Remembrance of Things Past

Reading Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time is less like reading a novel and more like stepping into a vast, labyrinthine world where time bends, memory whispers, and even the smallest moments carry infinite weight. Across its seven volumes, this monumental work traces the narrator’s journey from childhood to adulthood, offering not just a story, but a meditation on art, society, love, jealousy, illness, and — most of all — time itself.

At its heart, the novel is not about grand events but about how we experience life. The famous scene of the madeleine dipped in tea becomes a metaphor for involuntary memory: the idea that a forgotten moment can resurface with startling clarity and pull us back into the past, making it present again. This is not nostalgia; it’s an exploration of how memory shapes identity and perception.

Proust’s narrator moves through the salons of Paris, the landscapes of Combray and Balbec, the complexities of friendship and desire, always searching for meaning in the ephemeral. Characters like Swann, Odette, Albertine, and the Duc de Guermantes become more than figures — they are reflections of human frailty, vanity, and hope.

What struck me most is Proust’s style: long, winding sentences that refuse haste, demanding the reader slow down, notice, and reflect. It’s a challenge, but also a gift. His writing teaches you to read differently — and perhaps to live differently, more attuned to the texture of time.

In Search of Lost Time is not a novel you finish and forget. It lingers. It changes the way you think about your own memories, your past, and the moments you overlook. For me, it was not just literature; it was an experience in paying attention, in learning to listen to time itself.

When I reviewed the English translation of this book by C. K. Scott Moncrieff (books.theunseen.city/user/4thace/review/79935/s/review-of-swanns-way-on-goodreads#anchor-79935) it was 2013, my Year of Reading Proust over at Goodreads. I gave it five stars then, after some hesitation, after I had even more time to think of what these books are trying to bring about in the reader. I originally read that older translation in the 1980s when I was in graduate school and remember that only in a hazy way, especially the long central section focusing on the inner life of Charles Swann. Now after having all the books in the series I know that character is not a central as I assumed before and have enough perspective now to concentrate on the language without being sidetracked by such assumptions. Also, I read the Collected Stories by Lydia Davis (books.theunseen.city/user/4thace/review/79794/s/review-of-the-collected-stories-of-lydia-davis-on-goodreads#anchor-79794), the translator of this newer edition, and was intrigued by the idea of someone well known for her very short gnomic stories tackling such a large, lush book as a translation project. It turns out she did so with consummate talent, showing the same sensitivity to word choice, rhythm, and mood that I liked in her collected works.

By way of comparison, I present a sentence in the last section of the novel, "Place-Names: The Name," in the two translations. First, the Moncrieff translation:

And when I recalled, later, what I had felt at the time, I could distinguish the impression of having been held, for a moment, in her mouth, myself, naked, without, any longer, any of the social qualifications which belonged equally to her other companions and, when she used my surname, to my parents, accessories of which her lips--by the effort that she made, a little after her father's manner, to articulate the words to which she wished to give a special value--had the air of stripping, of divesting me, as one peels the skin from a fruit of which one is going to put only the pulp into ones mouth, while her glance, adapting itself to the same new degree of intimacy as her speech, fell on me also more directly, not without testifying to the consciousness, the pleasure, even the gratitude that it felt, accompanying itself with a smile. (p. 308 in the paperback)

Next, the Davis translation:

And remembering later what I had felt then, I could distinguish within it the impression that I had been held for a moment in her mouth, I myself, naked, without any of the social terms and conditions that also belonged, either to her other friends, or, when she said my family name, to my parents, and of which her lips--in the effort she made, rather like her father, to articulate the words she wanted to emphasize--seemed to strip me, undress me, as one removes the skin from a fruit of which only the pulp can be eaten, while her gaze, adopting the same new degree of intimacy as her words, reached me more directly also, while at the same time showing its awareness of this, its pleasure and even its gratitude, by accompanying itself with a smile. (p. 420 in the hardback edition)

The way that characteristic confusion of syntax Proust uses when drilling into the precise nuance of some thought is maybe more unclear to my thought in the older translation. There are 24 commas in the Moncrief translation versus 18 in the Davis one and I think this is not just an accident. The Davis translation seems a bit more natural to me while still being faithful to the author's unusual style. I like how it give me more of a sense of shock in the way it uses the image of the figuratively naked narrator in the girl's mouth.

Glad as I am of having access to this new version in English, it is sad that there is no indication she will take on the other books in the series. The second volume is my favorite of all so I just have to imagine how she would have rendered the Normandy scenes with new, updated phrasing. If I could have had her take on the last book, in which the character Gilberte drops back in to the story after a very long absence and the theme of the turbulent passage of time comes out in full force, I think I would have been happy. It just feels as though the attention paid to freeing the words from older English prose conventions might have led there to a beautiful lyrical effect.

Revisiting an author I avoided when I studied French at university, I was surprised that Proust's writing was more accessible than I had feared. Not that it immediately grabs you: the vast sentences with their minute analysis of characters' motives ("Nooo, not another subclause - my puny intellect can't cope!") engages you only slowly. Don't look for a page-turning twist-driven plot here. What you get is a sort of beautifully-written, melancholy and contemplative retrospective set in fin de siecle France and driven by the big themes of love and memory.

The last time I read this was in the early 1980s and so it is with a nearly empty set of preconceptions that I am returning to it now to begin this centennial Year of Reading Proust. I do remember the sensation of the words just washing over me, not being quite sure what they were describing (now I can see that the book has virtually no plot and just enough action to keep the prose stirred up a little), and no clear impression of where the rest of the series would go, except certainly later in the life of the Narrator. Proust writes as if he can divide up perception into its constituent atoms and chart the way their paths evolve over time, assembling these bits into a portrait fixed at a particular time and place only if it suits his purposes of depicting a certain character or spotlighting some aspect of his theme. Thus, it is very easy to get disoriented, especially a century after it came out.

I'm boosting my rating a star now over what I had previously. Swann's Way really does belong among the first rank of novels ever written.

It is fascinating to see how certain motifs are woven in and out: music, flowers, social convention, and the advent of the modern world. I am looking forward to watching how these develop over the remaining volumes. If the effect of reading this work is really as life-changing as some have claimed, I am still uncertain, or rather I cannot tell whether it is more so than any other monumental work of literature to which one has been exposed.