Summary
The first in a series of seven books, ‘Swann’s Way’ opens with reflections by a narrator on some of his earliest memories, one of which involves being visited by a man named Charles Swann. After a period of reflection, we begin to follow Swann, a man of society, as he eventually falls in love with a former courtesan named Odette de Crécy. The rest of the book chronicles the rise and fall of their relationship.
Thoughts
I’ve never read Proust but having heard the name referenced enough, I thought it time to give one of his books a try. After all, I read Kafka, I am now qualified to call something ‘Kafkaesque’; although the right moment for that has yet to arise. Perhaps now, I can use the phrase ‘Proustian moment’! ‘Swann’s Way’ is part of a larger collection labeled ‘In Search of Lost Time’ or ‘Remembrance of Things Past.’ Both themes are prominent as Proust explores the ways in which we remember as well as the ways we are remembered. Even in the most insignificant details of our daily life, none of us can be said to constitute a material whole, which is identical for everyone, and need only be turned up like a page in an account-book or the record of a will; our social personality is created by the thoughts of other people. Many authors and poets have written about memory and things gone by, but few, in my experience, have done so with such skill. Here is a quote of his about the strange power that certain objects have to magically conjure long-forgotten memories, often with unforeseeable force. And so it is with our own past. It is a labor in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) of which we have no inkling. And it depends on chance whether or not we come upon this object before we ourselves must die. Describing the beauty of his prose is difficult, especially after coming off of ‘The Catcher in the Rye’s’ more pedestrian style. It was somewhat similar to Dickens but more abstract. Despite this, I personally did not enjoy the book, perhaps because I consumed it over too long a period, when it would have been better to take it in larger doses. The plot of a jealous husband is not, in itself, enough to interest me, so the weight of the narrative had to be borne by the writing itself. While it did an excellent job, I was still left cold at points, wondering how long I would be forced to hear about this or that thing someone did, or a party that a character wasn’t invited to. Overall, I am glad I read it, and I will end this review with one of my favorite quotes, wherein the narrator remembers a typical day he experienced in childhood.
Sometimes in the afternoon sky, the moon would pass white as a cloud, furtive, lusterless, like an actress who does not have to perform yet and who, from the audience, in street clothes, watches the other actors for a moment, making herself inconspicuous, not wanting anyone to pay attention to her.