Meet Proust and die
By
Nicolas Madelenat di Florio
From the Society of Literary History of France.
Research Associate at
Centre for Research in Economic Ethics,
Université Paul Cézanne.
To my mother.
The longest of my desseings does not have an expanse of year: I do not think that from now finished, all new to me desfoys hopes and enterprises be undertaken, take my last leave of all the major points that I left, my applications have wholes and the day of what I have.
Michel de Montaigne, Essays , Book II, Chapter XXIX.
Meet Proust, and die in this strange title is that I wanted to give a personal reading here, necessarily intimate, actor-author, philosopher and wise well beyond the time when Socrates was to be confused with a clothing brand. Proust can, at a time when the French seems to be a foreign language, yet find an echo, even new readers in new generations? Those who come into the world of culture and literature, one that is singing in the spirit of effort and transcendence, can they still find some attraction in it? After all, since it can be a philosopher without ever having read the classics, wear strong criticism against works never cleared, why the focus on one that will probably still the largest and most extraordinary authors. For Proust it is not a pen, this is not a world of writing, or worse, style, and add, almost abstract, as Proust is a world unto itself, a world which contains the world. Beyond him, there is a vacuum, it is the human soul par excellence, one who meets God in the shadow of a pebble on a beach where his feet have never been caressed by the cool evening sand . Yet no one will dare say that these landscapes are pure fiction, these characters, he saw them, they exist, in the strength of silence, in a heart beat too fast, everyone has them. We are all one Charlus, a somewhat bewildered Albertine whose lives sometimes is hit by some dislike, yet we continue and we will continue. Proust's work is not a work of man, but the transcript of what rights, humanity, its derivatives as well. The author does not claim, however, to judge any behavior whatsoever and it is each character, its landscape, giving up his own ego, ego projection, drift, leakage, collapse, suffering and screams of silence smashing a racket in which the soul seems to get lost in the lust of passion.
Yet there in In Search of Lost Time a je ne sais quoi of confession, need to be to betray; Proust invent nothing, bearing in its heart the purpose of his work. Her life will be built in two parts, about a Net cleavage, final, an area of no return: the beginning of writing Research . Before he was accused falsely of being worldly, love to attend the scene of men, our societies. The world will be for him not an end, a need to show, but a means, not the way to invent around the human being, strengths, weaknesses, all the atrocious it may charge him , perpetually divided between light and shadow; homo homini lupus is is sometimes what seem to scream mute lines, the pages linked at this whole spirit crushed by the vital need to write. What a strange vision to those who entered his room during the last years of his life, when the Wise received. Lying in bed, dressed warmly, even though the chimney and heating fumigation minds by sweating bodies. Walls draped cork ill concealed, they say, the strange fatigue that they should protect. However, and as he had strength, he covered his tortured writing the famous books that will, over their eruption, books Research . During his youth, and the first part of his life, Proust fetches, thoroughly, in every silence, each thinking the leak could have lead to a strange yet dry leaf on a tree yet planted, the mark stupor when Charlus would live on his route, his ebony cane meet this cluster of strange life supposedly dead woman. Proust, that is, find anything that was, what is, what will be, without mention of what might be; Proust find, therefore, without great difficulty, its place in the long line of commentators, of Analysts, forming a text in its implementation and its analysis, then criticism of criticism, and comparison of different critical. With him draw a psychology, an amount in the medieval sense of the word. The author of Pleasures and days we do not book a novel, or some sort of handout of situations purposes; we offer, simply a mirror to see the world. And Jacques Boulanger said, in the Tribute to Marcel Proust (1923) that so many years working in obscurity, so much patience and courage, both under Again, is it not admirable? Proust was a lot to what we knew everything was over at that From Swann appeared, he was right: it is holiness.
fiction begins to reflect this new infidelity. Detached from these characters, compact and logic, as in a closed container full explanation of what they see done, following the classic formula, it would encounter in books. Doubtless it was found that men really are not such. Illogical, they look more real. (Paul Desjardins) Desjardins, here is wrong, pretend not to discern how Proust is his work. Ascetic life, but also a philosopher, writer, a man whose pen strokes by violent inspiration will gradually degrade the health, break the body, the ink seems to seep into the lungs causing these terrible choking oh so necessary, indeed essential, to the outpouring of a mind purged of complacency towards the flesh and material things, he who knows himself to die, condemned and ill dare to cling to trivialities even though the pen is a setback, the suffering imposed adds immortality. Proust was a living martyr, one of the finest, most eloquent, too. How can we not tremble for hours imagining, suffocating, drugged by the excesses of drugs and fumigations, cloistered in an overheated room, covered with cork? However, and soon he found some strength, he wrote, asking what was left alone in the silence screaming in its excess of humanity, for the power of the pen adds an infinite range, a unmatched penetration in the human soul, its mechanisms and its hopes. Proust is, and always will be the biggest geek mind. It deals with its construction, its trends, drifts too, no one else has ever been able to make more, or to demonstrate non-applicability of its approaches, and the reason is quite simple, it does not consider not. Where a Freudian wish to see a child suffering from too old Oedipus badly outdated, the author of Research present a man and his suffering, with its joys and hopes, its pleasures upset; fracture, internal, is still there. Yet he will not support over to splash pus suffering a reader called to satisfy some need for cruelty. Proust shows the man, and is dissected, it was not the soul of a lessor of monsters.
But what always struck me in Proust is his usual great marvel of all, to show how, in reality, will weave the extraordinary life, the simple magic of the sun slipping over the horizon of a destiny that is formed. One passage struck me in The Captive when a random remark he wonders: we arrived in neighborhoods and the erection of an ancillary Venus behind every desk made him as an author suburban beneath which I wanted to spend my life. As you make on the eve of an untimely death, I drew up on behalf of the pleasures deprived me the final Albertine put my freedom. I am tempted to say a few lines here that Proust's life all summed up, there is the wonder and amazement of universal harmony in every atom and his spontaneous outburst to an eternity of a moment and, finally, this complete gift of himself. On this last note, so little to be added as yet to say ... For Proust, dying, was to awaken to eternal life, not here, however, mystical elevation, but simply to a second birth, through his work, great and unequivocal, for her, we enter into Proust and mixes with our humanity, one that will keep us probably destroy us too. Miguel de Unamuno and add, in tragic sense of life , a thought that applies so well to Proust by calling many: and that it does or not as he wants, he philosopher ... not only with reason but with the will, with feeling, with the flesh and the bones, with all the soul and the body. Philosopher who is the man.
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