Every novel is an equal collaboration between the writer and the reader and it is the only place in the world where two strangers can meet on terms of absolute intimacy.
I know little French. I could not read the text on a French cigarette pack, let alone a 3200 page novel in French.
So what am I doing, attempting to read Marcel Proust’s classic In Search of Lost Time?
Today is my fiftieth birthday. As good a time as any, and maybe better than most, for reflection and reconsideration. An appropriate time, perhaps, to do some projects that I have been putting off. One of those is reading this book.
I have heard about Proust and In Search of Lost Time most of my life. It is one of those books, a classic, which has seeped into our culture. Proust's name itself has become an English adjective. To behave or write in a Proustian manner is to revel in detail and allow for infinite digressions. I remember an episode of Julia Child’s cooking show, decades ago, in which she mentioned the famous madeleine scene from Lost Time, how the mere taste of a cookie can reconstruct an entire life and send one tumbling back through the years. I thought then that it would be fascinating to read such a book as this, one that would recapture the essence of living.
But, as I say, I knew little French. Not that people didn’t try to get me to learn it. I grew up in Canada, officially a bilingual country. I took French courses all through high school because it was required. I attended classes, completed the homework, and did the exercises my teachers prescribed for me. After five years (Ontario high school students were required to complete a grade 13 in those days) I could still not carry on a natural conversation in French. I still did not truly know the language, and what’s more, I discovered I had no taste for the drudgery of learning a language. After high school I never seriously tried to become proficient in French, or, for that matter, any language other than English.
So no Proust for me, unless it was in translation. I knew In Search of Lost Time had been rendered into English by various translators. Occasionally I would pick up one of these volumes and read a random page. The prose invariably left me cold, as though I was reading something meant for someone else. I took that as a sign that the book was not for me. Eventually I gave up the idea of reading Proust.
Then I heard that Penguin Books had recently commissioned new translations of the various sections that make up In Search of Lost Time. I did some investigating and found that Proust scholars and readers, for the most part, approved of these new versions of the classic. So a couple of months ago I bought the entire book which Penguin has published in 6 volumes. They sit on my shelf right now. I told myself I would start reading them on my fiftieth birthday and chronicle my adventure in a blog. This blog right here.
To get myself in the right frame of mind, I found a photo of Proust and asked Kim, my sweetheart, to photograph me posing in as similar a manner to Proust as I could manage. The result is at the top of this blog. That’s Marcel on the left, me on the right.
I plan to post regularly. Maybe not every day, but as often as I can. Hope you come back and take part in the collaboration.