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"Time Regained," the final volume of "In Search of Lost Time," begins in the bleak and uncertain years of World War I. Years later, after the war' s end, Proust' s narrator returns to Paris and reflects on time, reality, jealousy, artistic creation, and the raw material of literature-- his past life. This Modern Library edition also includes the indispensable "Guide to Proust," compiled by Terence Kilmartin and revised by Joanna Kilmartin. For this authoritative English-language edition, D. J. Enright has revised the late Terence Kilmartin' s acclaimed reworking of C. K. Scott Moncrieff' s translation to take into account the new definitive French editions of "Á la recherché du temps perdu" (the final volume of these new editions was published by the Bibliothè que de la Plé iade in 1989).… (més)
In this final volume I anticipated - and found - the narrator's examination of his writing skill, style and motivation to write this enormous biography. He begins to reflect again on writing, and how others' writing stirs him for being a reflection of what they see, a gift of having listened to and absorbed all, while previously he was making the error of dismissing and focusing too narrowly. He makes the argument however, that while he is unable to describe someone in vast physical detail (and we have actually seen that's not true, but ...), what he captures instead is an analysis of that person's inner being, and isn't that more important, more artistic? And I can't say he's wrong. These and other reflections bring his story full-circle, offering the key and solution to why he has been writing this way. He has some startlingly perceptive things to say about the true nature of inspiration and of art that really give me pause. And then his contemplation of the pressures of mortality, and whether enough time is allowed to finish his work (which is what Proust was up against), his views on a critique of his work, the novel's possible legacy, and then the closer about the vertigo of old age... wow.
Before all of this, World War One enters the story in this volume. The narrator learns that Combray has become a torn-up battleground. The drawing-room salons have to reduce their grandeur in wartime, and high society takes an awkward line between ignoring and acknowledging the war in their behaviours and discussion. This is a part of the final volume's reflections upon change, upon the divergences that emerge between past and present that can never be reconciled except in memory. There's some measure here of reconciling Saint-Loupe's present and former selves which heals one of my gripes I had, and again ties into the theme. But nothing happens to smooth over the Albertine debacle. In fact the narrator just keeps doing the same horrible thing over and over, baldly stating that his memories of her now stir absolutely no feelings in him, and it made me angrier every time. It's disturbing how little he learned from the experience. When his future love is introduced to him I wanted to yell at her to run, run while she still can.
And now it's done. Hard to believe. "We accept the thought that in ten years we ourselves, in a hundred years our books, will have ceased to exist," he writes. It's now a hundred years later and this is still top of the heap.
I both love ISOLT and have a problem with it. My love stems from Proust's readiness to smell each and every rose along the path, without seeming to have the least concern for where the path is taking him or being in any rush to get there. He has minute observations on everything and anything. If you're reading for plot, it'll drive you mad. If you can remember being a child who found wonder in every cloud and blade of grass, maybe you'll be entranced by this adult who does the equivalent: stops to examine every emotion, every link to memory, every gesture, expression, etc. Nothing passes his notice or lies beneath it that he won't stop and study. The consequence is that again and again he makes observations about everyday things that ring absolutely true and yet I'd never stopped to consider them myself. And on the subject of love, the dominant topic, I've gathered more insights about it from Proust than from anyone else I can name. Some parts have even served as a kind of therapy for various regrets I've harboured, and I feel stronger for having taken this journey with him.
My problem with ISOLT is its narrator. He's an unknown entity for the first half or two thirds, then comes into focus as an overbearingly jealous lover who at the same time is a philanderer - a terrible kind of hypocrite, in other words, who becomes impossible to respect unless he can demonstrate remorse after he learns his lesson. Instead he does no such thing, blaming his victim and carrying on with his ironclad selfishness, discarding his obsessive love after the fact like it was nothing, the same love that almost literally destroyed her. For all of his brilliant observation skills, I can't possibly like this guy.
The only slack I'll give him is the acknowledgement that he is a heterosexual who finds himself surrounded by homosexuality (an inversion of Proust's personal state and thus a way for the author to more safely explore and share the scenario with his readers). He is surprised at every turn by those whose true pleasure is revealed to be their own sex. Under these circumstances, his paranoia is arguably more rational and it could reflect Proust's personal frustrations: "Is that man attracted to me, or am I only mistaking him for a homosexual? Is he my lover by actual inclination, or only experimenting?" That would be difficult, especially in a culture where homosexuality remained largely underground. ISOLT is not on its surface sympathetic to homosexuality, but scratch just beyond that and it's clearly otherwise. ( )
Hard to believe I've finally finished this brilliant, though flawed, masterpiece! It's a maddening piece of work, funny, beautiful, engaging, mind-stretching, tedious, repetitious. I felt the need to take some quite long breaks in between volumes, so it took me a number of years to read, but I'm so glad I stuck with it.
Given Proust's rich references to art work, I highly recommend getting a copy of [b:Paintings in Proust: A Visual Companion to 'In Search of Lost Time'|3753149|Paintings in Proust A Visual Companion to 'In Search of Lost Time'|Eric Karpeles|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1348882774l/3753149._SY75_.jpg|3797011][b:Paintings in Proust: A Visual Companion to 'In Search of Lost Time'|3753149|Paintings in Proust A Visual Companion to 'In Search of Lost Time'|Eric Karpeles|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1348882774l/3753149._SY75_.jpg|3797011] as a companion value, which is a lovely thing to have in its own right.
I had to roll my eyes when I saw Gilberte and Albertine's names as early as page two. Was this going to be another obsessive missive about these women? Had Albertine lived! That is the refrain. Not exactly. Time Regained, as the final installment of Remembrance of Things Past is exactly that - a circling back to remembering people, places, and experiences long since past. It is a mediation on society, aging, relationships, art, beauty, and truth. Proust even goes back to the first moments with his mother detailed in the first volume, Swann's Way. We all grow old and we all learn things along the way. I am not sure what message Proust is trying to make with the aging of his nameless protagonist. He never really learns anything profound except that relationships are precious. Gilberte and Albertine are two women he never should have taken for granted. ( )
It seems too short. Like it just scratches the surface. It does make the world seem larger . This last volume is much more depressing than the others mainly because everyone gets old and no one learns anything. i appreciated the philosophical discussions about art. In the end it does give you new eyes to see with but now i want to put on dark glasses and go back into my cave. ( )
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès.Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua.
I should have no occasion to dwell upon this visit which I paid to the neighbourhood of Combray at perhaps the moment in my life when I thought least about Combray, had it not, precisely for that reason, brought me what was at least a provisional confirmation of certain ideas which I had first conceived along the Guermantes way, and also of certain other ideas which I had conceived on the Mesaglise way.
Por otra parte, no tendría por qué extenderme sobre aquella estancia mía cerca de Combray, y que quizá fué el momento de mi vida en que menos pensé en Combray, a no ser porque, precisamente por esto, encontré allí una comprobación, siquiera provisional, de ciertas ideas que antes tuve sobre Guermantes, y también otras ideas que tuve sobre Méséglise.
Citacions
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès.Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua.
The writer's work is merely a kind of optical instrument which he offers to the reader to enable him to discern what, without this book, he would perhaps never have perceived in himself.
Darreres paraules
Informació del coneixement compartit en anglès.Modifica-la per localitzar-la a la teva llengua.
Men om kraften bleve mig beskärd så länge att jag kunde fullborda mitt verk, skulle jag först och främst visa hur människorna även om de därvid måste te sig groteska, förutom den ringa plats som står dem till buds i rummet, upptar en som är betydligt större, en plats som är omätligt utsträckt, eftersom de likt jättar nedsänkta i årens djup samtidigt har beröring med epoker skilda åt genom ändlös räcka av dagar - en plats i Tiden.
Si me diese siquiera tiempo suficiente para realizar mi obra, lo primero que haría sería describir en ella a los hombres ocupando un lugar sumamente grande (aunque para ello hubieran de parecer seres monstruosos), comparado con el muy restringido que se les asigna en el espacio, un lugar, por el contrario, prolongado sin límite en el tiempo, puesto que, como gigantes sumergidos en los años, lindan simultáneamente con épocas tan distantes, entre las cuales vinieron a situarse tantos días.
"Time Regained," the final volume of "In Search of Lost Time," begins in the bleak and uncertain years of World War I. Years later, after the war' s end, Proust' s narrator returns to Paris and reflects on time, reality, jealousy, artistic creation, and the raw material of literature-- his past life. This Modern Library edition also includes the indispensable "Guide to Proust," compiled by Terence Kilmartin and revised by Joanna Kilmartin. For this authoritative English-language edition, D. J. Enright has revised the late Terence Kilmartin' s acclaimed reworking of C. K. Scott Moncrieff' s translation to take into account the new definitive French editions of "Á la recherché du temps perdu" (the final volume of these new editions was published by the Bibliothè que de la Plé iade in 1989).
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Google Books — S'està carregant…
(4.48)
***Group Read: Time Regained
1
Before all of this, World War One enters the story in this volume. The narrator learns that Combray has become a torn-up battleground. The drawing-room salons have to reduce their grandeur in wartime, and high society takes an awkward line between ignoring and acknowledging the war in their behaviours and discussion. This is a part of the final volume's reflections upon change, upon the divergences that emerge between past and present that can never be reconciled except in memory. There's some measure here of reconciling Saint-Loupe's present and former selves which heals one of my gripes I had, and again ties into the theme. But nothing happens to smooth over the Albertine debacle. In fact the narrator just keeps doing the same horrible thing over and over, baldly stating that his memories of her now stir absolutely no feelings in him, and it made me angrier every time. It's disturbing how little he learned from the experience. When his future love is introduced to him I wanted to yell at her to run, run while she still can.
And now it's done. Hard to believe. "We accept the thought that in ten years we ourselves, in a hundred years our books, will have ceased to exist," he writes. It's now a hundred years later and this is still top of the heap.
I both love ISOLT and have a problem with it. My love stems from Proust's readiness to smell each and every rose along the path, without seeming to have the least concern for where the path is taking him or being in any rush to get there. He has minute observations on everything and anything. If you're reading for plot, it'll drive you mad. If you can remember being a child who found wonder in every cloud and blade of grass, maybe you'll be entranced by this adult who does the equivalent: stops to examine every emotion, every link to memory, every gesture, expression, etc. Nothing passes his notice or lies beneath it that he won't stop and study. The consequence is that again and again he makes observations about everyday things that ring absolutely true and yet I'd never stopped to consider them myself. And on the subject of love, the dominant topic, I've gathered more insights about it from Proust than from anyone else I can name. Some parts have even served as a kind of therapy for various regrets I've harboured, and I feel stronger for having taken this journey with him.
My problem with ISOLT is its narrator. He's an unknown entity for the first half or two thirds, then comes into focus as an overbearingly jealous lover who at the same time is a philanderer - a terrible kind of hypocrite, in other words, who becomes impossible to respect unless he can demonstrate remorse after he learns his lesson. Instead he does no such thing, blaming his victim and carrying on with his ironclad selfishness, discarding his obsessive love after the fact like it was nothing, the same love that almost literally destroyed her. For all of his brilliant observation skills, I can't possibly like this guy.
The only slack I'll give him is the acknowledgement that he is a heterosexual who finds himself surrounded by homosexuality (an inversion of Proust's personal state and thus a way for the author to more safely explore and share the scenario with his readers). He is surprised at every turn by those whose true pleasure is revealed to be their own sex. Under these circumstances, his paranoia is arguably more rational and it could reflect Proust's personal frustrations: "Is that man attracted to me, or am I only mistaking him for a homosexual? Is he my lover by actual inclination, or only experimenting?" That would be difficult, especially in a culture where homosexuality remained largely underground. ISOLT is not on its surface sympathetic to homosexuality, but scratch just beyond that and it's clearly otherwise. (