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1dperrings
This is from proust and it is one sentence.
Swann's Way
It must be remarked that Odette’s face appeared thinner and more prominent than it actually was, because her forehead and the upper part of her cheeks, a single and almost plane surface, were covered by the masses of hair which women wore at that period, drawn forward in a fringe, raised in crimped waves and falling in stray locks over her ears; while as for her figure, and she was admirably built, it was impossible to make out its continuity (on account of the fashion then prevailing, and in spite of her being one of the best-dressed women in Paris) for the corset, jetting forwards in an arch, as though over an imaginary stomach, and ending in a sharp point, beneath which bulged out the balloon of her double skirts, gave a woman, that year, the appearance of being composed of different sections badly fitted together; to such an extent did the frills, the flounces, the inner bodice follow, in complete independence, controlled only by the fancy of their designer or the rigidity of their material, the line which led them to the knots of ribbon, falls of lace, fringes of vertically hanging jet, or carried them along the bust, but nowhere attached themselves to the living creature, who, according as the architecture of their fripperies drew them towards or away from her own, found herself either strait-laced to suffocation or else completely buried.
David Perrings
Swann's Way
It must be remarked that Odette’s face appeared thinner and more prominent than it actually was, because her forehead and the upper part of her cheeks, a single and almost plane surface, were covered by the masses of hair which women wore at that period, drawn forward in a fringe, raised in crimped waves and falling in stray locks over her ears; while as for her figure, and she was admirably built, it was impossible to make out its continuity (on account of the fashion then prevailing, and in spite of her being one of the best-dressed women in Paris) for the corset, jetting forwards in an arch, as though over an imaginary stomach, and ending in a sharp point, beneath which bulged out the balloon of her double skirts, gave a woman, that year, the appearance of being composed of different sections badly fitted together; to such an extent did the frills, the flounces, the inner bodice follow, in complete independence, controlled only by the fancy of their designer or the rigidity of their material, the line which led them to the knots of ribbon, falls of lace, fringes of vertically hanging jet, or carried them along the bust, but nowhere attached themselves to the living creature, who, according as the architecture of their fripperies drew them towards or away from her own, found herself either strait-laced to suffocation or else completely buried.
David Perrings
2TheCount
Wow! What a beautiful passage- it doesn't seem to drag at all. I am an aspiring Proust reader, my mother really wants me to read his novels. This is a nice introduction to his work!
3jveezer
From The Guermantes Way:
It has been said that silence is strength; in a quite different sense it is a terrible strength in the hands of those who are loved. It increases the anxiety of the one who waits. Nothing so tempts us to approach another person as what is keeping us apart; and what barrier is so insurmountable as silence? It has been said also that silence is torture, capable of goading to madness the man who is condemned to it in a prison cell. But what an even greater torture than that of having to keep silence it is to have to endure the silence of the person one loves! Robert said to himself: 'What can she be doing, to keep so silent as this? Obviously she's being unfaithful to me with others.' He also said to himself: 'What have I done that she should be so silent? Perhaps she hates me, and will go on hating me for ever.' And he reproached himself. Thus silence indeed drove him mad with jealousy and remorse. Besides, more cruel than the intangible enclosure, true, but an impenetrable one, this interposed slice of empty atmosphere through which nevertheless the visual rays of the abandoned lover cannot pass. Is there a more terrible form of illumination than that of silence, which shows us not one absent love but a thousand, and shows us each of them in the act of indulging in some new betrayal? Sometimes, in a sudden slackening of tension, Robert would imagine that this silence was about to cease, that the letter was on its way. He saw it, it had arrived, he started at every sound, his thirst was already quenched, he murmured: 'The letter! The letter!' After this glimpse of a phantom oasis of tenderness, he found himself once more toiling across the real desert of a silence without end.
It has been said that silence is strength; in a quite different sense it is a terrible strength in the hands of those who are loved. It increases the anxiety of the one who waits. Nothing so tempts us to approach another person as what is keeping us apart; and what barrier is so insurmountable as silence? It has been said also that silence is torture, capable of goading to madness the man who is condemned to it in a prison cell. But what an even greater torture than that of having to keep silence it is to have to endure the silence of the person one loves! Robert said to himself: 'What can she be doing, to keep so silent as this? Obviously she's being unfaithful to me with others.' He also said to himself: 'What have I done that she should be so silent? Perhaps she hates me, and will go on hating me for ever.' And he reproached himself. Thus silence indeed drove him mad with jealousy and remorse. Besides, more cruel than the intangible enclosure, true, but an impenetrable one, this interposed slice of empty atmosphere through which nevertheless the visual rays of the abandoned lover cannot pass. Is there a more terrible form of illumination than that of silence, which shows us not one absent love but a thousand, and shows us each of them in the act of indulging in some new betrayal? Sometimes, in a sudden slackening of tension, Robert would imagine that this silence was about to cease, that the letter was on its way. He saw it, it had arrived, he started at every sound, his thirst was already quenched, he murmured: 'The letter! The letter!' After this glimpse of a phantom oasis of tenderness, he found himself once more toiling across the real desert of a silence without end.
4dperrings
to TheCount
welcome to the discussion.
to jveezer
what a terrific passage on the subject of silence.
david perrings
welcome to the discussion.
to jveezer
what a terrific passage on the subject of silence.
david perrings
5dperrings
Here is another one of my favorites
this is from Proust Swann's Way chapter 2 about page 170
A’sadist’ of her kind is an artist in evil,
which a wholly wicked person could not be, for in that case the evil would not
have been external, it would have seemed quite natural to her, and would not
even have been distinguishable from herself; and as for virtue, respect for the
dead, filial obedience, since she would never have practised the cult of these
things, she would take no impious delight in their profanation. ‘Sadists’ of
Mlle. Vinteuil’s sort are creatures so purely sentimental, so virtuous by
nature, that even sensual pleasure appears to them as something bad, a privilege
reserved for the wicked. And when they allow themselves for a moment to enjoy it
they endeavour to impersonate, to assume all the outward appearance of wicked
people, for themselves and their partners in guilt, so as to gain the momentary
illusion of having escaped beyond the control of their own gentle and scrupulous
natures into the inhuman world of pleasure.
and following shortly:
It was
not evil that gave her the idea of pleasure, that seemed to her attractive; it
was pleasure, rather, that seemed evil. And as, every time that she indulged in
it, pleasure came to her attended by evil thoughts such as, ordinarily, had no
place in her virtuous mind, she came at length to see in pleasure itself
something diabolical, to identify it with Evil.
David Perrings
this is from Proust Swann's Way chapter 2 about page 170
A’sadist’ of her kind is an artist in evil,
which a wholly wicked person could not be, for in that case the evil would not
have been external, it would have seemed quite natural to her, and would not
even have been distinguishable from herself; and as for virtue, respect for the
dead, filial obedience, since she would never have practised the cult of these
things, she would take no impious delight in their profanation. ‘Sadists’ of
Mlle. Vinteuil’s sort are creatures so purely sentimental, so virtuous by
nature, that even sensual pleasure appears to them as something bad, a privilege
reserved for the wicked. And when they allow themselves for a moment to enjoy it
they endeavour to impersonate, to assume all the outward appearance of wicked
people, for themselves and their partners in guilt, so as to gain the momentary
illusion of having escaped beyond the control of their own gentle and scrupulous
natures into the inhuman world of pleasure.
and following shortly:
It was
not evil that gave her the idea of pleasure, that seemed to her attractive; it
was pleasure, rather, that seemed evil. And as, every time that she indulged in
it, pleasure came to her attended by evil thoughts such as, ordinarily, had no
place in her virtuous mind, she came at length to see in pleasure itself
something diabolical, to identify it with Evil.
David Perrings
6dperrings
the following is a passage from Swann's Way which i found increadable.
But to-night, at Mme. Verdurin’s, scarcely had the little pianist begun to play
when, suddenly, after a high note held on through two whole bars, Swann saw it
approaching, stealing forth from underneath that resonance, which was prolonged
and stretched out over it, like a curtain of sound, to veil the mystery of its
birth—and recognised, secret, whispering, articulate, the airy and fragrant
phrase that he had loved. And it was so peculiarly itself, it had so personal a
charm, which nothing else could have replaced, that Swann felt as though he had
met, in a friend’s drawing-room, a woman whom he had seen and admired, once, in
the street, and had despaired of ever seeing her again. Finally the phrase
withdrew and vanished, pointing, directing, diligent among the wandering
currents of its fragrance, leaving upon Swann’s features a reflection of its
smile. But now, at last, he could ask the name of his fair unknown (and was told
that it was the andante movement of Vinteuil’s SONATA for the piano and violin),
david perrings
But to-night, at Mme. Verdurin’s, scarcely had the little pianist begun to play
when, suddenly, after a high note held on through two whole bars, Swann saw it
approaching, stealing forth from underneath that resonance, which was prolonged
and stretched out over it, like a curtain of sound, to veil the mystery of its
birth—and recognised, secret, whispering, articulate, the airy and fragrant
phrase that he had loved. And it was so peculiarly itself, it had so personal a
charm, which nothing else could have replaced, that Swann felt as though he had
met, in a friend’s drawing-room, a woman whom he had seen and admired, once, in
the street, and had despaired of ever seeing her again. Finally the phrase
withdrew and vanished, pointing, directing, diligent among the wandering
currents of its fragrance, leaving upon Swann’s features a reflection of its
smile. But now, at last, he could ask the name of his fair unknown (and was told
that it was the andante movement of Vinteuil’s SONATA for the piano and violin),
david perrings
7jveezer
From Within a Budding Grove:
When we are in love, our love is too big a thing for us to be able altogether to contain it within ourselves. It radiates towards the loved one, finds there a surface that arrests it, forcing it to return to its starting point, and it is this repercussion of our own feeling whcih we call the other's feelings and which charms us more then than on its outward journey because we do not recognize it as having originated in ourselves.
When we are in love, our love is too big a thing for us to be able altogether to contain it within ourselves. It radiates towards the loved one, finds there a surface that arrests it, forcing it to return to its starting point, and it is this repercussion of our own feeling whcih we call the other's feelings and which charms us more then than on its outward journey because we do not recognize it as having originated in ourselves.
8desultory
I'm not going to attempt to post one of his great, glorious moments (or even quarts d'heures), a few of which have been highlighted above. Here's a bit of funny Proust instead. Now I know that, overall, ISOLT (interesting acronym!) is one of the most amusing novels ever written, but this made me laugh out loud. I think it's as close as he ever gets to a one-liner; typically for him, it takes two ...
The butler could not believe the communiques were other than excellent and that the troops were not approaching Berlin, as he had read, “We have repulsed the enemy with heavy losses on their side,” actions that he celebrated as though they were new victories. For my part, I was horrified by the rapidity with which the theatre of these victories approached Paris ...
The butler could not believe the communiques were other than excellent and that the troops were not approaching Berlin, as he had read, “We have repulsed the enemy with heavy losses on their side,” actions that he celebrated as though they were new victories. For my part, I was horrified by the rapidity with which the theatre of these victories approached Paris ...
9jveezer
From The Guermantes Way:
At the same time, Albertine preserved, inseparably attached to her, all my impressions of a series of seascapes of which I was particularly fond. I felt that in kissing her cheeks I should be kissing the whole of Balbec beach.
At the same time, Albertine preserved, inseparably attached to her, all my impressions of a series of seascapes of which I was particularly fond. I felt that in kissing her cheeks I should be kissing the whole of Balbec beach.
10dperrings
From Swann's Way
"She (Marcel's mother) sent for one of those squat plump little cakes called "petites madeleines," which look as though they had been molded in the fluted valve of a scallop shell … I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure invaded my senses..."
"She (Marcel's mother) sent for one of those squat plump little cakes called "petites madeleines," which look as though they had been molded in the fluted valve of a scallop shell … I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure invaded my senses..."
11margad
I love the quote about silence. So true, alas!
I think I had read the "madeleine" passage so many, many times before I ever read Swann's Way that a lot of the meaning had been already squeezed out of it. It didn't exactly fall flat, but it also wasn't meaningful in the way Proust meant it to be or in the way so many readers before me had found it to be. Instead of thinking about the nature of memory, I kept thinking, "aha, this is the famous passage!"
That said, I own a madeleine pan, and have made madeleines in it from a very simple, authentic recipe I found in a book about Paris (not in my LT catalog yet, unfortunately - it will get cataloged eventually). The madeleines were delicious! All that butter! And they bring back memories of Paris, even though I didn't eat any during my visit to Paris, but only afterward.
I think I had read the "madeleine" passage so many, many times before I ever read Swann's Way that a lot of the meaning had been already squeezed out of it. It didn't exactly fall flat, but it also wasn't meaningful in the way Proust meant it to be or in the way so many readers before me had found it to be. Instead of thinking about the nature of memory, I kept thinking, "aha, this is the famous passage!"
That said, I own a madeleine pan, and have made madeleines in it from a very simple, authentic recipe I found in a book about Paris (not in my LT catalog yet, unfortunately - it will get cataloged eventually). The madeleines were delicious! All that butter! And they bring back memories of Paris, even though I didn't eat any during my visit to Paris, but only afterward.
12yooperprof
Hard to choose just one! This is from Swann's Way:
Had my parents allowed me, when I read a book, to pay a visit to the country it described, I should have felt that I was making an enormous advance towards the ultimate conquest of truth. For even if we have the sensation of being always enveloped in, surrounded by our own soul, still it does not seem a fixed and immovable prison; rather do we seem to be borne away with it, and perpetually struggling to pass beyond it, to break out into the world, with a perpetual discouragement as we hear endlessly, all around us, that unvarying sound which is no echo from without, but the resonance of a vibration from within. We try to discover in things, endeared to us on that account, the spiritual glamour which we ourselves have cast upon them; we are disillusioned, and learn that they are in themselves barren and devoid of the charm which they owed, in our minds, to the association of certain ideas; sometimes we mobilize all our spiritual forces in a glittering array so as to influence and subjugate other human beings who, as we very well know, are situated outside ourselves, where we can never reach them. And so, if I always imagined the woman I loved as in a setting of whatever places I most longed, at the time, to visit; if in my secret longings it was she who attracted me to them, who opened to me the gate of an unknown world, that was not by the mere hazard of a simple association of thoughts; no, it was because my dreams of travel and of love were only moments--which I isolate artificially today as though I were cutting sections, at different heights, in a jet of water, rainbow-flashing but seemingly without flow or motion--were only drops in a single, undeviating, irresistible outrush of all the forces of my life.
Had my parents allowed me, when I read a book, to pay a visit to the country it described, I should have felt that I was making an enormous advance towards the ultimate conquest of truth. For even if we have the sensation of being always enveloped in, surrounded by our own soul, still it does not seem a fixed and immovable prison; rather do we seem to be borne away with it, and perpetually struggling to pass beyond it, to break out into the world, with a perpetual discouragement as we hear endlessly, all around us, that unvarying sound which is no echo from without, but the resonance of a vibration from within. We try to discover in things, endeared to us on that account, the spiritual glamour which we ourselves have cast upon them; we are disillusioned, and learn that they are in themselves barren and devoid of the charm which they owed, in our minds, to the association of certain ideas; sometimes we mobilize all our spiritual forces in a glittering array so as to influence and subjugate other human beings who, as we very well know, are situated outside ourselves, where we can never reach them. And so, if I always imagined the woman I loved as in a setting of whatever places I most longed, at the time, to visit; if in my secret longings it was she who attracted me to them, who opened to me the gate of an unknown world, that was not by the mere hazard of a simple association of thoughts; no, it was because my dreams of travel and of love were only moments--which I isolate artificially today as though I were cutting sections, at different heights, in a jet of water, rainbow-flashing but seemingly without flow or motion--were only drops in a single, undeviating, irresistible outrush of all the forces of my life.
13dperrings
Well you can choose more then one.
do you know what page this is on ?
very nice passage.
david
do you know what page this is on ?
very nice passage.
david
