How can I ever retrieve all the thoughts I had about the fifth book in Prousts seven-volume series actually the eight in my ten-volume edition. It begins to seem like a sadly futile recherche du temps perdu. And yet, the urge to write something, I often wonder for whom I write my reviews, of course for myself most definitely, it bothers me a lot to leave a book unreviewed now that I have adopted It will soon be a year since I read this book so writing a review of it now seems almost impossible. And yet, the urge to write something, I often wonder for whom I write my reviews, of course for myself most definitely, it bothers me a lot to leave a book unreviewed now that I have adopted this practice of recording impressions left on my mind by what I have read, that by posting them in a public place, I intend the words to be read by others as in the diaries people wrote hoping they might be published one day and which surely were being censored as they wrote, so yes, I censor as I write and Proust did too, searching for just the right coded formula with which to convey his preoccupations most clearly and most opaquely at the very same time, a neat trick, and confusing sometimes, especially when I try to do it. Now you are confused too, no doubt, if you are still reading. And yes, he wrote that line one hundred years ago.

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Not quite. Our friend is as jealous as ever, and if he does shower Albertine with gifts, the price she pays for her luxurious lifestyle is a heavy one.

Surrounded by spies and forced to reveal every detail of how she spends her days, she is little more than a plaything kept in a gilded cage. This time, however, the Baron overplays his hand, and in ignoring the feelings of those around him brings about a disastrous turn in his fortunes. Despite his desperate efforts to prevent Albertine from seeing women he suspects probably rightly of being bad influences i.

The title of this volume has obvious connotations. Surprisingly, though, the title could also describe Marcel himself. His health issues keep him cooped up at home most of the time, and his dreams of visiting Venice make for a cruel contrast with his dull home life even the cries of itinerant salespeople outside his window make him long for a freer life. And then he opens his mouth again, and all that sympathy melts away… As is always the Proustian way, the writing is beautiful, intriguing and mind-numbingly slow in equal parts.

Another difference is far more personal as this was the first of the books that I read on paper. The notes and preface shed light on the history of the text and its real-life influences and inspirations, all making for fascinating reading.


Marcel Proust

Proust eventually arranged with the publisher Grasset to pay the cost of publication himself. When published it was advertised as the first of a three-volume novel Bouillaguet and Rogers , —7. Gallimard the publishing arm of NRF offered to publish the remaining volumes, but Proust chose to stay with Grasset. This freed Proust to move to Gallimard, where all of the subsequent volumes were published. Meanwhile, the novel kept growing in length and in conception. When published, the novel was awarded the Prix Goncourt in It was the last volume over which Proust supervised publication before his death in November


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