1.
The problem with finishing Proust is that there’s nothing left to read. I’m sure Swing Time is just as excellent as everyone says, but it felt like a slog to me, and I stopped close to the end, with only 40 pages left to go. It sits on my bookshelf, unfinished. The same went for my book group’s March pick, a classic, Les Liasions Dangereuses. I tried some novels that I’d been meaning to read for months, but they didn’t matter anymore. Nothing seemed interesting. Apparently, this particular form of boredom is common for anyone who has finished In Search of Lost Time. Anne Carson describes it as “the desert of after Proust:”
There’s a kind of glacial expanse that opens where nothing seems worth reading and all you want is for Proust to start over again, but of course he can’t and so you read, in a desultory way, things about Proust or criticism or biography, but it’s not the same and eventually you just give up and realize you’ll be in Proust withdrawal for a while and then life will sort of go on in a grayer level.
Like Carson, I picked up criticism and biographies of Proust, as well as Alain de Botton’s How Proust Can Change Your Life. De Botton’s book was especially depressing, like reading the tour guide of a country you’d just visited, and wouldn’t be able to return to for many years.
Knowing I might feel bereft, I stretched out the final volume, Time Regained, for as long as I could. For me, it was the most compelling part of the novel because it spoke so directly to the writing process. After years of frittering away his time at social events, Marcel has a strange and unexpected revelation when he’s on his way to yet another party. While crossing the courtyard outside the Guermantes mansion, he jumps out of the way of a car, nearly tripping on some uneven paving stones. The feeling of disequilibrium brings back a strong memory of Venice—a memory as strong as the one that famously came to him when he dunked a madeleine in a cup of tea and his childhood visits to Combray bloomed in his mind. All at once, Marcel understands the work he must do to write the book he has dreamed of composing.
In a startlingly direct 200-page passage, Marcel describes what writing is, what memory is, and how writing and memory allows us to translate our experience of life—our consciousness—into art. He explains the way that our deepest-held impressions are accessed through our senses, by the sound of a bell, the feeling of paving stones beneath one’s feet, or by the taste of a cookie dipped in tea. In Proust’s philosophy of memory, the majority of our recollections are intellectualized narratives; these are voluntary memories. But involuntary memories are those that come to us when we encounter a physical sensation that seems to put us in two worlds at once: the past and the present. These types of memories dissolve time, and they also, Proust observes, dissolve the ego:
These [memories], on the contrary, instead of giving me a more flattering idea of myself, had almost caused me to doubt the reality, the existence of the self.
To forget oneself is one of the great joys of writing, possibly the greatest joy, but we’re not living in a moment when people are encouraged to forget themselves. Social media, our most popular narrative form, is all about intellectualizing memory, and crafting a narrative of self that gives a particular impression. But these curated memories don’t have much correspondence to what people actually think or feel. Furthermore, most of us aren’t aware of their most deeply buried memories, the ones that shape our experience of life. If you want to find out your true impressions, Proust says, you must push away the distractions of everyday life:
As for the inner book of unknown symbols…if I tried to read them, no one could help me with any rules, for to read them was an act of creation in which no one can do our work for us or even collaborate with us. How many for this reason turn aside from writing! What tasks do men not take upon themselves in order to evade this task! Every public event, be it the Dreyfus case, be it the war, furnishes the writer with a fresh excuse for not attempting to decipher this book.
I read those words on Tuesday in February. I know it was a Tuesday because my son has swimming lessons on Tuesdays, and, having read Time Regained for longer than I’d intended, I was in a rush to pick him up from school and take him to class. Still, I arrived at the YMCA pool in a spaced-out mood.
Usually I bring my smartphone down to the observation deck, so that I can check emails and read the news while my son takes his lesson, but on that day, prodded by what I had read, I left my phone in the locker room. I brought my book group’s February selection—Bluets, by Maggie Nelson—but I didn’t open it. Instead I stared at the pool, occasionally searching for my son’s swim-capped head. The scent of the chlorine was strong and I drifted into memories: my lifeguard training as a teenager, an unhappy time when I swam lap after lap on Saturday mornings in a pool that left my hair greenish. I changed among girls I didn’t know and who didn’t seem to like me particularly. The bathroom smelled strongly of bleach. Later, I found out that I didn’t even enjoy lifeguarding, but I did like the confidence it gave me in the water. I love to swim laps in the ocean and out to the middle of lakes. I want my son to have the same love of swimming when he’s older, but I don’t know if that’s something you can actually pass on.
My son finished his lesson and I dried him off with a white towel worn from industrial washings. We put his suit in the noisy drier that I’m certain is damaging to the fabric of his swimsuit but which he loves to operate. I wondered if he would remember any of it—the noise, the chlorine, the shower stalls—years from now.
2.
That same Tuesday, my husband and I went to a lecture by the philosopher Daniel Dennett. He was promoting his new book, From Bacteria to Bach and Back: The Evolution of Minds, which addresses the evolution of human consciousness. As we waited to attend the lecture in a very long line outside of a warehouse near Brooklyn’s Gowanus Canal, I noticed that the majority of the people in line were looking at their smartphones. It was an unremarkable observation, but waiting in a long line had gotten me nostalgic for my 20s, when free lectures were a way of life. Except, back then, no one had smart phones. Instead, you had a book, or a magazine, or you made idle conversation with your friend or the friend of your friend who arrived first. If you called someone on your phone, the people around you were slightly annoyed to be put in the position of eavesdropping on your one-sided conversation. Everything was a little bit awkward, and a little bit boring. But on that night in Gowanus, nothing was awkward. No one was bored. Everyone was on their phones, doing as they pleased: playing games, texting, posting, reading, scrolling, commenting, joking. It was great, maybe? Or it was sad? Were these even the right questions to ask?
It was a mild night, for February. Above the sky was faded New York City black, with the streetlights glowing orange. The sidewalk was cracked and uneven and there were puddles at the curb, reflecting the lights. The gutters were dirty with trash and debris. People waved to approaching friends and companions, removing earpieces in advance of hugs and kisses. They showed each other images, lit by small glowing screens. They checked the time. Many human behaviors remained the same. But a certain lull was gone.
There was also, harder to pinpoint, a disengagement from the physical world. I probably wouldn’t have been aware of it if I hadn’t just read Proust’s theory of involuntary memory, and the role of sensory input in the formation of thoughts and memories. I wondered how many people waiting were absorbing anything about waiting in line with these particular people at this particular moment in time. I wondered if it mattered. I wondered if the online world, that abstract place of arguments and images, comments and shares, likes and links, was becoming, or had already become, larger in people’s imaginations than the world of paving stones and dirty puddles, telephone poles and night skies, elevated trains and guard rails, dropped gloves, car horns, peeling paint, swiftly moving clouds, and strangers standing close enough that you can smell their floral perfume. I wondered if I was a foolish, stubborn person, willfully out of touch with a new social language, a new way of being human.
During his lecture, Dennett discussed his theory that consciousness is a mental process that has evolved over time and exists on a spectrum across many living creatures. He argued that human consciousness is unusually powerful because it allows us to be aware of our capabilities. That is, a spider can make a complex web but as far is we know, a spider is not aware of its web-making skills. From our awareness comes an ability to be intelligent designers; we don’t have to wait on the slow-moving, trial-and-error process of biological evolution to grow our species. We have cultural knowledge, such as language, music, and cooking, to help us survive and thrive.
When describing the transmission of ideas among humans, Dennett refers to memes, a word that originates with Richard Dawkins’s book The Selfish Gene. Dennett defines memes as “a kind of way of behaving (roughly) that can be copied, transmitted, remembered, taught, shunned, denounced, brandished, ridiculed, parodied, censored, hallowed.” Words, Dennett writes, “are the best examples of memes.” He likens memes to viruses, looking for a host in a human brain. He sees them as similar to genes in their ability to replicate. He’s deeply interested in artificial intelligence, which he sees as a new stage of human evolution. His ideas are controversial among philosophers, and to be honest, I’m still working my way through his very long, very dense book and don’t completely understand his theory of consciousness, nor the arguments of his detractors. But his book was the one that brought me out of my post-Proust reading drought, I think because he looks closely at human habits, the way that Proust does.
After the lecture, there was a Q&A, and an attendee asked Dennett for his view on religion’s influence on culture. Dennett said religion was a meme, a way of behaving in the world, and like all memes, its chief goal was to spread among humans. He didn’t think there was a point in assessing religion as good or bad for humans. His verdict: “Religion is good for itself.” Hearing that, I couldn’t help applying the same formulation to social media: “Social media is good for itself.” There is really no point in deciding if social media is good or bad. It is now part of our cultural evolution and there’s no going back. Like religion, it is sometimes a means for justice and compassion. And like religion, it is also sometimes destructive and divisive. I thought of all those people, waiting outside, their heads bent over their phones, as if in prayer. I realized that my discomfort with social media is similar to my discomfort with organized religion. I am sympathetic to its allure, and in awe of its power to organize communities and bring about social change, but I am alarmed by the way it creates a new reality for people.
3.
That was February. Now it’s June and I’ve been taking a break from social media for the past few months. For me, that meant quitting Instagram, neglecting my Tumblr feed, and ignoring online comment fields. I also removed email from my phone, which made the biggest difference in my daily routine. I hadn’t realized how much I was checking email. I also wasn’t aware of how often I was taking photos with the thought of posting them to Instagram. It’s a relief to have those small decisions—Should I check email? Should I take a photo? Should I post a photo?—removed from my life. There’s still plenty of distractions on my phone, but I stare into space more than I used to, and I pay closer attention to strangers, and passersby. My life feels quieter and more relaxed, but also lonelier. If I wasn’t living in a place with a busy street life, and where I know a lot of my neighbors, I think I might feel very isolated. I keep noticing how often people refer to things that have “happened” on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Slack, and in the comments section.
But do the things that happen on social media actually happen? Do they have any basis in reality? This is the question I keep returning to. I know that what happens on social media affects reality, and it affects people’s perception of reality, and maybe that’s enough. But I also know that when I meet people in real life after following them on social media, the online version of the person usually becomes irrelevant. A person’s social media profile is kind of like the publisher’s summary on the backs of novels. Maybe it draws you in, or maybe it turns you off, but it likely has very little to say about the actual experience of reading a particular book. It’s better to open the book at random and read a few pages, just as it’s more informative to meet someone in person. Even an extremely self-aware person, who is “good at social media,” has aspects of their personality or physical presence that they would never think to display. It’s also just very difficult to represent yourself on media platforms whose parameters are designed with the intent, above all, to grow and replicate a larger network. (Remember, social media is only good for itself.)
The difficulty of knowing yourself is one of Proust’s central themes, and one I’ve touched on several times throughout my posts. For most of In Search of Lost Time, Proust explores this law of human perception through social life, as he gently exposes the hypocrisies and delusions of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. He’s so good on other people that you barely notice that his narrator, Marcel, is a struggling writer, a person who tries, and fails, repeatedly, to undergo the self-examination necessary to write. It’s only in the final volume that Proust addresses the difficulty of discovering (or rediscovering) a reality that is worth expressing:
The work of the artist, this struggle to discern beneath matter, beneath experience, beneath words, something that is different from them, is a process exactly the reverse of that which, in those everyday lives which we live with our gaze averted from ourselves, is at every moment being accomplished by vanity and passion and the intellect, and habit too, when they smother our true impressions, so as entirely to conceal them from us, beneath a whole heap of verbal concepts and practical goals which we falsely call life.
I underlined that passage with the passion of an undergraduate, feeling as if I’d discovered the secret of writing—of life, possibly. Yes, my true impressions were constantly being smothered. Because what else is social media but a process fueled by vanity, passion, intellect, and above all, habit? What else is so much of Internet content, with its barrage of hashtags, inspo, links, and #goals, but “a whole heap of verbal concepts and practical goals which we falsely call life”?
I feel naïve writing these things, and when I first started thinking about this post, I wanted to title it: How Proust Convinced Me to Give Up My Smartphone. But to write that essay, I’d have to give up my phone, and I don’t want to. My phone makes certain parts of life really easy, and it also makes it easier for other people to be in contact with me—important people like family members, friends, neighbors, and my son’s teachers and caregivers. There’s also the fact that I’m writing this essay on a platform that uses social media and mobile apps to distribute its content. I can be as morose and confused as I want about the proliferation of social media, but the reality is that I have become habituated to its many uses.
This is the struggle of modern life, an irony Proust touches on throughout In Search of Lost Time, as he encounters new technology like telephones, airplanes, and motorcars. He loves the convenience of calling his grandmother, and yet he experiences new strains of melancholy when he hears her voice through the receiver. One can only imagine the new forms of jealousy he would have encountered if his beloved Albertine had been on Instagram. And yet he would have adapted. Habit, “that skillful and unhurrying manager,” would have interceded.
Louis C.K. has a joke about how quickly we adapt to technology, the joke being that the first thing we do after achieving an amazing technological advancement—like flight—is to complain that it could be better. For Louis C.K., this is evidence of our fundamental ingratitude and unhappiness, but Dennett might say that our rapid acclimation to new technology is the special gift of our species, the thing that has allowed for our wild success in reproduction and survival. I think Proust’s observations on the power of habit bridge both views. Reading Proust became a habit for me, and it’s one I still miss, months later. Certain books, Proust writes, can be a lens for your life, a way to see more clearly. His novel certainly did that for me. Years from now, I’ll read it again, when I need to see the world with fresh eyes.
Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons.
Unfortunately, the Tadié biography is terrible. So you shouldn’t feel bad that you haven’t read it. (I read it in French and it was quite bad, but apparently the the English translation is worse, as it’s somewhat abridged.) Bill Carter’s bio is much better.
As for reading Proust, go for it! I’ve read the cycle four times, once in English, then later in French. Not to toot my horn, but I wrote something on my website recently about re-reading Proust that might interest you:
http://www.mcelhearn.com/re-reading-proust-memory-and-exile/
@Kirk I’m actually reading a version of Swann’s Way that is annotated by Carter, and it’s excellent, so maybe I’ll give his biography a try, too. Good to know I haven’t missed anything with the Tadie, though I do notice that it is often cited as a reference in articles, and in an recent short biography of Proust by Benjamin Taylor.
Thanks for sharing your essay. It was interesting to hear how the original French compares, and interesting that you found it was closer to spoken French–I’ve always felt that way about Proust, that his sentences aren’t that hard to follow if you “listen” to them. Sometimes if I find myself getting distracted, I’ll read out loud for a bit.
Ah, Hannah, I had to smile….you created a new iPod Habit!
Proust’s wisdom on Habits made me look seriously at a few of my own.
So pleased you are reading Carter’s “Swann’s Way,” as it is the only annotated edition in English. His second volume came out last year, “In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower,” and “The Guermantes Way” is being printed by Yale University Press this year.
“And so, here I am, 10 years (!) later, trying again to finish one of the best novels I’ve ever read, possibly the best novel I’ve ever read. (I’ll know for sure when I finish.)”
Hannah, if you took a break while reading the fourth volume, and have now returned to begin again, you must know, intuitively, that Proust resonates within you.
Please email directly, if you need any encouragement. ;)
And Kirk is one our most generous gurus!
Marcelita
PS I will be seeing Benjamin Taylor on Feb. 14th, at the 92nd St Y, New York.
Here is his audio course on the novel (scroll down):
“SEMINAR ON PROUST’S IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME”
Columbia University, Department of English and Comparative Literature
Winter – Spring 2013
http://www.benjamintaylorauthor.com/links/
A favorite:
Antoine Compagnon’s 2013 lecture series on “Swann’s Way,” with English voice-over. Very detailed, one lecture just on the thirteen re-writes of the first sentence!
http://www.college-de-france.fr/site/en-antoine-compagnon/course-2012-2013.htm
Taking a slow pace helps. I did the entire thing 2 books per year (Fall and Spring) and took 4 years to complete. Easily the best novel I’ve read in my life (and I’ve read a number of them). And because it is so rich, endlessly re-readable.Looking forward to reading your posts.
I quit reading after the fourth book because I found the character of Albertine so annoying I wanted to push her (and Proust) out of a window.
I read it in English and at the same time listened to an abridged audio version. So I’d read a chunk and then listen to the corresponding chunk. Now I feel as if I know the book inside and out, so my current project is reading it in French, a bit each night just before I go to sleep. Seeing I know what’s happening I can just go with the French without having to try and decipher anything.
@Hannah, I think the Tadié gets cited a lot because it has a lot of details. But it’s all details, there’s not much narrative. It’s not an enjoyable biography to read, it’s a biography for scholars. (And Tadié is criticized for his overly-scholarly approach to the current Pléiade French edition of Proust, where half of each volume is “notes and variants.”) I wrote a brief review of the book when it was published:
http://www.mcelhearn.com/book-review-marcel-proust-by-jean-yves-tadie/
@Marcelita: thank’s for the kind words! And thanks for pointing out the Taylor course. I recently ordered his book, and am looking forward to reading it, but his course might be interesting too.
@Kirk, you would enjoy listening to the Columbia students’ perspective on Proust.
Taylor assigns 250-300 pages a week!
Taylor instructs them, “Read fast…..because the end is a life changing experience.”
As a firm proponent of “reading innocently,” first-time readers should wait to listen, until they are well into the novel.
Just re-played Class 1:
http://benjamintaylorauthor.com/Lectures/Proust%20Seminar%201.mp3
@Marcelita Thank you for the links! I just listened to a bit of the first lecture and will definitely be downloading them onto my iPod ;) (Actually, I’ve transitioned to a smart phone, which is infinitely more distracting than that old iPod!)
It’s interesting you mention Proust on habit because I found myself underlining a couple of his sentences on the subject in the Combray sections. I love how he describes Habit as “that skillful but unhurrying manager”. I’m about three weeks into reading now and feel as if I’m beginning to form a new habit, but it hasn’t quite taken hold yet.
My book group is just starting to read this if you’re interested. We take our time.
I tried to read it slow and had problems. I discovered that, for me, reading it faster worked better. Even reading it a little drunk is fine. I don’t think of it like a regular book. It’s more like hypnosis. If you skip a sentence, don’t worry. Just keep going. You’ll read it again later because you’ll end up loving it so much. You just need a general idea what’s going on. Swann’s Way is beautiful in itself. It can stand alone. The second book takes up another thread. The third book is, in my opinion, the most dull. And then the story really takes off in the fourth book. The last book is like a lover. It’s that gorgeous and bittersweet. Getting bogged down in the scholarly aspects of it when you begin can intimidate. Later, you can look at all that and discover prisms of other worlds. It can be enjoyed and not taken like medicine.
If you speak French, there is a very good free audio reading of the whole of Proust. I am slowly wading my way through it. I will be very interested to read what you find reading him this time round. I’m sorry to say that he irritates me. He writes beautifully, but he does not know when to stop – but, in writing that, I think I’ve demonstrated how dreadfully I’ve missed the entire point.
PS If you are interested, here is what I’ve thought so far about the audio I’ve been listening to, which I’ve been making slow progress through, (I’m resolving to follow your small-amount-per-day method):
http://www.zmkc.blogspot.com.au/2014/08/the-story-so-far-proust-chapter-one.html
http://zmkc.blogspot.be/2014/10/listening-to-proust-part-two.html
Gosh, fishing for those links has made me realise it’s more than a year since I listened. Thank you for inadvertently inspiring me to return to the task.
When I was in the Navy in 1952 I found a two volume set of Remembrance of Times Past for $3 at a used book store in Jacksonville,.Fla., and I thought that was a bargain and bought the set. After I finished my Navy time and law school in 1955 I decided to read it. Started it on 27 or 28 April 1955 and finished it 7 August 1955. Some of it I liked but some I found utterly boring. Extensive quotations from my comments while reading it are in my “Review” of it on LibraryThing. I have over 5300 books listed on LibraryThing and I have read every one–since I never list a book until I have read it. And I have a “review” pf eveyone listed, and a rating of every one.
Bloggers, please save your Proust pages on the Wayback Machine (aka Archive.org), so they will always be available. So many wonderful Proust pages have already been lost, due to domain issues.
https://archive.org/web/
Example:
http://www.tempsperdu.com
I am part of a group which meets at Fullers Bookshop in Hobart. Over the past 3 years we have met Autumn and Spring.
We meet for 2 1/2 hours each week to discuss and read together Proust
We complete the Captive this week and commence the Fugitive next week.
The experience has been heavenly and a way of “keeping on track”
2017 will complete the journey.
Sue
I’d like to read Proust. Any recommendation on the order of reading the books?
In Search of Lost Time is all one super-long novel, not a series of connected novels, so it’s probably best to start with volume one and read all seven volumes through in sequence, starting with Marcel as a boy and going step by step through his life:
1. Swann’s Way
2. In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower
3. The Guermantes Way
4. Sodom and Gomorrah
5. The Prisoner
6. The Fugitive
7. Time Regained
It’s possible to read the volumes out of sequence, of course, but Proust was never a fan of dividing the novel up into separate volumes anyway. If publishing would have made it feasible, he would’ve much preferred to bring out the whole story in a single giant book. The novel is clearly designed to be read from start to finish, since it’s main technique is to introduce a theme or image and then gradually deepen and change our view of that theme or image as the novel goes along and as Marcel becomes older and brings greater knowledge to his experiences. I think you’d lose a lot of that development if you read the volumes out of sequence.
I had what I think is the same experience you described: a new book created a wedge that allowed me to break down my resistance to finally reading Proust. The book is a new one entitled Wagnerism by the New Yorker music critic Alexander Ross. Most of Chapter 9 is devoted to Proust.