That’s what I envision Sigmund Freud exclaiming as he sits in his smoked-filled Viennese study as he reads Part I of the Combray section of Swann’s Way. “See Wolfman?!? See Carl Gustav Jung?!? See Anna?!? Proust gets me!”

Okay, I’ll stop there because I don’t want to give away too much of the one-act I am currently workshopping. The working title is “Are You AFreud of Fiction?”

It’s a musical.

Now, I think you might be the first (only?) person to tie the boot-stomping wonders of “Achy-Breaky Heart” to Proust’s masterwork. I can’t help but think there’s a very good reason why.

And I’ll just leave it at that.

I just realized that I am well into my post, and I’ve failed to mention how much I am loving the eccentric characters who we’ve met in this book. Whether it’s the grandmother who gives age inappropriate “educational” or “historical” (read: used) gifts. The great-aunt who claims never to sleep. Not only does she claim not to sleep she demands that her household staff play along.

I also came to my first madeleine moment in the book. It got me thinking of a potential  Sesame Street version of Swann’s Way.

I see Cookie Monster laying in bed with a pen and paper saying: “I think back to my first bite of that delicious cookie. One, one delicious bite of cookie. I cannot wait to take the second bite, Two, two delicious bites of cookie. Cookie, cookie, cookie!”

In the background we see Big Bird (Swann?) from the window. He looks in the window, smiles, and waves.

Oh, and Big Bird has a mullet.

Well, I’ll be reading more in the coming days. Until then,

Justin

Bully for you for reading the endnotes!  I’ll admit I was lazy and didn’t flip to the end to get the cultural context of that particular reference.  Had you not reported thusly I’d be continuing to picture Swann with a mix between and ducktail and a pompadour.  Now I’ll imagine him as Billy Ray Cyrus circa 1992 in his “Achy Breaky Heart” days:

My discovery of the day was finding out that nachos and Proust just don’t mix.  I took my copy of Swann’s with me to the local Qdoba during my noon lunch break–thinking I’d read a couple of pages while enjoying some delicious three-cheese nachos.

The way I usually eat and read is to take a bite, read a sentence while I chew.  Take another bite, read another sentence–before you know it my belly is full and I’ve finished five more pages!

Well today I took a bite and tried to read a sentence…but it was so long!  By about the third clause of the sentence the first cheesey chip got eaten and I got hungry…so I thought I’d break protocol and take a break mid-sentence for another delectable tortilla.  Then when I went back Proust I couldn’t find my spot–so it was back to the beginning. But by that point I’d finished the second chip.

It didn’t take long to realize that this would be a Sisyphusian task.  So I put Proust away and listened to the end of Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me (Oh how I love topical political satire!)

But I did read a little bit more…shortly after my last post (like another three pages after!) the cookies finally made their appearance so I was able to sleep better.  Sleep better until I got to this quote…”While my aunt was conferring thus with Francoise, I was going to Mass with my parents.”

Hold it right there Nameless Narrator!  I’m sure you think this is harmless (well I’m not sure, but it works better for my argument)…but I say nay!  Nay!   How can Nameless Narrator report the banal back and forth of Francoise and his aunty when he’s away at church? (Another topic–did the description of her head confuse you–”her sad, pale, dull forehead, on which, at this morning hour, she had not yet arranged her false hair, and where the bones showed through like the points of a crown of thorns or the beads of a rosary”–I mean the phrenologist inside of me (inside all of us) is intrigued…but really–where’s the footnote on that one?).

Methinks this was made up.

Now I know it’s a novel so it’s all actually made up, but there has to be a level of accountability in this fictional world and right now I’m not seeing it.  I don’t know if I even still believe that Nameless Narrator even ever ate a cookie.

What is truth?

Jon

P.S.  On a completely non-Proustian note I think everyone should listen to the Slate Audio Bookclub Podcast…I just rocked out the Raymond Carver edition the other day and it was quite scintillating.  It’s my new favorite podcast (But I still love you too, Andrew Marr’s Start of the Week!) and I want to share it with the world!

I, too, am enjoying Swann’s Way. Despite its page-long paragraphs, rambling, multi-clause sentences–there is something undeniably enjoyable about Proust’s trip down memory lane.

My favorite part of the book so far would have to be the physical description of Swann:

“In fact one could recognize him only by his voice, it was difficult to make out his face, his aquiline nose, his green eyes under a high forehead framed by blond, almost red hair, cut Bressant-style….”

“Hold it!” I said to myself what is this “Bressant-style” Proust speaks of?

Well, conveniently, Lydia Davis (my intrepid translator) has provided a very illustrative note at the end of the book explainging:

“Bressant-style: Jean-Paul Prosper Bressant (1815-86) was a well-known actor who introduced a new hairstyle, which consisted of wearing your hair in a crew cut in front and longer in the back.” (445)

That’s right, our friend Swann is sporting what is commonly referred to today as a “mullet.”

Business in the front, party in the back…and all Proust.

And it was with that, that I knew I was destined to like this book.

Justin

…but on of them isn’t reading Swann’s Way (by the way the subject post and this first sentence fragment should be sung to the tune of that Paul Anka/Frank Sinatra classic “My Way” or “Strangers in the Night”–just make sure its Sinatra!).

Well its Friday night and I’m home reading Proust.  I can’t decide if this makes me really intellectual and cultured or just nerdy.  I think I’ll let you make the call.

But part of the reason I’m spending my Friday night thusly is because I’m enjoying this book so much.  So far its a corker!  Sure there’s some room for complaint…let me enumerate

• Not a lot happens. I’m on page 43 and this guy is still in bed.  At this rate this 450 page book is going to end at breakfast.  And where are the damn madeleines?  Bring on the cookies!

• Some of the metaphors are a little…extended. For instance:

My mother did not come, and with no consideration for my pride (which was invested in her not denying the story that she was supposed to have asked me to let her know the results of some search) asked Francoise to say these words to me: “There is no answer,” words I have so often since then heard the doormen in grand hotels or the footmen in bawdy houses bring back to some poor girl who exclaims in surprise, “What, he said nothing? Why, that’s impossible! Did you really give him my note? All right, I’ll go on waiting.”  And–just as she invariably assures him she does not need the extra gas jet which the doorman wants to light for her, and remains there, hearing nothing further but the few remarks about the weather exchanged by the doorman and a lackey whom he sends off suddenly, when he notices the time, to put a customer’s drink on ice…

Um..what were we talking about?  What was that doorman like?

• The narrator’s a little creepy. The little dude is staring at his mom’s face planning where he’s going to give her a kiss.  That’s a little weird.

But I like it…and I can’t decide if its because of the idiosyncracies listed above or in spite of them.

Here’s something I know I like.  The narrator as a little boy thinking “I had heard people say that George Sand was an exemplary novelist.”  What a delightfully nerdy little kid!  I’m probably just jealous because when I was little I wasn’t so much weighing the relative merits of gender-conflicted novelists as trying to be funny because I thought that when people on TV watched TV they were watching us.

And don’t worry…I’ve just come to expect that you identify with every major character in fiction from The Hunchback of Notre Dame’s Quasimodo to The Secret Garden’s Colin (I’ve told you…it’s not that noticeable).  And I imagine it will continue…when we read Moby Dick you’ll be Ahab, when we read Watership Down you’ll be a bunny.

Well I think I’ve written enough for one night (Proust makes me wordy…its contagious!).

Adieu,

Jon

I had originally planned to further outline the parallels between the life of of Marcel Proust’s as of yet unnamed narrator and myself by writing this entire post in French, but then I realized that I had pretty much exhausted my French vocabulary with the title of my post.

So instead I will carry on in English, which should as an added bonus make it easier for you to read, Twinner.

I know what you are thinking, I am once again too quickly jumping to the conclusion that there are undeniable similarities between myself and the protagonist. You will probably throw my earlier claims of “Dodo Brooke c’est moi!” (We’re both idealists!) and “Frog and Toad c’est moi!” (Give me a break already, I was four.) But this time I really think I have something.

On page 1 of the book Proust tells us how his narrator falls asleep while reading and he feels like he becomes a part of the narrative. Me too!

Sure, our narrator is reading about “a church, a quartet, the rivalry between Francois I and Charles V.” and I am reading mysteries featuring deceptively clever elderly sleuths and the latest happenings of the glitterati. (Thank you very much, People magazine.)

But still, parallels!

Let me just say, that Proust sure can write a sentence. Take this one for instance:

“I did not know that, much more than her husband’s little deviations from his regimen, it was my weak will, my delicate health, the uncertainty they cast on my future that so sadly preoccupied my grandmother in the course of those incessant perambulations, afternoon and evening, when we would see, as it passed and then passed again, lifted slantwise toward the sky, her beautiful face with its brown furrowed cheeks, which with age had become almost mauve like the plowed fields in autumn, crossed, if she was going out, by a veil half raised, while upon them, brought there by the cold or some sad thought, an involuntary tear was always drying.”

Yowza! That’s just one sentence.

Funny you posting that Germaine Greer article in your last post. I saw that myself and almost forwarded to you.

Well, back to Combray,
Justin

P.S. Welcome to the blog Marie. I saw your comment glad to have you reading with us.

Or: I’ve finally started reading Proust!

And it’s about time, right?–Here I am practically knocking on 30’s door and I have previously read 0 pages of everyone’s favorite cookie-loving Frenchman.

Well that wrong has most definitely been righted…I’ve now read upwards of 17 pages!

I would be further along but I tried to start this book right before bed on Sunday night…only to find that the book opens with Marcel’s love letter to sleep.
I was trucking right along and then Marcel starts waxing poetic on pillows and next thing I know I’m in my sleepy place. Chapter One should come affixed with a warning about feelings of drowsiness and cautions against operating heavy machinery (Did I mention that I had planned to go move some gravel with my skid loader after I finished reading on Sunday night? Well that didn’t happen!)

Side note: Did you buy that I knew what a skid loader was? Does it really move gravel?

So far I’m enjoying the book…although I’m doing some major willing suspension of disbelief…am I really supposed to believe that the narrator goes through a mental catalog of all his beds before he gets up in the morning? Good God man get moving already!

In closing I’d like to link to an article that I found, ironically I think ( I think I’ve really pegged irony here!), on The Guardians website just yesterday. “Why Do People Gush Over Proust? I’d Rather Visit a Demented Relative” by Germaine Greer.

Au Revoir

Jon

Well at least volume 1 of In Search of Lost Time a.k.a. Swann’s Way. Who knew this book, probably Proust’s most famous, would be so difficult to come by.

In any case, after trips to several local book stores, I was finally able to track a copy down. So, consider me ready to read.

Oh, before we close the book on Gulliver’s Travels, I’ve been meaning to ask:

Did this run through your head on a continuous loop while you were reading about Houyhnhnm Land?

Justin

Well Twin…I, too, finally finished. I read the adventures of Houyhnhnm over yesterday and today. I think this was my favorite part of the book. I liked the second half of this book significantly more than the first half–maybe its because I had expectations and ideas of what would occur in Lilliput and Brobdingnag–but not so for Houyhnhnm (in fact I was quite surprised–horses acting like people!) , Laputa, Glubbdubdrib, etc.

Anyway…I thought Houyhnhmn was pretty enthralling…but also simultaneously horrifying. The idea of these horse sitting on their haunches discussing politics–I found it utterly unsettling. (It still kind of makes me uncomfortable).

My one bone of contention would be Swift’s anthropomorphization of the horses. Why (I ask why!) would advanced horses sit on their haunches, do needlework, and generally act more human I felt that the disrespect for animals otherness was an echo to what we saw in The Wind In the Willows).

And you what I thought of The Wind In the Willows (Spoiler Alert: I’m not a fan).

I was also surprised by how quickly that Gulliver turned his back on his fellow men, the Yahoos. A fair weather man our Lemmy.

I did happen upon a nice little coincidence while reading…as Gulliver lands in Portugal he writes “We arrived at Lisbon, Nov.5, 1715.” — tomorrow’s November 5th! I finished my travels with Gulliver on almost the same day (give or take a hundred years) that he himself finished his journey (or almost finished his journey–okay so maybe its not so much of a coincidence.)

I’m looking forward to reading something a little more modern…I’m thinking I’ll probably try to start our Proustian adventure sometime over the weekend.

Until then,
Jon

My last post was written in haste, and I didn’t have a chance to respond to your comments. Really, I just wanted to let you know I finished the book. (Before you, I believe, not that it’s a competition, but just so you know it’s not a competition that I keep winning.) But now that I have more time, let me be less hasty…

Due to both the berevity and haste of my last post I was not able to fully provide a rebuttal to your rather scathing re-creation of our recreation(al science). Your jealousy of my domination of the Jeffryes Family Golden Beaker is sad. While I admit it was probably due to my showmanship more than my science. (Boy, could I make those funnels spin). In fact, I like to think that if Jan de Bont had seen my spectacular spinning his jaw would have dropped and he would have said “Now, there is a Twister!”

And I don’t know how to break it to you, but when you drop a half eaten Butterfinger on the ground and you pick it up and there are specks of dirt and grit on it, you haven’t “created matter.” (And as a follow-up note, said Butterfinger should not be eaten.) Oh, and that hardly counts as a science project in my book.

As for the picture you posted you fail to mention the ugly turn things took after you snapped that candid shot. Remember how Colonial Jenny accused me of witchcraft and stealing her essence with my “shutterflash,” and then she went “all colonial on my ass.”

One final thought, you have a magical gift for period speak. Methinks thou should continuest in this tradition merrily. (I don’t know if what I wrote makes any sense.)

Anyway, let me know when you’re finished. I still have to track down a copy of Swann’s Way, but should be ready to start reading when (or should I say if) you finish reading Gulliver’s Travels.

Justin

A horse (or Houyhnhnm, if you like) threading a needle.

That is the image that I’ll take with me from my time in Houyhnhnm Land.

And with that, I finished the book. (Just to let you know.)

Swann’s Way, next, eh? Well, give me some time before we start, I have to set things up so that I can write my posts while laying in bed and I have to perfect my madeliene recipe. Oh, and I need to get a copy of the book.

Enjoy the rest of your Travels,
Justin