tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-351307512011-11-03T19:31:06.871-07:00I am reading Remembrance of Times Past, even if it kills me. Which I think it just might.shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.comBlogger281100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-28374748220507924682007-10-31T22:33:00.000-07:002007-10-31T22:48:29.320-07:00

Dear New Yorker:Don't get me wrong—I'm a huge fan. I keep your fine magazine on my bedside table at all times; I find its soothing pedantry to be the perfect nightcap, informing me as it lulls me into an erudite sleep. See? I know words like “erudite.” I'm one of you, New Yorker.But you know what keeps me up at night worse than anything—worse than rowdy neighbors, worse than snoring lovers, worse

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-79720782880508956982007-10-02T20:23:00.000-07:002007-10-02T20:51:31.164-07:00

I know, I know, I've been using this move as an excuse for my absence for so long, you've probably deemed it an empty excuse. But let me put it this way: I am currently sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor of my empty back bedroom, sipping bourbon out of a plastic cup. We are so far into the final countdown, my friends, that we might as well be a Europe cover band. (Rim shot.)But! As I was

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-39669914587213002282007-09-13T20:09:00.000-07:002007-09-13T20:13:33.007-07:00

I didn't go rollerskating tonight because I was getting a new tattoo. (I kind of love that sentence.) But once I got home, after relaxing for a little bit with part of a first-season Wonder Woman episode (funniest. Nazis. ever!), I found myself, for the first time in months, picking up Young Girls (hee!) with real eagerness. I should be coming into a little more free time fairly soon--at least

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-69365568080006508102007-08-05T18:51:00.000-07:002007-08-05T19:11:37.254-07:00

Okay, I've been AWOL, I know, but 3000-mile relocations are a bitch, knamean? Anyhoo, here I am, just six pages past my last post, but I've been brought to a screeching halt by what I find: "For all that, Mme Swann had mastered the manners of the fashionable; and, however elegant and dignified the grand lady might be, Odette was always her equal in them."Say whaaaaa? I mean, let's ignore the

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-40047806433386696882007-07-15T11:06:00.000-07:002007-07-15T11:30:06.102-07:00

Yeah, I know, it's been a month since my last post. But honestly, I've got a lot going on right now. I'm dealing with a major life change (read: anyone need an editor/writer in Portland, Oregon?) that's consuming most of my free time, work is crazy busy right now, and my personal life has achieved a level of cheap drama that would make even a veteran watcher of the WB (or CW, or whatever they're

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-21218268639961256662007-06-13T17:41:00.000-07:002007-06-13T18:05:13.793-07:00

Pg. 107, M. Swann is talking about moonlight and how it's more dramatic at the seaside:In Paris, it's just the opposite: merely a strange glow, barely noticeable, on the fronts of the great buildings, and that faint glare in the sky, like the reflection from a house on fire, colorless and dangerless, that hint of some immense but banal happening somewhere...Um. No, I--no. Really? Banal like a

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-14955398186502705692007-06-10T08:50:00.000-07:002007-06-10T09:46:08.496-07:00

Pages 105-106:This length of time that it takes someone to penetrate a work of some depth ... is only a foreshortening, and as it were a symbol, of all the years, or even centuries perhaps, which must pass before the public can come to love a masterpiece that is really new. This is why the man of genius, wishing to avoid the discontents of being unrecognized in his own day, may persuade himself

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-84016135639919564842007-06-03T10:38:00.000-07:002007-06-03T11:51:08.202-07:00

Okay, I realize this is a duh observation, but Marcel is waaaaaaaaay more into Mme. Swann than he is into Gilberte, the putative object of his adolescent affections. What's that all about? I mean, he's supposed to be so entranced with this girl, and then he's like, "So I went over to her house, where her mom lived, and I was so excited because her mom wears this amazing floral perfume and has all

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-28359878560911705322007-05-08T15:45:00.000-07:002007-05-10T20:07:43.287-07:00

Gah! He's at it again! I swear, every time I let my guard down, even if it's just for a split second, he figures out a way to slip in another little bombe guaranfrickinteed to make my spleen twist. On page 81, he's talking about his eponymous main character's being introduced into the world of Mme. Swann (formerly Odette "La Boum Boum" de Crecy) and he describes her tone as she speaks to him as

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-62867125408965750562007-05-05T13:49:00.000-07:002007-05-05T13:59:31.171-07:00

Okay, I'm going back and skimming over the last 100 pages, to remind myself of the keen observations I had meant to make about what goes on within them, because God forbid you miss one scintillating insight. And one thing that I keep stumbling over is the way Proust describes the French attitude toward the English. It's not contemptuous at all—or, rather, I think Proust may be contemptuous of

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-85199789579539720712007-04-27T20:52:00.000-07:002007-04-27T20:55:17.014-07:00

Okay, here's the deal: It's not that I stopped reading Proust. Oh, no. As a matter of fact, I have passed the 200-page mile marker, so in your face, haters! Uh, if I were a big enough deal to have any. But my point is that I've been reading Proust; I just haven't been writing about him. The problem is twofold: 1.I don't want this thing to degrade into a never-ending series of “boy, the guy

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-53912307824528333242007-04-19T19:10:00.000-07:002007-04-19T19:13:17.851-07:00

Dang. Two months. Two whole months.I totally regret myself, guys. I'm sorry. But hey, I just went roller skating tonight for the first time in weeks, so a little Proust can't be far behind. Promise. We will get this party back on track, tiny erections and all.

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-90304701632886322392007-02-13T15:03:00.000-08:002007-02-05T14:52:15.652-08:00

Wow, Proust continues to surprise me. For instance, I never would have imagined he would prove to be efficient. And yet, in just two pages, he's managed to provide me with just as many WTFs:Page 66: Dude, did he just say he liked the smell of a public toilet? I think he did. I really think he did. Dude.Page 67: Erm, Marcel, I don't know how to break this to you, but yeah, your little girlfriend

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-10581574394171830602007-02-05T10:21:00.000-08:002007-02-05T10:40:09.170-08:00

I'm still plugging away at the Proust in between bouts of roller skating and loading music onto my new iPod Nano (which I love and am going to marry and have tiny little Proust-and-Replacements-obsessed babies with), but I felt the need to relate the following episode as a warning to anyone who might consider taking up a similar project:Friday night, I was meeting some friends for a movie, and I

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-3300019497826799812007-02-01T19:08:00.000-08:002007-02-02T06:57:45.177-08:00

Okay, so near as I can tell, the first 50 pages of Young Girls is mostly devoted to what an asshole M. de Norpois is. Which has been a little hard for me to fathom. I mean, I get that I’m supposed to find him contemptible, not fit to spill a drink on, but he just… as supervillains go, he’s a little lame. In fact, that’s M. de Norpois in a nutshell: a little lame. Not super lame. Not awful. Not

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-28259535684805325732007-01-29T08:58:00.000-08:002007-01-29T09:11:37.628-08:00

I know what you’re all thinking: Screw Proust, did she go roller-skating on Thursday again? The answer, my friends, is that yes, I did, and I only fell down once, so good for me. Then on Friday night I went bowling for a friend’s birthday party. Saturday, I followed the natural progression of such a weekend to its inevitable conclusion, i.e.: roller-skating, bowling, Smiths cover band.You know, I

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-83909376911321360612007-01-23T06:22:00.000-08:002007-01-23T07:07:29.953-08:00

I'm on the second page of the first paragraph when I come across the book's first blatantly anti-Semitic statement.Oh yeah, this is gonna go great.

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-72862287652636030662007-01-19T06:43:00.000-08:002007-01-24T12:51:50.753-08:00

I was planning on starting up Young Girls (heh) last night, but then I wound up going roller skating.Yes, roller skating, and I’m just as baffled as you are. If you had told me a year ago that one night I was going find myself trying to choose between roller skating and reading Proust, I would have told you to stop bogarting whatever the hell it was you were smoking, because obviously it was some

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-74722330953717318742007-01-18T07:13:00.000-08:002007-01-18T07:15:33.559-08:00

It is ON!!!

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-1160158865765423582006-09-21T11:19:00.000-07:002006-10-06T11:21:05.773-07:00

I did it.Four hundred and forty-four pages. Three and a half months. Approximately 70 billion metaphors. But I killed that bottle: Swann's Way is a fait accompli.The last passage of the book, a few pages spent strolling through the autumn Bois du Boulogne, sums up everything about Proust that is wonderful--love of nature, descriptive detail, gentle pensiveness, the knitting together of seemingly

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-1160158016730113972006-09-15T11:05:00.000-07:002006-10-06T11:36:56.540-07:00

No, really: How old is anyone in this (literally) mother-lovin’ book?I swear, it. is. driving. me. maaaaaaaaaad. I’m a simple girl, from simple stock, and I don’t ask much out of the world or its literature, but… some sort of timeline? That makes sense? At least sorta? Kinda sorta? Would that kill a man?Well, obviously, no; pneumonia killed him. But I’d have been next in line, had I been around

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-1160157931024825852006-08-11T11:04:00.000-07:002006-10-06T11:05:31.030-07:00

I am so close to finishing this bad boy, but I have at least a couple more tirades left in me, and I want to try to get them out before I reach that magical Page 444. And I think the time has finally come to let cher Marcel speak for himself. Because he does it so eloquently. And yet…Okay, take this bit from “Place Names: The Name”:A moment later, the balcony was as pale and reflective as a pool

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-1160157834699031052006-07-31T11:02:00.000-07:002006-10-06T11:03:54.710-07:00

I know, I know, you'd thought I'd given up on these little ramblings, but no, I have miles to go e'er I sleep. And sleep I do, after a few pages of M. Proust's final chapter. I let myself get a little arrogant during "Swann in Love," because I was taking 30, 40 pages at a go, all "lalala this is so eeeeeasy!" and then: "Place Names." And here we are back at Marcel expounding on the way we connect

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-1160157718069118272006-07-13T11:00:00.000-07:002006-10-06T11:01:58.073-07:00

You thought I'd given up, didn't you? But you thought wrong, my friends. I am in the last 100 pages here. That's right, Marcel my boy, your dead French ass is going down.But before I light a cigar and wave my fists above my head all "I am the chaaaaaampion!," I have a kind of frightening revelation to make. There's a point near the end of "Swann in Love," when Swann attends a concert at a

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-1160157614060313522006-06-21T10:56:00.000-07:002006-10-06T11:38:18.710-07:00

Okay, I know everyone's sick of this subject, but I never have the energy at night to write this in my journal, so I'm just going to keep venting here.Okay, so, Further Reasons Why I Call Bullshit on Marcel:First off, can we just take a moment to marvel at how nobody pointed out to him that he doesn't even follow the rules of his own conceit? I mean, let's break it down: Dude's telling us that he

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-1160071872370885952006-06-01T11:10:00.000-07:002006-10-05T11:11:12.380-07:00

Shut up, Proust!

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-1159895790459208652006-05-30T10:14:00.000-07:002006-10-03T10:16:30.466-07:00

It's been staring at me for a month now, ever since I bought it on a whim at a used book store, daring me to pick it up. And so instead I read some London, and some Yates, and some Chabon, but now--yes, now, just in time for summertime reading fun--I think I'm gonna read me some Proust.Pretentious cookies of memory, here I come.

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35130751.post-1159896705316324632006-05-29T10:30:00.000-07:002007-01-17T08:33:53.474-08:00

I'm not exactly sure why or how it happened, but one day I decided to read Swann's Way, the notoriously dense and highly lauded first book of a seven-book novel by Marcel Proust. I think the impetus was equal parts curiosity and obstinacy, which has been a recipe for many of my bad ideas in the past. At any rate, I started in, and would occasionally post little tirades about the ordeal to my

shutupprousthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07251900536473334853noreply@blogger.com0