Of Proust, Literary Fascism, and the Veritable God of Puberty

(also with footnotes)




I realize that this has nothing to do with this post, but still:
book art. I want to attempt it, though obviously
not at this level of mastery. It's going to involve an
exacto knife, patience, and a lot of glue.

Last week, I took a short break from reading À la recherche du temps perdu, a break that involved reading, among other things*, Middlesex, Asterios Polyp (officially one of the best, if not the very best, graphic novel I've read) and, of course, Lolita. The first book was interesting, the second enlightening, the third exceedingly well-written, despite of, though mostly because of, its subject matter (though this goes without saying). It was so well-written, in fact, that it inspired me to start reading À la recherche again, immediately, despite the fact that I hadn't slept in over 24 hours. Here's what happened:



Again with the book art. At first the whole idea--
cutting up an art form I prize above all else--
appalled me, but now I find myself sort of intrigued.
I think it poses an eloquent response to those who would
suppose that paper books are becoming obsolete.

I was sitting in study hall, reading Lolita and watching a guy next to me fall asleep at his desk-- a parody of sleep, played out in slow motion: eyes closing once, again, head lowering downward** in measured increments, as if by some mechanical rather than biological process. Possibly, he was under the influence of some chemical substance, though I didn't think it wise to ask him at the time. I was contemplating this, and skimming a particularly alarming passage, when a certain line caught my eye-- I don't remember what it was, but I remember thinking: Oh THAT, yes, that was really smooth. Smooth: Proust's word, meant to connote a certain evenness of cadence or tone, which for me carried a series of associations decidedly after his time; smooth: darkness and red lipstick and a saxophone, lazy cantralto voices, swinging, smoky, providing a semblance of effortlessness almost impossible for even the most masterful of writers to achieve. And, all of a sudden-- someone, by the way, recently informed me that it's properly "all of a sudden" instead of "all of the sudden," and this caused my ignorant little mind to be promptly blown-- I needed, needed, needed to read À la recherche du temps perdu.

How to describe Proust to you? I could quote Alain de Bottom: "One is never far from a phrase that feels so acute and so true that it seems to be... hewn out of primordial psychological matter." The whole purpose of writing is and always has been communication****-- that is, the act of two minds communing, through the loveliest and most fundamental medium possible-- and Proust is communication at its finest. Somehow, he manages to capture the parts of existence most frustrating to both the writer and the individual-- the indefinable moments, the small, human moments, seemingly particular to you and you alone-- with breathtaking ease, clarity and precision. Normally, I wouldn't consider applying the word "precision" per se to a work as long as this-- seven volumes in length, did I mention that?-- but it's really the only one that's appropriate, as the ideas Proust tackles are simply so massive-- think love, art, beauty, death, the nature of memory and time-- as to require some manner of circumlocution, circling around them again and again, testing them from different angles, finally forming a complete picture, and one more masterful than any that other writer, in my ever-humble opinion, has achieved.

I recently found this book on one
of said lists, and it made me so, so
angry. Usually, I'm a fairly open-minded
person when it comes to books-- hey,
I read Lolita-- but I threw the last |
Fowles book I read at the wall.
Because, reading Lolita, you know that
Nabokov wasn't a pedophile, but reading,
say, The Collector or The Aristos, you
know that Fowles was an complete and
unrepentant fascist. And I should
read this before I die?

Maybe I'm being grandiose, but this is Proust, and if you read only one book in your life, read this one. I usually hate those lists titled "The 100 Books You Should Read Before You Die," and whatnot, partially because I think that we won't realize how positively mediocre so-called modern classics are for a few more decades at least (sorry, Harper Lee), and because I think that there is an enormous difference between a book that is important and one that is well-written. And though these two critical areas occasionally overlap, they often don't.

On a side note, I also think that these lists, considering how often they mirror lists of required high school reading, shed considerable light on how educators treat literature at a high school level. In all the English courses I've taken (five and counting) I've never had a teacher acknowledge that this book, this poem, this short story, is nothing more or less than a work of art, a masterpiece in some cases, in which each word is chosen with a particular genius, inimitable and invaluable. And I think that books are also far too often taught as if their sole raison d'être is to impart some  moral lesson for the student, like a stodgy, ruler-wielding nun around lurking through the centuries, waiting to dump a load of turgid, anachronistic prose on any who dares offend her. And, although THAT  was certainly an embarrassing metaphor, it is also an apt one, I think. Maybe it would be better for society***** if students learned important lessons rather than to appreciate literature, but I'm not sure that's what English classes should aim to teach. How many times have heard someone, peering at the back of a book I'm reading, comment that they "just don't like poetry?" Well, then you must not be reading the right things, or reading them the right way. Go pick up a volume of Rimbaud. There's a reason he's been called "a veritable god of puberty," after all. Angst, angst, and more angst. Except written beeyootifully, and in French. 

And that, for the moment, is all I have to say. 

* I also read a rather excellent new translation of Rilke (because I was in a Rilke sort of mood, the sort of mood that makes me want to drop everything and learn German so I can read the originals) and Keats's letters to Fanny Brawne (because it was Valentine's Day and, although I affect a cynical attitude toward matters of the heart (and perhaps toward everything in general), it seemed necessary to read them again.)

** Or, as Nabokov would have said, deskward. 



Another picture completely irrelevant to the text:
a Prufrock scarf. I need it, immediately.

*** Given that it was Nabokov, I'm not entirely that the similarity of that passage to Proust's writing wasn't unintentional. There were so many allusions in that book that went flying over my head, though I understood some of them-- Poe, Poe, and more Poe, Baudelaire (!), Byron-- and it made me realize once again how shamefully ill-read (that is, the opposite of well-read) I am, how I could spend my entire life reading and never be finished, never be satisfied.

**** Considering how often "literary" or "serious" literature is confused with incomprehensible literature, I think people need to be reminded of this. Communication, not obfuscation. It really should be that simple.

***** Because, isn't that what schools are aiming to produce, "good citizens?" And whether a good citizen is the same as an educated citizen is really up for debate, and a particularly Orwellian one at that.

Miscellanea: Of Swann’s Way, Writer’s Block, Parenthetical Remarks, &c.*

(now with footnotes)

This is going to be a long, long post. In fact, it is so long that it's going to need a brief table of contents, as listed below:

i.                    Why this post will be so lengthy

ii.                   Why this blog will not proceed as planned

And so, without further ado (or, as some dreadfully mistaken Francophiles would rather have it, “without further adieu”), let’s begin.

i.                    Why this post will be so lengthy

At the moment, I am experiencing terrible writer’s block, a malady I find particularly difficult to explain to non-writers or un-creative people in general. Perhaps this is because writers, while writing, use bits of their brains in unique and not entirely replicable ways, or perhaps this is because I am bad at explaining things. Well, we’ll see about the second option, as I’m about to try. Said attempt will involve a dramatic, extended metaphor. Bare (bear?) with me.

This is my brick wall. Now that you mention it,
yes, it is purple. I hate purple. 

Generally, I start to explain writer’s block by stating that it is not dissimilar to running head-on into a brick wall. People that I am explaining this to(the explainees?) promptly misinterpret this, assuming I mean that writer's block involves running head-on into a brick wall and stopping, as any normal, mentally healthy individual would do. This is not the case. 

Writer’s block is running into a brick wall, picking yourself back up, and then running into it again, and running into it again, and then starting at a different angle, and running into it again, and repeating this until you are irritable and covered in bruises and smiling acidly and saying things like “hell is other people,” because you really can’t understand why everyone else isn’t as insanely frustrated (or as frustratingly insane) as you are.

This book*** (which is my favorite novel
written  in the last 21 years, by the way)
is at least partially responsible for my
budding interest in learning Ancient Greek.
There's even an old Liddell & Scott in the
school library-- should I try it? 

Did that make any sense? Regardless, it’s a fine summary of how I’m feeling at present, if you’d like to know. It’s also the reason that this blog will be so terribly long, as it feels wonderful to write something that doesn’t (apologies, Mr. Arra) actually matter. The words come easily, I can be long-winded and excessively parenthetical, I can write a few sentences without stopping to look up a synonym for “miasma” (which, if you are curious (as I know you are (see, this is what I mean by excessively parenthetical)) is one of my new favorite words, specifically because it is derived from the Greek miasmatos, or defilement). In short, there’s simply less wall-bashing. And so you’ll again just have to bare (or bear) with me.

ii.   Why this blog will not proceed as planned

I sympathize. Or rather, empathize.

Normally, I realize that aiming to read a 400-page book every two weeks would seem almost ridiculously ambitious, but I read quickly and often. For an illustration of what I mean by “quickly and often,” imagine removing your TV from your house and only watching it once or twice a month, and imagine that you filled all that time with reading instead. Now, imagine that you are a chronic insomniac who spends most of your night hours staring morosely at the ceiling; imagine filling that time with more reading, and a considerable amount of writing, and maybe attempting to memorize a 435-line poem (see how productive you could be if you just stopped sleeping?). You’re now only one step away from understanding what it’s like to be me. Finally, imagine that you are a very focused person and one who—perhaps by virtue of your general abstinence from TV-watching—has a relatively long attention span. Imagine that you often sit down and read a book in a matter of hours, and laugh derisively at those who read a book for more than several days. With that in mind, deciding to complete the entirety of À la recherche du temps perdu  doesn’t seem to ambitious, does it? (C’mon, at least humor me here.) Does it?

Unfortunately, it turned out to be unachievable, for several reasons:

a. This book is DENSE
I know, this should go without saying. The main word that people use to describe Proust's prose style is "architectural"-- as in, complex, intricate, consisting of unabashedly massive sentences that go on and on, flit off on tangents, discuss the weather, comment slyly on all sorts of taboos, and then return inevitably to the first clause's object, lost somewhat in that maze of words, but there all the same. Which, of course, appears absolutely masterful during the daylight hours, but can be almost unbearable (unbarable?) in the middle of the night, when all I really want is a bit of light, painless reading. Like, for instance, a certain delayed Christmas present: The Marlowe Papers, a delightful historic-fic about Christopher Marlowe, written entirely in blak verse (now that must of taken some serious dedication!). Because, who doesn't want to wake up at 2:00 am and read poetry about Marlowe? Wait, don't answer that question.



In reality, our public library is rather cold and utilitarian.
However, in my head, it looks more like the above 
picture. Perception vs. Reality... I guess Proust is
getting to me.

     b. I cleaned my room

Cue scratched heads and vague frowns. I'll explain: I cleaned my room and found two incredibly overdue library books, which prompted an ill-advised trip to the library. The short version: I returned the books, paid the fine, checked out several more books, and started reading them instead of À la recherche du temps perdu. The long version: I returned the books (Brideshead Revisited and All the Pretty Horses), only to find that they were not only overdue but also falling apart, which gave the librarians an excuse to glare at me evilly. I then checked out (of all things) Asterios Polyp****, Middlesex, and Lolita*****, an unlikely combination that caused the evil staring to morph into something positively sinister. I then fled the library and, much aggrieved, began to read the books out of spite.

Which all amounts to one crucial fact: I will not be finishing the seven volumes of À la recherche du temps perdu quickly enough to write a post about each of them. Instead, I'll be blogging more organically about Proust instead, with each post pertaining to one faucet of his writing instead of to each volume specifically. My apologies.

*Re: &
I have been almost continually surprised by how unfamiliar people are with this lovely little piece of punctuation, the ampersand.** While it is supposed by many to denote the word “and,” it is actually a notation for the Latin word “et,” in which the letters have been combined in a ligature to form its inimitable and visually-pleasing shape. Ergo, (more Latin) &c. = etc. = et cetera. Sadly, the ampersand fell out of use some decades back, though I’ve been clinging to it for the sheer sake of its anachronicity.

I found this picture will perusing the interweb,
and now I desperately, desperately need to make one.
And, of course, eat it. 

** The word “ampersand,” by the way, is a sort of ligature in itself, produced from years of bored schoolchildren slurring the word and-per-se-and, from way back when all letters in the alphabet that could function as a single word (as in, “I” and “O”) had and-per-se jammed in front of them, and “and” (“&”) (how’s that for unnecessary quotation marks?) served as the 27^th letter of the alphabet. There, isn’t that fascinating? Don’t you feel like such a fuller person for knowing that?

*** The Secret History always brings to mind something Salinger said--in The Catcher in the Rye, I think it was-- about a book making its reader want to befriend its author. Just last week, listening to the audiobook version, I realized that one of Tartt's main characters, Henry Winter-- besides being pasty-faced, ascetic, and wearing little round spectacles-- also speaks the exact languages T. S. Eliot did (Latin, Greek, French, German, Sanskrit and Pali, if you're interested). I'm not sure what's stranger-- the fact that Tartt included that charming little detail, or that I noticed it.
****  If you're in any way convinced that graphic novels don't constitute serious fiction, then I'd advise reading this book immediatley. It touched on many of the same themes as À la recherche du temps perdu:

***** Really, what I wanted to read was Pale Fire, but they didn't have it. So instead, I'm reading Lolita, and being alternatley disgusted by the subject matter and delighted by Nabokov's sheer literary genius-- and then feeling vaguely guilty for any delight experienced. Because, let's face it, well-written books about child-molestation are still just well-written books about child- molestation.