaelites, and of the original Primitives, will resonate. She can evoke images in which angels announce a miracle and designate the virginity in a woman, with all its inebriating effect. All of this thanks to the harmonies of a fully orchestrated (252 -- Symphonie en blanc majeur)

For it is through a Salon that a lady can best picture herself, fully. The emblematic surroundings situate one as the model to which oneÂ’s society can look. Salons are the dramatic setting in which something is created out of sheer theatricality. The guests form a frame around the Hostess who behaves as if she were the main guest, the main actress, the main sitter. So much so, that it becomes difficult for some people to be able to picture a lady, Odette, outside of her own Salon.

For the art of creating a Salon is the art of nothingness... (212 -- bien qu’ils ne fassent que nuancer l’inexistent, sculpter le vide, et soient à proprement parler les Arts du Néant: l’art... de savoir “réunir”, de s’entendre à grouper, de “mettre en valeur”, de “s’éffacer”, de servir de “trait d’union” (inverted commas in the original). And in this art we saw in the previous volume that Odette’s teacher had been Mme Verdurin who “était elle-même un Salon”.


REPRODUCTION or EYE LENSES

In a line of argument that Walter Benjamin may have picked up from Proust, the Narrator notices the other mode of visual representation, photography, with a similar view to his grandmother’s in the Combray section of the first novel. Industrial reproduction vulgarises that which art had filtered as beauty (495- il faut.. reconnaître que, dans la mesure où l’art met en lumière certaines lois, une fois qu’une industrie les a vulgarisées, l’art antérieur perd rétrospectivement un peu de son originalité).

But the Narrator is no reactionary. Photograhy has a value, since it stores images that have been lost (409 -- La photographie acquiert un peu de la dignité qui lui manque, quand elle cesse d’être une reproduction du réel et nous montre des choses qui n’existent plus). And more interestingly, it can also widen and enrich the capabilities of our eyes. “d’admirables” photographies de paysages et de villes... image différente de celles que nos avons l’habitude de voi…. telle de ces photographies “magnifiques” illustrera une loi de la perspective, nous montrera telle cathédrale que nos avons l’habitude de voir au milieu de la ville, prise au contraire d’un point choisi d’où elle aura l’air trente fois plus haute que les maisons et faisant éperon au bord du fleuve d’où elle est en réalité distante.

Futhermore, it is thanks to these reproduced images that the Narrator has constructed his mental and ideal picture of the church at Balbec before he can visit it. If sometimes his confrontation of reality leads him to disappointment, in this case representation is not at odds with its origin and has on the contrary aggrandized the significance of the original. The Narrator is conquered by awe when standing in front of the real object, the thing-in-itself (283 --maintenant c’est l??église elle-même, c’est la statue elle-même, elles, les uniques: c’est bien plus.


UNVEILING the CLOTHES

But if we saw that any one person will fashion her or his clothes with the idea of embodying the self in a particular desired way, here comes the artist, the painter, ready to disentangle that conception and model both the art of fashion designers and the projections of a sitter into yet another level of transformation.

For Elstir teaches the Narrator that the modistes are artists who with just one gesture they can convert simple matter into something sublime (571 their art “le geste delicat par lequel elles donnent un dernier chiffonement – aux noeuds et aux plumes d’un chapeau terminé). And yet, he will, with also a single gesture, unlock the camouflage set up by the fashion makers and the sitters and reveal their inner reality – (523 -- cette harmonie, le coup d’œil d’un grand peintre la détruit en une seconde,..

So the Narrator presents the duel between a sitter and her portraitist, in which they fight for different representation of her image. By the inclusion of a revealing element in the portrait of a cousin to the Princesse de Luxembourg, (523 - “un vaste décor incliné et violet qui faisait penser à la Place Pigalle) the painter leaves a trace that can lead to her dubious moral past. This is a signal which the sitter, however, may not detect – un grand artiste ne cherchera aucunement à donner satisfaction à...la femme …but the artist is not ready to compromise and he will désenchanter le spectateur vulgaire.

And it is in his portrait of Odette that the Elstir enthralls the Narrator by extracting from her that very quality which has fascinated our protagonist from early on but which Mme Swann had covered up. In her portrayal as Miss Sacripant, Elstir has rendered all her theatricality, fictitiousness and double-entendre. Not only is she dressed up in costume and figuring as someone else, but even her sex appeal is ambiguous and elusive.
506ff -- Odette – Miss Sacripant...le caractère ambigu de l’être dont j’avais le portrait sous les yeux tenait, sans que je le comprisse, à ce que c’était une jeune actrice d’autrefois en demi-travesti... en costume.. un être factice.
Dismantling the construction of the mantle of purity in which Mme Swann had wrapped herself, the painter has unfolded the full fan inside the young NarratorÂ’s imagination by expanding the two poles of OdetteÂ’s spectrum, the Grande Dame or the Cocotte.


PAINTERLY REPRESENTATION

Elstir as Eye Opener.

For it is in the painter Elstir that, so far, our Narrator finds the most pure inspiration. When he finally encountered Bergotte, the object of his fascination from an early age, our Narrator felt disappointed. Prior to the meeting he had already become very familiar with the writerÂ’s exquisite prose so there was no discovery. And may be as a sign of his youth, he had fallen into the trap of expecting appearances to match substance, when BergotteÂ’s common physique did not match his stylized prose. So, even though Bergotte sits at the crest of writing, the art in which the Narrator dreams to excel, it is another art medium that will, literally, open the NarratorÂ’s eyes.

There is no disappointment in his meeting the metamorphosed Monsieur Biche. And this Biche-turned-into-Elstir presents him with new and unknown wonders.

Pervasive Images.

But one wonders at what point in time this Narrator has opened up his eyes. As we read these memories we do not know when the painterly way of conceiving things entered his mind. The novel is full of terms related to surfaces and paintings and frames. There are many fenêtres, cadres, rideaux, peintures doubles, cloth covered paintings, hublots (porthole
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