Read Sodom and Gomorrah by Marcel Proust Christopher Prendergast John Sturrock Online

sodom-and-gomorrah

Sodom and Gomorrah – now in a superb translation by John Sturrock – takes up the theme of homosexual love, male and female, and dwells on how destructive sexual jealousy can be for those who suffer it. Proust's novel is also an unforgiving analysis of both the decadent high society of Paris, and the rise of a philistine bourgeoisie that is on the way to supplanting it. ChaSodom and Gomorrah – now in a superb translation by John Sturrock – takes up the theme of homosexual love, male and female, and dwells on how destructive sexual jealousy can be for those who suffer it. Proust's novel is also an unforgiving analysis of both the decadent high society of Paris, and the rise of a philistine bourgeoisie that is on the way to supplanting it. Characters who had lesser roles in earlier volumes now reappear in a different light and take center stage, notably Albertine, with whom the narrator believes he is in love, and the insanely haughty Baron de Charlus....

Title : Sodom and Gomorrah
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ISBN : 9780143039310
Format Type : Paperback
Number of Pages : 557 Pages
Status : Available For Download
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Sodom and Gomorrah Reviews

  • karen
    2019-03-07 19:42

    this is the volume of ISOLT that michael bay will turn into a big budget summer blockbuster, mark my words. there are action verbs!! verbs, i tells ya! and picture this on the big screen: we open with our hero, crouching behind some flower bushes, unmoving - waiting, just waiting for a bee to come around and assist in the pollination of the flowers.(pshow, whoosh - many michael-bayish essplosions) and although not strictly supported by textual evidence, i expect his little sticky hand was at the ready to relieve his straining trousers should this act of hot plant sexx occur. however - his hopes are dashed by something even sexier happening right in front of the bushes: (pshow - in the distance, an essplosion) two men begin their courtship with birdlike posturing and an involved dance of invert attraction, which they consummate nearby, to the complicated emotions of our watcher. (assplosion) WHO IS ACTUALLY A TRANSFORMER!!! zooooom! (aerosmith song)and after that, it is like a sexy veil is lifted from the world around him and he sees that there are same-sex relations being pursued everywhere!! france is suddenly super-gay, who would have thunk it? and that is volume 4.(also, for those of you who were concerned after the cliffhanger at the end of volume 3, where he was fretting for about 75 pages about whether he was actually invited to the party he was planning to attend regardless - spoiler alert - he WAS!!) phew. (essplosion)it is definitely the most readable volume thus far, unless my proust-vaccine has just finally taken effect. and i think this volume works just fine as a stand-alone novel, whereas some of the others feel broken-off. this one has the humor and the bitterness for which proust is known, with fewer daydream-y bits that make you want to shake him a little, like when the concussed try to take a nap.plus, this book does not end with a whisper, like some of the other ones, but with the bang of a firm, declarative statement - ZING!! these reviews always sound as though i am not enjoying my proust experience, which isn't true, because i assure you, i am. sometimes it feels like my brain is passing through glue, but there are so many rewarding passages - in this volume primarily about the nature of jealousy and the way we perceive ourselves (and the way we perceive how other people perceive us ) through different "stages" of our lives that are incredibly delicate and superfine in their language.but seriously, you people don't need me to be reviewing proust. my function on this site is that of a literary piglet, snuffling up the truffle-books; finding the unknown and the forgotten and nudging them to the surface. having said that, i am about to start twilight, so that's one you people might want to keep on your radar. promises were made.

  • Aubrey
    2019-03-08 13:49

    When they are happy, calm, satisfied with their surroundings, we marvel at their precious gifts; it is the truth, literally, that speaks through their lips. A touch of headache, the slightest prick to their self-esteem, is enough to alter everything. The luminous intelligence, become brusque, convulsive and shrunken, no longer reflects anything but an irritable, suspicious, teasing self, doing everything possible to displease.It was indeed the corrupting effect, as it was also the charm, of this country round Balbec, to have become for me a land of familiar acquaintances; if its territorial distribution, its extensive cultivation, along the entire length of the coast, with different forms of agriculture, gave of necessity to the visits which I paid to these different friends the aspect of a journey, they also reduced that journey to the agreeable proportions of a series of visits.This book was both the easiest and the most tedious of the series to date, in that the pages flowed faster under my Proust-accustomed gaze, but only on the days that I didn’t pass over it in favor of other works. It also didn’t help that, unlike the previous installations in the series, I finished the last twenty or so pages in a state of aggravated fury brought upon not by incomprehension, but the clearest understanding one could possibly hope for. As I can’t do anything unusual, especially in matters relating to literature, without my mind immediately latching onto the issue and needling the reason out it, I will explain myself here.I am a great believer in the powers of empathy when it comes to literature, to the point that if a disagreeable character appears, I immediately keep an especial eye on them and their circumstances in the hopes of finding something to improve my favorable understanding of them. In previous works Proust has been a consummate master at this, delving as deeply as he does into the human psyche at every turn and rendering nearly every action of seeming insipidness and stupidity into something I recognize as being capable of myself, the insufferable human condition rendered sufferable and as a result granting valuable learning. The difficulty of his prose simply made the journey a slow and contemplative one, whose culminations bloomed as grandly and as gorgeously as if one had spent a lifetime watching a single seed languorously shoot and spread into the most awe inspiring of cathedrals. Simply put, the effort was well worth it.The problem, of course, is when the beauty and thoughtful meanderings can no longer excuse the idiocy, and one becomes frustrated not only with the actions, but even moreso with the attempts of the book to cloak the actions with the same softening colors that previously delighted the reader, attempts that fail again and again.I have to mention here that I am a very reserved person, in the effect that while I feel as rapidly and as strongly as Proust so often describes, I do not act on it. As a result, I have an extremely low tolerance for ridiculous heights of selfish idiocy, something that I have observed in the narrator as well as other characters in ISOLT but was able to forgive when offered with wonderful passages of crystalline insight. There is also my extreme dislike of stereotyping, especially with regards to multitudes of varied souls that populate humanity in seemingly discriminate bunches. In effect, these two aspects of my personality lessened my compatibility with this book, something that saddens me but cannot be helped.For the book is called Sodom and Gomorrah, and when it comes to the quote of Beckett that proclaims that in the book, Homosexuality…is as devoid of moral implications… as the sexual patterns of flowers, I have to disagree, and instead find favor with the quote of André Gide, Will you never portray this form of Eros for us in the aspect of youth and beauty?, for while Proust never outright condemns it, he does everything but. There is no contemplative empathy, no beautifying of another form of love, nothing but ridiculous theories on the ways homosexuals act and come into contact with another, mockeries of those who are severely mistaken in their belief that their secret is safe, little skits of insipid jealousy with none of the compassion that Swann’s own efforts were treated. No, instead the narrator glorifies his own labors of love in all their hypersensitive irrationality, and resigns himself to a lifetime of torment not when (view spoiler)[his grandmother dies, but when he believes the girl whom he casually treats as a sexual play toy is doing the same with others of her own gender (hide spoiler)].I won’t deny that many of the society events were amusing, and that every so often a sentence full with inherent truth would crop up, or that the pages detailing grief were as heartrending as one of Proust’s skill could make them. However, all this together wasn't enough, and ultimately the frustrating misconceptions in regards to homosexuality, the aggravating viciousness of many of the shallower characters, and finally the repulsive selfishness of the narrator himself all sounded the death knell for that fifth star. Perhaps I have grown too used to Proust’s prose, or maybe his own tools of immense perception backfired on him when he concerned himself with this particular subject that impacted his life no matter how much he denied it to himself. All I know is this time, it didn’t work out nearly as well as previous times when I and the book ended our journey together with a joyous skipping off into the sunset. I hope that results prove better with the succeeding works.

  • ZaRi
    2019-03-03 16:02

    به ياد می آورم که يک ساعتی پيش از زمانی که مادربزرگم با پيرهن خانه خم شد تا چکمه هايم در درآورد،در گرمای کشنده در خيابانها پرسه ميزدم و،در برابر مغازه قنادی، احساسم اين بود که با همه نيازم به بوسيدن مادربزرگم،به هيچ رو طاقت تحمل يک ساعتی را که هنوز بايد بی او بگزرانم ندارم.و اکنون که همين نياز دوباره سر بر می آورد،می دانستم که اگر ساعتها و ساعتها منتظر بمانم او را هرگز دوباره در کنارم نخواهم ديد،و اين را تازه می فهميدم چون حال که برای نخستين بار آن چنان زنده و حقيقی حسش می کردم که دلم را می ترکانيد،حال که سرنجام بازش يافته بودم،تازه می فهميدم که برای هميشه از دستش داده ام.از دست داده،تا ابد.تناقضی را نمی تواستم بفهمم و خود را برای تحمل رنجش آماده می کردم. و اين است آن تناقض:از يک سو وجودی و مهری که در درونم به همان گونه که می شناختم،يعنی ساخته شده برای من،باقی مانده بود،مهری که چنان همه اجزايش و هدفش و جهت هميشگی اش در من خلاصه می شد که در نظر مادربزرگم همه نبوغ مردان بزرگ،همه نوابغی که از ازل در جهان وجود داشته بودند،به اندازه يکی از عيب های من ارزش نداشت.و از ديگر سو،درست در زمانی که اين خوشبختی را،دوباره حس می کردم انگار که در زمان حال باشد،اين خوشبختی را يقينی،تند و نافذ چون دردی جسمانی که پياپی تکرار شودد در می نورديد.يقين نيستی ای که تصور من از آن مهربانی را مهو کرده بود،آن وجود را نابود کرده بود،حتميت پيوند من و او در گذشته را نيست کرده بود،مادربزرگم را در لحظه ای که دوباره،چنان که در آينه اي بازش،می يافتم آدم غريبی اي کرده بود که تصادفا چند سالی را کنار من بود همچنان که می توانست کنار هر کس ديگری باشد و پيش از اين دوره من برايش هيچ بودم و هيچ شدم.همچون جريانی الکتريکی که آدمی را تکان بدهد،آن عشقها تکانم داد،با آنها زندگی کردم،حسشان کردم.هرگز به آنجا نرسيدم که ببينمشان يا فکرشان کنم.حتی به اين باور گرايش دارم که در اين عشقها(جدا از لذت جسمانی که معمولا همراهشان است اما برای شکل دادن به آنها کافی نيست)،در ورای ظاهر زن،نظر ما به نيروهايی نامريی است که زن را همراهی می کنند و ما به آنها چنان که به خدايانی ناشناخته روی می کنيم.نياز ما به نظر مساعد اين الهگان است،تماس با ايشان را می جوييم بی آن که به لذتی عملی دست يابيم.زن،در وقت ديدار،فقط ما را با اين الهگان در رابطه قرار می دهد و کار ديگری نمی کند.به عنوان پيشکش قول جواهر و سفر داده ايم،وردهايی خوانده ايم يعنی که پرستنده ايم و وردهايی مخالف آنها يعنی که اعتنايی نداريم.هم قدرت خود را برای وعده ديدار ديگری به کار گرفته ايم،اما ديداری که هيچ مشکلی نداشته باشد.اگر اين نيروهای ناشناخته زن را کامل نمی کرد،آيا برای خود او اين همه سختی می کشيديم در حالی که پس از رفتنش حتی نمی دانيم چگونه جامه ای به تن داشت و متوجه می شويم که حتی نگاهش نکرديم.

  • Roy Lotz
    2019-02-28 18:35

    As our vision is a deceiving sense, a human body, even when it is loved as Albertine’s was, seems to us to be a few yards’ at a few inches’ distance from us. And similarly with the soul that inhabits it.A good case can be made that these books should be read one after the other, so as not to lose the narrative thread or to forget the many characters involved. But I am finding that an equally good case can be made for spacing them out. Memory is crucial to this novel; the remembrance of things past, the search for lost time. The length of the series itself makes the passing of time almost palpable; and likewise, all of Proust's sentences are microcosms of the novel as a whole, each one stretching across the page, forcing you to hold the beginning in mind as you slowly make your way to the end. It is arguably this experience itself, feeling your mind being pulled both forward and back across time, that is the essence of Proust’s style.This time around, the experience of time took on an additional aspect for me. Over and over during this volume I had flashbacks of my time in Manhattan, where I read the first three volumes. I remembered the chilling December days, the brooding, cloudy sky over the Hudson, the aftertaste of vinegar in my mouth as I walked along the High Line during my lunch breaks, the banging sounds of construction work and the wailing of fire truck sirens, the visceral boredom of work, the geometrical beauty of the New York skyline, the way the sun glistened off the glass façades of the skyscrapers. Here in Madrid, as I walked to work in the pre-dawn darkness, with the tall office buildings towering over me, the past and present were woven together by the continued narrative of this novel.I haven’t yet read Harold Bloom, but I am somewhat familiar with his idea of the ‘anxiety of influence’. Well, I think I have this anxiety with respect to Proust. In my writing and my thinking, I have been so strongly influenced by him that it’s hard for me to see his novel clearly or evaluate it fairly. And I think this acknowledgement of my debt to him sometimes turns into resentment. I feel as though I have to find his weaknesses, what he left out, what he did wrong, to justify myself. In short, when I criticize him I suspect my own motives.But I can’t help thinking that Proust does have serious weaknesses as a writer. First he has several bad habits—in English translation, at least—that rubbed off on me, and from which I am still trying to rid myself. Most superficially, one of these habits is his tendency to use the royal ‘we’ in his general pronouncements (see the opening quote for an example of this). He also tends to say how people “would” behave and how things “would” happen, instead of keeping to the simple past and describing how things did happen.Of course I’m not saying that his prose isn’t superbly beautiful; very often, it is. Even so, the endless barrage of lengthy sentences and the monotonous tone—and say what you will, he is not a versatile writer—can really wear you out. Sometime’s he’s just plain frustrating. Proust can spill gallons of ink and take up twenty pages just to make you understand that Character X is sexually involved with Character Y, or that Character Z is a bit of a bore.Another thing that really grates on me is the subject matter. People accuse Jane Austen of being pinched and narrow in her focus; but Austen is a Tolstoy compared to Proust. Soirée after soirée after soirée; all of these snobbish, strange, and unsympathetic aristocrats. Granted, this novel is certainly a fascinating historical document, being a sort of ethnography of a moribund form of European society (although Proust is a much worse ethnographer than Austen). But very often I cannot feel bad about the disappearance of this way of life. That these supposedly cultured people could get so absorbed in such trifles; that four volumes could go by without the narrator so much as contemplating getting a job; that the same tired references to Molière, Racine, Hugo, Balzac, Debussy, and Chopin keep getting recycled over and over; that in the land of the French Revolution the most politically controversial thing is the Dreyfus affair—it’s maddening, really. Everything is just so disconnected from life as I know it that it’s hard to find parallels or even analogs with my experience.Philosophically, my main objection to Proust’s method is his ruthless Cartesianism. By this I mean his tendency to see human action through a hyper subjective lense; to see the mind as its own place, disconnected from the world around it, and people as inhabiting their own mental worlds. John Donne said:No man is an island,Entire of himself,Every man is a piece of the continent,A part of the main.But Proust is enamored of the opposite idea, that people are islands. For him, all communication is in fact just miscommunication. He makes much ado about how one person misinterprets something said by another; he spends pages on the agonies that his narrator goes through as he puzzles over a chance remark or a small gesture. Often Proust can be a philosophical one-trick pony. Here is his trick: The narrator misinterprets something, acts accordingly, and then collides with the external reality; then he retreats back into himself to come up with another interpretation. Proust occupies this space, the space between perception and reality, and probes it so insistently that you question whether perception can ever be accurate.Two or three times it occurred to me, for a moment, that the world in which this room and these bookshelves were situated and in which Albertine counted for so little, was perhaps an intellectual world, which was the sole reality, and my grief something like what feel when we read a novel, of thing of which only a madman would make a lasting and permanent grief that prolonged itself through his life; that a tiny movement of my will would suffice, perhaps, to attain to that real world, to re-enter it, passing through my grief, as one breaks through a paper hoop, and to think no more about what Albertine had done than about the actions of the imaginary heroine of a novel after we have finished reading it.Well there’s no denying that Proust often brings up good points in this regard. Nevertheless, I think this Cartesianism limited him, both as a thinker and as a novelist. With connection to Proust, I often think of something a sociology professor said to me. The subject was intimate relations; he said:There are many methods, using personality tests and demographics, of determining whether two people are likely to have a good relationship. But there is this extra quality, what some people call ‘chemistry’—the unexpected ways that two people’s personalities interact with one another. Some people have good chemistry, some people have bad chemistry. There’s no way to tell beforehand what will happen when two people start talking.Now I’m neither a psychologist nor a sociologist, and I don’t know whether there is any evidence for that view. But it certainly seems true to my experience. And for me, some of the most talented novelists are so wonderful partially because they can capture this phenomenon of chemistry. Consider two great writers I mentioned above, Tolstoy and Austen. Both of them, so different in many ways, are similar in their ability to describe how people change in the presence of other people; how one character brings out snobbishness in the protagonist, another coquettishness, and a third joviality.In both fiction and in life, I love to see how personalities interact. Why? Because it is this experience that makes me most strongly feel that I am not an island; that I am part of the world of everyone around me, and they are a part of mine. And it is this that I most sorely miss from Proust’s perspective, because to portray this you need to give up the idea that you are just a mind, and embrace the idea that you are a social creature, with as many ‘selves’ as social worlds you inhabit.Whew, that felt good. I needed to get all that off my chest. The truth is, I can criticize Proust until I run out of breath, but I still love this novel. And this volume is, I think, one of the stronger ones. For a long time I had been hoping that he’d do more with the Baron de Charlus, and in this volume he does just that. The introduction of homosexuality into the novel added a badly needed touch of spice. And believe it or not, a real story is starting to take shape; this volume even ends on a cliffhanger!I will allow more time to pass before moving on to the next volume. I definitely need a break from Proust, if only to push away his influence once again and regain my own voice. Until then, I will dwell on my memories.

  • Madeleine
    2019-02-20 14:42

    As Sodom and Gomorrah began, our Narrator was struggling to understand the nature of homosexuals while I was alternating between reading his early-twentieth-century musings and poring over sweetly triumphant images of same-sex couples rushing to "legitimize" their long-running relationships with celebratory midnight marriages. As the strange continent of "inverts" draws horticultural allusions and comparisons to covert societies in Proust's time, the LGBTQ community is finally being recognized in a way that signals the slow unravelling of ignorance and inequality in mine. For the first three volumes, it was easy to lose any sense of cultural or chronological divide when faced with so many universal constants of humanity that all but waltzed off their pages and pages of lyrical metaphors; in S&G, we have a Narrator who recalls how the first time he saw an airplane overhead filled him with childlike wonder and lives in a time when it is apparently totally normal for a man to pick out his female companion's evening attire, which are but a few examples that, like unchecked homophobia, for the first time in my journey with Proust heralded a struggle to bridge the gap between when these volumes were written and when I'm reading them, bringing into stark reality just how much separates modernism from modern times, regardless of how well the common ground of so many other shared human experiences minimized the inevitable differences in eras and epochs. I finally felt the full extent of the distance -- literal and figurative, in time and physical distance, of the real and fictionally polished -- between the richly depicted, intricately crafted images Proust used to construct his Narrator's winding halls of memory and the world to which I belong. It was a jarring transition, for sure, but it was also a rather well-timed one: As the Narrator become increasingly aware of adult life's complicated emotions stirring inside and the societal politics constantly changing around him (not to mention the slow encroachment of technology, which does cast a shroud of smoky modernization on a world previously draped in pristine laces and cloud-soft velvets), I, too, got a taste of that irrevocable shift from a reasonably expected understanding to desperate reconsideration of an ever-shifting world.This installment, sadly, is one I read in staccato bursts of precious free time. It is unfortunate because Proust is best savored like good wine rather than chugged like cheap beer, and I fear I spent more time drunk on his beautiful words than intoxicated by his narrative insight. In those exhausted but relieved hours at home, in those stolen wedges of at-work bookwormery, in whatever few minutes were spent in quiet solitude, I clung to Proust with the desperation of a booklover in the throes of both work-related burnout and the dreaded reader's slump. And while a frantic heart may not be the best way to approach words that are ideally enjoyed at a leisurely stroll, I do believe the Narrator's burgeoning sense of humor and need to slowly drink in his surroundings kept me grounded during chaotic times. While S&G may not have been my favorite installment, it is the one that affected me the deepest. Among the revolving door of social obligations and self-indulgent observations that seem to occupy the majority of Fictional Marcel's abundant free time, I found myself most invested in his delayed reaction to his grandmother's death. Having never known the magnitude of a transgenerational love like that which Narrator shared with his maternal grandmother, I felt his palpable grief just as keenly as the slow-arriving but no less heartrending clarity of permanent absence that hit him upon revisiting a place that once played such an important role in demonstrating the fondness and compassion that can exist between a grandmother and her grandson. As the Narrator contemplates how different Balbec is without his beloved grandmother, as he muses on how much his own once-young mother has taken on the visage of her own mother now that the elder woman's death has left a role unfulfilled, as he retraces rooms that once were filled with his grandmother's presence, the concrete reality of past time being truly lost time came thundering down against a mostly familiar landscape that derives most of its changes from the players inhabiting it. It is odd that the grief is intense but short-lived, yes, but I couldn't help but write it off as the Narrator's decision to forge ahead with his life rather than mawkishly wallow in grief -- such are the intermittences of the heart, no? I continue to find the romantic entanglements of these characters to be a high-school level of ridiculous. It seems like so few of the relationships presented thus far in ISOLT -- Swann and Odette; the Narrator and Gilberte (and also Albertine); Saint-Loup and Rachel -- are healthy, mutually affectionate ones, but it could also be that I have little patience for romances, even fictional ones, that are built on a foundation of obsession and possession rather than respect and genuine fondness. And, really, the affair between Morel and Charlus isn't anything laudable, I know, but I can't help but find it one of the most believable examples of heady lust in terms of its execution and its players' emotionally fueled behaviors. There is little else but pure attraction drawing Charlus helplessly toward Morel, who can't help but take advantage of (or be manipulated by, depending on your vantage point) the older gentleman's affections and gifts. Still, the greed with which Charlus tries to keep Morel to himself while all but undressing him in public, the satisfaction he derives just from coaxing the younger musician into his presence is…. okay, a bit much, yes, but also keenly evocative of an irrationally all-consuming, unrealistically intense first crush and the reluctant empathy of understanding such memories drag along in their wake. Sodom and Gomorrah struck me as proof that the memories of our past can't help but be intertwined with memories of others, a reminder that there are always multiple perspectives at play -- and that, as the ending scenes with Bloch reinforce, not everyone's assessment of a situation will always be reliable or anything more than actions born of misunderstanding a sticky situation that was handled badly because there are no do-over options in real life and things only make sense when hindsight lays down the rest of the puzzle. ISOLT might be fictional, sure, but it is written as an account of life, and sometimes learning life's lessons means that truths can be as ugly as our lesser selves.

  • ·Karen·
    2019-02-18 12:58

    Fluid becomes solid and then fluid again. Changing states, crossovers, transformations. Words produce pictures that turn back into words, black marks on a white page; dots, accents, commas, shapes of letters, enter through the cornea, the retina, the optic nerve, are processed into......... into what? Images, characters, narrative, scenes, landscapes, weather, tableaux, dialogue, spectacle, sensation. Reactions. The cities of the plain:Sodom, Gomorrah, Admah, Zeboim, Bela. But Proust takes his title from one of his favourite poets, Alfred de Vigny (Baudelaire was the other, according to the famous questionnaire):Bientôt se retirant dans un hideux royaume,La Femme aura Gomorrhe et l'Homme aura Sodome,Et, se jetant, de loin, un regard irrité,Les deux sexes mourront chacun de son côtéFrom: La Colére de SamsonPiquant: de Vigny wrote this poem when his mistress, Marie Dorval became the intimate friend of George Sand. Just how physical the two women's intimacy was is a matter of some debate, but salacious rumours flew around Paris anyway. The poem treats of Samson's infatuation with Delilah, and how he was brought down by her seductive ways and ultimate betrayal. Samson's weakness was to love she who cannot love in return: "Elle se fait aimer sans aimer elle-même." Thus it echoes the constant dynamic of love affairs in À La Recherche. There is always one who loves, one who accepts love. One who appears strong, but is made weak by their obsessive love. Swann and Odette, Charlus and Morel, the narrator and Albertine, Saint-Loup and Rachel, the narrator and the circles he would like to become part of.De Vigny's poem sees the conflict between the male and the female as an eternal battle between virtue and treachery, between steadfast strength and supple seduction, between honesty and ruse. The woman on whose soothing breast he sought comfort and salvation has betrayed him for a few gold pieces. Women are as evil as men, each will inhabit their own sordid hell, women in Gomorrah and men in Sodom, with nothing but distant exasperated glances between them, the two sexes separate until death.Proust's genius is to dissolve that dichotomy into a fluid continuum. Men who are passive until they become aggressively active, women who are sporty, strong, decisive. He plays with gender roles. Transformations, crossovers. Metamorphoses. Book cover love: A portrait of a portrait painter. Jacques-Émile Blanche painted Robert de Montesquieu, one of the models for the Baron de Charlus (my favourite character):He also painted Proust himself:But on the cover of my edition he stands with a wide legged swagger as model for Jean Louis Forain. I think of him as M. Verdurin:

  • Mala
    2019-02-27 15:04

    Recommended for: Proust completionists. "The conversation of a woman one loves is like the soil that covers a subterranean and dangerous water; one feels at every moment beneath the words the presence, the penetrating chill of an invisible pool; one perceives here and there its treacherous percolation, but the water itself remains hidden." As the title indicates, the fourth book of the ISoLT series deals with the nature of Desire, of the forbidden kind.The voyeuristic window that earlier tentatively opened into Vinteuil's daughter & her lover's life in Within A Budding Grove , gets here an almost graphic treatment in M. de Charlus' 'conjunction' with Jupien in the very introductory chapter itself– the book thus begins with a bang !Like a 'moral botanist' Marcel observes the uncanny ways in which Nature brings two unlikely specimens together. There is enough material here to support gay rights & enough irony too when the writer compares the modern cities of "London, Berlin, Rome, Petrograd or Paris” to Sodom because the sin continues unabated !At the much anticipated party of the Princess de Guermantes, the writer's skewering of the vanity, foibles & the "cowardice of people in society" continues. While Marcel gets adept at navigating the high society minefields, his childhood idol Swann falls out of favour of the Faubourg Saint-Germain's charmed circle. Changes in individual fortunes are also reflected in the changing social & political culture: anti-Dreyfusardism is not only a social phenomenon but has also coloured political discourse, making it the cornerstone of patriotism—so much so that the writer opines that a Jew & a homosexual are pariahs on the same scale:a game that may be kept up for years until the day of the scandal, on which these lion-tamers are devoured; until then,obliged to make a secret of their lives, to turn away their eyes from the things on which they would naturally fasten them,to fasten them upon those from which they would naturally turn away, to change the gender of many of the words in their vocabulary, a social constraint, slight in comparison with the inward constraint which their vice, or what is improperly so called, imposes upon them (...) a relief in frequenting the society of their kind, and even some corroboration of their own life, so much so that, while steadfastly denying that they are a race (the name of which is the vilest of insults). (...) Race upon which a curse weighs and which must live amid falsehood and perjury, because it knows the world to regard as a punishable and a scandalous, as an inadmissible thing, its desire, that which constitutes for every human creature the greatest happiness in life; which must deny its God, since even Christians, when at the bar of justice they appear and are arraigned, must before Christ and in His Name defend themselves, as from a calumny, from the charge of what to them is life itself. Irony abounds in the text: M. de Charlus is perceived to be a Don Juan– Princess de Guermantes is secretly in love with him, while he secretly runs after pretty boys! Mme. Swann née Odette, as a hostess, has now “a reputation for profound intellectuality". Albertine, long past her prudish ways of Within a Budding Grove , casually visits Marcel after midnight hours for "kisses and caresses". But there's trouble ahead as Dr. Cottard's chance remark, makes Marcel doubt Albertine of lesbianism, the memory & example of Swann's ill-fated reationship with Odette returns to haunt him–Marcel has "supplied (his) own toxin." There is linguistic humour & "zoological similes" aplenty in the Balbeck section where Marcel delightfully dissects the speech patterns of various characters. An interesting etymology lesson rids Balbeck of its mysteries but newly-formed friendships lends this place a new charm. Yet Marcel is aware of time ticking by:...these Balbec roads were full. When I thought that their trees, pear trees, apple trees, tamarisks, would outlive me, I seemed to receive from them the warning to set myself to work at last, before the hour should strike of rest everlasting.Perhaps the most shocking development is the rise of the Verdurins– yes, those horrid creatures fromSwann's Way . Shocking too is M. de Charlus' descent into old age sentimentality, the once dashing presence now a "painted, paunchy, tightly-buttoned personage", whom even a lowlife like Morel can now call a "dirty old beast", yet the Baron retains his duplicitously cunning ways, esp. on display in the fake duelling plan & the crafty way he recovers information about Bloch from Marcel. These comic interludes do provide some relief from the impending dark shadows. Pathology of Love The implicit theme running throughout the series seems to be a study of pathological traits of excessive jealousy, insecurity & possessiveness– in the presence of which, all relationships are bound to be doomed.Marcel's paranoia & insecurity about Albertine's so-called lesbian tendency & his desire to control her sexuality; parallels that of Swann's about Odette, Saint-Loup & Rachel, M. de Charlus & his male lovers– there is such a sense of déjà vu– it seems that in Proust's fictional world, the only way the males can assert their authority is by keeping the objects of their desire under lock & key, plying them with suffocating attention, material comforts, in fact everything except what is really needed– mutual trust & some breathing space! The irony is that these men want to be in control, assume they are in control– yet all the while it's the women who are calling the shots!In my opinion, this fourth tome of the ISoLT series, when compared to the first three, is narratively perhaps, the most focussed one– Proust, the master of the subordinate clauses, is not so intimidating here though there are no dearth of breathtaking passages, esp. the Balbeck episode– Heart in Transmission is haunting in its lyrical evocation of grief with some relief provided by the picturesque apple blossoms in season.Recommended. Some Quotes: "But I had long since given up trying to extract from a woman as it might be the square root of her unknown quantity, the mystery of which a mere introduction was generally enough to dispel."But you are our equal, if not our superior,” the Guermantes seemed, in all their actions, to be saying; and they said it in the most courteous fashion imaginable, to be loved, admired, but not to be believed; that one should discern the fictitious character of this affability was what they called being well-bred; to suppose it to be genuine, a sign of ill-breeding."Those French words which We are so proud of pronouncing accurately are themselves only blunders made by the Gallic lips which mispronounced Latin or Saxon, our language being merely a defective pronunciation of several others. (!)"For the instinct of imitation and absence of courage govern society and the mob alike. And we all of us laugh at a person whom we see being made fun of, which does not prevent us from venerating him ten years later in a circle where he is admired.“I could not, all the same, refrain, as I listened to her, from giving her credit, without deriving any pleasure from them, for the refinement of her expressions. They were those that are used, at a given date, by all the people of the same intellectual breadth, so that the refined expression provides us at once, like the arc of a circle, with the means to describe and limit the entire circumference. And so the effect of these expressions is that the people who employ them bore me immediately, because I feel that I already know them."Being, in spite of myself, still pursued in my jealousy by the memory of Saint-Loup’s relations with ‘Rachel, when from the Lord,’ and of Swann’s with Odette, I was too much inclined to believe that, from the moment that I was in love, I could not be loved in return, and that pecuniary interest alone could attach a woman to me."

  • Teresa
    2019-03-16 13:39

    This translator (Moncrieff) was too circumspect to call this volume Sodom and Gomorrah, the original title; nevertheless, Proust's theories on "Sodom and Gomorrah" come through loud and clear. Reading Proust's introduction, I was immediately struck by the timeliness and timelessness of its theme: to a certain extent, he could be writing of today. The beginning of the introduction is also very funny; our narrator continues his snooping ways even while he's on tenterhooks over his own obsessive love, as usual.Again, as usual, reading this volume of ISoLT was a back-and-forth experience: love over the prose and insights, and exasperation at, once again, the tiresome salon talk. Especially with this volume, I was so happy (relieved?) when the focus turned away from the latter. There was one new exasperation: the narrator's making fun of both the hotel-manager's and then the lift-boy's ways of speaking. Even if I found that kind of thing funny, I would still think there was too much of it during the former's section (I get it!) and with the latter it was definite overkill. The "too much-ness" of it caused it to feel mean-spirited, and I wondered if it was casual snobbery on Proust's part or a character trait of the narrator. Thankfully, this was basically confined to one section.And, then, as with the beginning and other sections throughout, the work is elevated, again, by the exquisite, gorgeous final fourth, a reflecting back to a scene seen through a window in the first volume (narrator-as-voyeur again) and a beautiful passage of the train that at each stop holds an image of a friend, no longer strangers in a strange land, originally felt as such during our sensitive boy's first visit to Balbec.

  • Geoff
    2019-03-09 15:49

    I finished Sodom and Gomorrah over a week ago, and since then I've been mulling over whether to write a proper "review" of it or not. It was the most amorphous of any of the volumes yet, and thus it is slightly more difficult to speak about, or really wrap my thoughts around. Also, at this point, considering any of the volumes of A la recherche... to be distinct entities starts to become a bit silly. Certainly, Swann's Way, up through the "novel within the novel" Swann in Love (volume one), could be considered, if read only on their own, without venturing any deeper into the novel, as distinct chunks of prose, seemingly existing without necessary reference to the rest. But once you step forward, beginning with "Place-Names, The Name" at the end of volume one, there really is no separation to the story; the further you read, the more you realize how significant and interwoven all those earlier, almost slight incidents of the first few volumes have become, and one is resigned, albeit a blissful resignation, to 4,000 pages of Proust. One is then tempted to keep their mouth shut until the whole of In Search of Lost Time is read and digested, and give the novel its proper treatment, that of a single, though immense, narrative. But Proust himself created the divisions within the novel, gave them their titles, and undoubtedly wanted the reader to consider them distinctly, but volume four especially felt like a link in the chain that was quite dependent on what came before and what follows, that is to say it felt transitional, and indeed transformational, because I am sure that after the revelation that closes Sodom and Gomorrah (one that sent me rushing to start volume 5), Marcel will never be the same. To name it would be to spoil too much for the casual reader of these thoughts; it would be a disservice to someone going into the novel to reveal too much, as Proust's revelations are best discovered in his own particular oceanic depths and rhythms. So I will speak generally of a few things that struck me in volume four:1.By the end of Sodom and Gomorrah the structure of In Search of Lost Time really begins to bare its teeth. Events from the earlier volumes begin to resurface, repeat, gain in significance (the butterfly beating its wings that causes a hurricane on the other side of the Earth), and the attentive reader stands in awe of the power of Proust the novelist, and it is further impressed upon one that to do justice to the experience of reading A la recherche du temps perdu , it is best to read these volumes back to back; a great separation in time between them would only cause one to lose the thread, to break that stream of consciousness that is ever flowing backwards, retrieving treasures and casting them forward again through the years. As in life itself, events from the distant past do not lose their force, they are only submerged in the glacial flow of what follows, and when one reflects, it is perhaps the minor incidents, those barely considered at the moment they are experienced, that vibrate subtly in the body of the instrument and are retained in a lingering overtone, almost too quiet for our ears to capture, but that later shakes us to the core nonetheless, in that sort of strangely preserving bodily memory which is almost out of the reach of conscious attempts at recollection.2.One of the great achievements of Proust the artist is his portrayal of the contradictions and variety of character within a single person. In Sodom and Gomorrah it is M. de Charlus who is the prime example of this, but it is ubiquitous in the people who populate Proust's world. No one is who they are on the surface, and if they are presenting themselves in a certain way you can be sure that they are hiding either opposite inclinations, or gross deficiencies, or if they boast of talent or knowledge they are covering for what they are actually inept at or ignorant of, or if they are generous or kindly it is from some socially trained gesture and they are sure to later spit venom at the former subject of their pleasantries, or if they are overtly cruel at one moment they will show themselves later to be capable of indulgent tenderness. In other words, what Proust understands and sets down so perfectly is the infinite complexity of the human personality, the multitude of motives behind our social, and even personal interactions, or, to use Shelley's words, that "Nought may endure but Mutability". This is extended even to the physiognomic descriptions of characters such as Albertine and Mme. de Guermantes, who are seen by Marcel as revealing such differing features at different instances that they are sometimes unrecognizable to him. This is one of the great themes of the novel, the subjectivity of perception.3.The need for possession is seldom triggered by love, and most often triggered by jealousy. This especially is the case for Marcel, who shows frankly psychotic jealous tendencies. I mean, we are supposed to know that this young man has a sometimes debilitating nervous disorder, and physical ailments such as asthma that often restrict his activity (and allow him long bed-bound hours of introverted contemplation), but his jealousy over Albertine (which, I can say, is a hundred times more pronounced so far in volume five), is unsettling. It is not only his relationship with Albertine that is seemingly ignited by jealousy alone, but also in the case of Charlus and Morel, and in perhaps all of the social gatherings, it is a need for possession (or in the social case, domination), provoked by a kind of covetous resentfulness, that motivates these people. And while Marcel is superior to them (because of his brilliant artistic aptitude, true talent for observation, "the painterly-poetic eye") he still suffers from the same malady. More on this later.4.In Search of Lost Time, while always tinged with melancholy (and I fear, tragedy), is essentially comedic. The drawing rooms of the upper-echelon resound with sardonic, parodic laughter. Marcel is making fun of these people, amplifying their defects, mocking their arbitrary tastes, making use of the one tool that always subverts and destroys a power structure: laughter.5.The Verdurins return in volume four, seeking Marcel out to show off how artistic and "forward" their salon is, and thank god for this. They are hilariously cruel, utterly contemptuous of anyone outside their "little clan", on the whole not very bright, but entertaining as hell. The train rides along the Norman coast with Brichot's etymological digressions on French place-names are some of the highlights of this volume. Marcel's return to Balbec is quite different from his first sojourn to the shore. Now he is a connected, sought after man of society. The staff of the Grand Hotel go out of their way to accommodate him, he has inherited a large fortune and can therefore spoil Albertine with trips in a motor car (as he points out, still quite rare in those days) and fine clothes and dinners, but he is pursued, emotionally, by recent events which cloud his disposition, including his grandmother's death, the full grief of which is provoked only on his return to Balbec by an onslaught of mémoire involontaire similar to the famous "incident of the madelaine" that plunged him into the original depths of remembrance of Combray in Swann's Way. The exorcising of this grief is detailed in the strongest section of volume four, entitled "The Intermittencies of the Heart", a powerful exposition on dealing with the death of a loved one. His grief is assuaged in one of those miracle landscape descriptions that Proust so excels at: "Where I had seen with my grandmother in the month of August only green leaves and, so to speak, the disposition of the apple-trees, as far as the eye could reach they were in full bloom, unbelievably luxurious, their feet in the mire beneath their ball-dresses, heedless of spoiling the most marvellous pink satin that was ever seen, which glittered in the sunlight; the distant horizon of the sea gave the trees the background of a Japanese print; if I raised my head to gaze at the sky through the flowers, which made its serene blue appear almost violent, they seemed to draw apart to reveal the immensity of their paradise. Beneath the azure a faint but cold breeze set the blushing bouquets gently trembling. Blue-tits came and perched upon the branches and fluttered among the indulgent flowers, as though it had been an amateur of exotic art and colours who had artificially created this living beauty. But it moved one to tears because, to whatever lengths it went in its effects of refined artifice, one felt that it was natural, that these apple-trees were there in the heart of the country, like peasants on one of the high roads of France. Then the rays of the sun gave place suddenly to those of the rain; they streaked the whole horizon, enclosing the line of apple-trees in their grey net. But these continued to hold aloft their pink and blossoming beauty, in the wind that had turned icy beneath the drenching rain: it was a spring day."6.There is a deep loneliness at the heart of In Search of Lost Time. This has its roots in Marcel's keen awareness of the aforementioned subjectivity of perception (thus our inability to truly know another person), the unreliability of memory, the fact that only our past experiences shape the human being we become, that we are subject and slave to what we retain of their lessons, and yet these experiences are held in a faulty vessel. In the final summation, one is deceived as much by one's perception of one's self as that of the outside world, and though we would like to believe that the choices we make are generated from the intellect, it is indeed emotions, things stirring in the vague realms of consciousness, the invisible influences of our personal history that dictate our fates, things so often hidden or alien to our daily lives that it is almost as if our choices were made by another. That is what lies behind the ridiculous, fateful choice Marcel is brought to in the closing lines of Sodom and Gomorrah- the reverberations of the past, specifically that kiss- the maternal kiss, the one that initiated this whole novel, that kiss (the one forced into being by a slight of hand, by a deception), whose tenderness was so enhanced by being deprived of it; that comforting, calming kiss from mother that reassured a sickly, nervous child that he was loved and protected, and perhaps most of all, that he was possessed by someone, and that he in turn could possess her; that kiss that at once liberates and imprisons, calms and destroys. Marcel, I'm worried for you. You are not heeding the lessons of Swann in Love (oh so many thousands of pages ago!), in fact, you are recreating Swann's sorrows in your own life. What is that great Bob Dylan line, "You can always come back, but you can't come back all the way"? I see dark days ahead for you, Marcel.

  • Darwin8u
    2019-03-01 18:48

    “But sometimes the future is latent in us without our knowing it, and our supposedly lying words foreshadow an imminent reality.” ― Marcel Proust, Sodom and GomorrahReviewing 'Sodom and Gomorrah' puts me in an awkward spot. What are the risks of looking back obliquely on Proust's fourth volume of 'In Search of Lost Time' (ISOLT)? Will any indirect reference to Proust's army of inverts turn me into a pillar of salt? Will I disquiet my friends and my family with funky quotes from Proust's salon-centric novel? It is hard to grab this one volume and grade or inspect it separate from the previous three, and seems premature to attempt to capture the full body of ISOLT before reading the next three. Still, having read 2700+ pages of Proust now, I can still feel confident in saying that the guy is brilliant, weird, distressing, mesmerizing, queer, petulant, boring, beautiful, raving, labyrinthine, decadent, lyrical, perverse, funky, banal, and that is just a sampling of my feelings about Proust on one of his damn pages. But this is a novel that once started, must be finished. It is also a novel that needs to be eaten in discrete and slow chunks. I'm not sure it is possible to eat an entire wheel of Leerdammer by oneself, or to drink an entire Hogshead of wine, or to read Proust's ISOLT all the way through. It is brilliant, but needs to be consumed in small graceful quantities, preferably with your pinky sticking out.

  • Edward
    2019-03-14 17:57

    --Sodom and Gomorrah (In Search of Lost Time Volume IV)NotesAddendaSynopsis

  • Bram
    2019-03-13 12:39

    (Mild, general spoilers)Ah, Proust, damn you. Damn you, damn you. You tricked me. You took me along for a pleasant ride, one filled with glorious introspection, a “slice” of life so elongated and plotless (at least as much as in real life), that I expected to be carried gently through to the end with a slow rippling buzz, nostalgic yet never heart-wrent. But then you went ahead and wrote the final 17 charged pages of Sodom and Gomorrah , sentencing me to 1200 final pages of sorrow and anguish. For when you say…I, who until now had never woken up without smiling at the humblest things, at the bowl of café au lait, the sound of the rain, the thunder of the wind, I felt that the day that would be breaking in a moment, and all the days that came after, would never again bring me the hope of an unknown happiness, but a prolonging of my martyrdom. I still held to life; I knew that I could now expect from it only what was cruel.…I believe you. You bastard. Even with all the scattered hints that you’ve been dropping so slyly for the last 500 pages or so, I still didn’t want to believe it. You (or the narrator, whatever) could have been happy. And you set us up brilliantly didn’t you, you little genius? You start your thesis on love and jealousy (basically how the latter jumpstarts and controls the former) in volume one with Swann and Odette, and while it's frequently painful, we aren’t invested enough to be more than just mildly sickened. The affair with Saint-Loup and his mistress is even sicker, but again, these are side characters and we aren’t moved to distress. But when you trigger the Moment—and it deserves capitalizing, for who could guess that in the prodigious In Search of Lost Time, the narrator’s (and the reader’s) miserable future rests on one single moment—you use a snapshot memory. Of course. From well over a thousand pages ago, a seemingly inconsequential observation. Shit, you really were writing a novel, weren’t you? Brilliant. But you’re still a bastard. Now I know what’s coming and, while eager to continue, I'm dreading it because it’s going to be painful…for both of us. But I can’t stop. And damn you, M. Proust, I care. And you had the gall to tease me for caring, too, right after your tore out your own heart (or the narrator’s, whatever):I two or three times had the idea, momentarily, that the world in which this room and these bookcases were, and in which Albertine counted for so little, was perhaps an intellectual world, which was the sole reality, and my unhappiness something like that which we get from reading a novel, and which a madman alone could make into a lasting and permanent unhappiness, extending into his life; that it would take only a slight effort of will perhaps to attain to that real world, to return into it by passing beyond my grief, as though bursting through a paper hoop, and no more to care about what Albertine had done than we care about the actions of the imaginary heroine of a novel after we have finished reading it.Just an “imaginary heroine”, huh? (turning purple)And this volume was just floating along like any other (well not quite, and I’ll get to that shortly). You have Proust’s favorite “game” borne out in the extreme yet organic character reversals: Charlus the unapproachable, haughty, and aristocratic snob becomes Charlus the bourgeoisie-frequenting servant-lover; Saint-Loup the intellectual-worshipping, Dreyfusard, monogamy-believer becomes Saint-Loup the jaded anti-Dreyfusard player; et (pretty much all) al. The beginning of the volume, initially published along with the end of the previous volume according to the introduction, continues to focus on vapid, aristocratic society life, but with one major new facet: our young narrator now sees gay people…everywhere. The little voyeur catches one furtive man-on-man session and suddenly his gaydar goes from nonexistent to hyperactive. Impressive. Proust’s theories on homosexuality are rather complex and interesting, but despite being a gay man himself, not all of his views are 21st century (unsurprising, I suppose). For those of you familiar with the website “Stuff White People Like”, however, it is of interest to note that #88, Having Gay Friends, was alive and well in France 100 years ago:Now, it was, without their realizing it, because of that vice (or what is generally so termed) that they found him more intelligent than the others…if M. de Charlus did not come, they felt disappointment almost at traveling only among people who were like everyone else …America is so far behind. Sigh.

  • Lee
    2019-03-16 20:58

    Let's say three stars for interminable party scenes and seven stars for solo Marcel going on about grandma and dreams and seeing an airplane for the first time (maybe my favorite page/paragraph so far -- the end of 581 and most of 582 -- typed up for safekeeping below). Oh place names reduced to their historical tribal derivation and places reduced to fancy homes where one is always welcome. That's sort of like the opposite of the madeline-induced association -- instead of something small mysteriously opening up rich far-reaching memories, experience transforms the wide-open endless mysteries of a girl on the beach, the name of a town along a train route, and the lofty aristocratic salons of Paris to something lesser/known if not quite quotidian. Oh Marcel, you lover of mystery, you mystic (pink hawthorns, Vinteuil's little phrase, Elstir's radiant sea cliffs), always flipping/flopping between incantations of adoration and indifference (whatever it takes to win the girl). Mostly didn't like how narrator condescends to his characters but toward the end I saw the point that he'd been disillusioned by, first, Parisian aristocratic circles and then Balbec's fancy/pretentious untitled folks. Spoiler: everyone's an invert. Loved the opening essay on inverts. (I love the word invert.) Albertine waltzing with a female friend in a mutally arousing way, with tah-tahs touching -- shocking! I don't have too much to say about how Marcel handles inversion. I suppose it's outdated but also, as a reader, I couldn't help being like dude the reason you're flipping and flopping about marrying Albertine and worried about her lady lovin' is that you, the author, clearly want to press your chest to the chest of someone named Albert. Didn't quite buy narrator's freakout about Albertine toward the end -- seemed histrionic/forced -- but loved the cliffhanger. In general, glad this one's over and glad I made it through. The prose pulls you through even if the characters don't seem as loved by the author as much as the artists Bergotte and Elstir, or revered friends like Saint-Loup. M. de Charlus (extraordinarily well characterized after hundreds of pages devoted to the book's most variable prickly invert supreme) and Morel (at this point, not much more than a cutout quarry of a handsome virtuoso violinist) are not the most charming folks. Nevertheless, dog-eared dozens of pages, especially toward the end, of Proust-y excellence. Flowing insight wins the day and makes the dual whirlpools of not always so scintillating chitchat worthwhile. Five stars for In Search of Lost Time so far -- four stars for this volume. Might add some quotations later.Here's the bit from page 581-582 about seeing an airplane for the first time: "I felt this longing to escape especially strongly one day when, having left Albertine at her aunt's, I had gone on horseback to call on the Verdurins and had taken an unfrequented path through the woods the beauty of which they had extolled to me. Hugging the contours of the cliff, it alternately climbed and then, hemmed in by dense woods on either side, dived into wild gorges. For a moment the barren rocks by which I was surrounded, and the sea that was visible through their jagged gaps, swam before my eyes like fragments of another universe: I had recognised the mountainous and marine landscape which Elstir had made the scene of those two admirable water-colours, "Poet meeting a Muse" and "Young Man meeting a Centaur," which I had seen at the Duchesse de Guermantes's. The memory of them transported the place in which I now found myself so far outside the world of today that I should not have been surprised if, like the young man of the prehistoric age that Elstir had painted, I had come upon a mythological personage in the course of my ride. Suddenly, my horse reared; he had heard a strange sound; it was all I could do to hold him and remain in the saddle; then I raised my tear-filled eyes in the direction from which the sound seemed to come and saw, not two-hundred feet above my head, against the sun, between two great wings of flashing metal which were bearing him aloft, a creature whose indistinct face appeared to me to resemble that of a man. I was as deeply moved as an ancient Greek on seeing for the first time a demi-god. I wept -- for I had been ready to weep the moment I realised that the sound came from above my head (aeroplanes were still rare in those days), at the thought that what I was going to see for the first time was an aeroplane. Then, just as when in a newspaper one senses that one is coming to a moving passage, the mere sight of the machine was enough to make me burst into tears. Meanwhile, the airman seemed to be uncertain of his course; I felt that there lay open before him -- before me, had no habit made me a prisoner -- all the routes in space, in life itself; he flew on, let himself glide for a few moments over the sea, then quickly making up his mind, seeming to yield to some attraction that was the reverse of gravity, as though returning to his native element, with a slight adjustment of his golden wings he headed straight up into the sky."

  • Teresa Proença
    2019-03-10 15:49

    (Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Bal du moulin de la Galette)"As pessoas não param de mudar de posição relativamente a nós. Na marcha insensível mas eterna do mundo consideramo-las imóveis, num instante de visão, demasiado curto para que se apreenda o movimento que as arrasta. Mas basta que escolhamos na nossa memória duas imagens delas em movimentos diferentes, porém bastante próximos, para que não se tenham alterado em si mesmos, ao menos de maneira sensível, e a diferença entre as duas imagens é a medida da deslocação que operam em relação a nós."

  • Michael Finocchiaro
    2019-02-22 19:49

    As the title implies, Sodom and Gomorra is the descent into hell - or more aptly, the cruel and unseemly underside of the society described by Le Coté de Guermantes. We have the craven Charlus and Jupien (mirroring the lesbian scene that the narrator sees in the first book). The narrator has his first taste of death and mourning as his grandmother which cuts him to the bone. It is an exciting and brutal book full of action and description in equal parts and the growing obsession of the narrator for the possession of Albertine. This of course is the subject of the next book. Le Prisonniere....

  • Deniz Balcı
    2019-03-06 16:47

    Modern romanın en önemli başyapıtlarından gösterilen 'Kayıp Zamanın İzinde' eserinin bence en güzel durağı 'Sodom ve Gomorra'dır. Yapmış olduğum ikinci okumamda, ilk okumam esnasında gözden kaçırmış olduğum şeyleri büyük bir şaşkınlıkla en baştan ve daha kapsamlı bir şekilde özümseme fırsatı buluyorum. Benim için tüm zamanların en iyi yazarı Marcel Proust'tur. Elbette çok göreceli ve öznel sebeplerim var bunun için ama genel geçer görüşte de Proust'un yeri altın harflerle kazınmış durumda. Modern romancılığın piri olarak gösterilen James Joyce, Franz Kafka ve Robert Musil'den de daha okura yakın bir edebiyatı olduğunu düşünüyorum. Bu serüvene başladığınızda ilk kitap genel bir başlangıç sayılacaktır. Ancak arkasından gelen ikinci ve özellikle üçüncü kitap (Guarmentas Tarafı) en zor okunan kısımlar. Bu soylular kervanının da ikinci ve üçüncü kitabın görevi, sonra gelen kitapların daha iyi anlaşılmasını sağlamak amacıyla atılmış bir zemin gibi. Guarmentas Tarafı serinin en zor okunan kitabı. Okuyucunun tahammül sınırlarını zorluyor. Fakat buna istinaden eserden uzaklaşmayın zira sonrasında gelen bu 'Sodom ve Gomorro' Proust'un dehasına yakınlaştığınız, aynı zamanda olay odaklı bir seyir izleme keyifini tattığınız bir bölüm. Balbec'e yapılan ikinci yolculuk, M. de Charlus'u daha yakından tanıma fırsatı vermesi, Swann'ın olmadığı bir Verdurin cemiyeti tanımlamaları ve eşcinsellik ile ilgili muazzam tespitleriyle en sürükleyici kitaplardan. Sonraki üç kitapta örülecek olan Albertine çıkmazına da bu kitaptaki verilerle anlam yükleyeceksiniz. Süreçlerin aralarına sıkıştırdığı inanılmaz derinlikli tespitleri, karakterlere yaklaşımındaki bilim adamı ayrıntıcılığı, ruh bilimciliği, estetik ve felsefi göndermeleri bulunan eşsiz pasajlar kesinlikle okunmaya değer.Proust'un anlatıcı olarak zamanla yaşamış olduğu değişim ve dönüşümlerde; birey olarak katılmak zorunda olmadığınız; vardığınız kendi yargılarınızla bütün akışı ve aynı zamanda anlatıcının kendisini de yargılayabileceğiniz bir dil yaratmış yazar. Bir süre sonra onun ağzından dinlediğiniz bir snop hayatına uzaktan bakıp hepsini, ayrı ayrı değerlendirme yeteneğiniz oluşuyor. Hatta kitapta anlatılmayan ama olması mümkün gördüğünüz kendi görüşleriniz de oluşuyor. Eserin muazzam katmanlığı buradan geliyor.Yine bir çok yerinde edebiyat şöleni yaşadığım, muazzam bir kitap!!!10/10

  • Joshua
    2019-03-18 19:36

    I just finished Volume 4 and have jumped right into Volume 5 with sheer excitement. I haven't written any other Proust reviews, but this Volume was easily the best for me so far so I thought I should share a few words.Deep into ISOLT, the whole Time/Memory things is only now really starting to click for me. I think emphasizing Time/Memory over Recognition/Awareness is a little deceptive and maybe makes grappling with Proust's themes a more abstract and esoteric process than it ought to be. A large part of what I see Proust working towards is articulating the way in which we become aware of our feelings, learn about other people, and become exposed to parts of the world we had only dreamed of previously. And this is where the whole obsession with peoples' and "place-name"s comes in.At first the narrator (and the reader as well) encounter a name, of a person or a place, and we form an initial idea of what they are like, we muse and daydream and idealize and underestimate, and these conceptions inevitably suffer from certain preconceived notions or assumptions. Then life allows us to become acquainted with these people, these places, art forms, and our contact gives rise to a transformation of our perceptions (sometimes gradually , and, more often for Proust, in the dramatic crescendo of an epiphany) and we arrive at a deeper understanding or knowledge of ourselves and the people and things around us. A good example of this is the story arc regarding the narrator's fascination with the actress Berma that stretches across vols. 1-3. At first he daydreams about the actress and nearly kills himself with grief because he is unable to witness her performance, then he finally gets to see a show and it is nothing like what he expected and he's disappointed and thinks everyone is wrong about her greatness, and then he lets go of his expectations and realizes that at first he was unable to understand what made her such a great actress. In this vein, volume 4 provides the following: "I was beginning to think that "recognitions" might indeed express an important part of life, if one knew how to penetrate to the romantic core of things, when all of a sudden the truth flashed across my mind and I realised that I had been absurdly ingenuous." (Side note: Alternate source for Gaddis's title?)So we have this process continually taking place for the narrator as he ventures out into new places and penetrates new social circles, but layered on top of that is the whole Time/Memory aspect. Every once and a while the narrator finds himself in a situation, a physical location, or merely in a certain mood, and he becomes aware of how all of these various selves are staggered across time, intertwining and variously associated with the people and the places he encounters. The best example of this is the beautiful "Intermittencies of the Heart" section of volume 4. (view spoiler)[ The narrator visits Balbec for a second time and remembers the time he spent there in volume 2 accompanied by his grandmother, he also learns more about the state of her health during their previous trip and realizes that she was much more ill than he every thought even then. The room in the Grand Hotel evokes all of his memories of the time they spent together on their previous trip, but also evokes the feelings of grief that he felt upon his grandmother's death which had dulled over time. The grief he feels for his grandmother, however, feels so akin to the grief he felt immediately following her death that he has the feeling that he has reverted back to a prior state of existence, that he has not aged a minute. There is a self within him that surfaces at various moments and gives him an unshakable sense of revisiting his past, which prompts him to muse upon his memories of those times. So for me, the Time/Memory thing is all about these mysterious connections, transcending time, that tie together certain tragic or otherwise emotionally similar occasions.(hide spoiler)]Proust also lets loose a lot with the humor in this volume. We get to see a woman getting drenched by a wind-blown water spout during a garden party, two identical waiters with matching Tomato Heads who are not equally receptive to the advances of one of their patrons, parties where everyone knows someone else's secret and make jokes about it to cause them alarm, and people who aren't sure if others know their secrets and perceive otherwise innocent statements as suggestive insults. Of course, Proust's favorite joke is when people mistake a banished low-life for a leading social figure or when they don't know how prestigious one of their guests is in comparison to their other guests.Lastly, Proust does a lot of interesting structural things here that seem unique to this volume so far. Early on he addresses the reader directly and promises to get back to the main story. At one point the narrator says that he can't keep telling us stories because he's about to take a trip which ends up providing the content for the second half of the novel, which suggests that the narrator is writing in the "present" while the events we are reading about are taking place, though he frequently refers to vague resolutions to ongoing affairs which occur years in the future and he never recounts any time spent writing the very material we are reading. At the end, there's also a very interesting passage structured around the train the narrator and his crew ride out to their dinner parties. As the narrator travels down the line, each stop evokes a new story, sometimes that story ties in with the "present" time line and some times it doesn't but Proust, as always, manages to tie it altogether somehow, which is really for me the most amazing part. I don't know how he does it and I can't imagine how much genius was needed to put this whole thing together, but I'm definitely in for the rest of the ride. Three volumes to go!

  • David Lentz
    2019-03-05 17:53

    Some have accused Proust of being "long-winded." However, he suffered acutely from shortness of breath but not shortness of breadth. Proust preferred to work on a large canvas. Having read the first four volumes of "In Search of Lost Time," I am even more convinced that Proust is a literary talent of the highest order. He is a writer of immense sensibility in the true sense of the word. His perception and memory and intelligence permeate his writing. Like Balzac, whom he admired, Proust focused his sensibility upon high society in Paris in his heyday. He continually discoursed about the the manners of the circles in which he moved and sheds light, as did Balzac, on the complexities of the strata and protocol and behavior of his social peers. One is able to get a close look at this realm in which he was considered a literary luminary and rightly so, after winning France's greatest literary prize at such an early age. Like Balzac he built his volumes in a "serial" fashion by ending each in dramatic fashion: the characters reappear from volume to volume. And one learns about their health, their misfortunes, their affairs often through the hearsay of other characters, as it happens in real life. Despite the despicable ways that the characters often treat each other, Proust speaks within the tapestry of the "human comedy" as the humble voice of reason. "When you reach my age you will see that society is a paltry thing, and you will be sorry that you put so much importance to these trifles," a judge observes. But for Proust society was his life and his legacy is partly at least the light that he sheds upon his own human comedy. The beauty of the language is breathtaking --the language is utterly lyrical and once one surrenders to the pulse and flow of his long sentence syntax, one finds the transforming genius of his art. I am eager to begin Volume 5 -- the man is a bonafide genius. He deals with sensitive subjects in good taste and with sage discretion -- Proust communicates with his readers as he probably did in society: honestly, articulately and with the best of all manners. He didn't live long enough to read the publication of half the volumes of his greatest masterpiece: Volume 4 was the last he lived to see published. What an absolute pity!

  • Sue
    2019-02-23 17:57

    I have to say, M. Proust really pulled this book out for me. I was not enjoying much of the middle of the book, but the last third was excellent and revived my spirits for continuing on with the saga. Once again it was some of the Salons that tended to decrease my connection although the descriptions of the Balbec area and our narrator's return to the coast caught me up again.In a section that seemed to sum up much of the meaning of this book, Proust writes:Other women, it was true, had been interposed between the Albertine loved on that first occasion and the one whom at present I hardly ever left; other women, notably the Duchesse de Guermantes. But, people will say, why agonize so over Gilberte, or go to so much trouble over Mme de Guermantes, if, having become the latter's friend, it was solely in order not to think about her any more, but only about Albertine? Swann, before his death, might have known the answer, he who had been a connoisseur of phantoms. These Balbec roads were full of them, of phantoms pursued, forgotten, sought after afresh,sometimes for a single interview and so as to touch an unreal life that had at once made its escape. Reflectingthat their trees, pears, apples, and tamarisks wouldoutlive me, I seemed to be receiving from them the advice finally to set to work while the hour of eternal rest had yet to sound. (p 401)I am looking forward to the remaining volumes of this Proustian adventure.Addendum: I am also providing a link to another review of this book which I very much appreciated. https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

  • Bettie☯
    2019-03-18 18:35

    http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0076qndDescription: Desperate to avoid the tortures of love, Marcel tries to make himself unavailable to Albertine. Meanwhile, the Baron de Charlus suffers heartbreak. Stars James Wilby.Revisiting, via BBC R4x, all the books in remembrance, our world has altered too.

  • Isabel
    2019-03-10 16:37

    P. 338- "Porque o instinto de imitação e a ausência de coragem governam tanto as sociedades como as multidões. E toda a gente se ri de uma pessoa de quem vê os outros fazerem troça, mas não deixará de a venerar dez anos mais tarde num meio onde é admirada. É dessa mesma forma que o povo expulsa ou aclama os reis."

  • Vale
    2019-03-11 15:38

    Il romanzo inizia con una scena di sesso tra due uomini, dopo un preludio metaforico tra un calabrone e un'orchidea. Alla faccia della Cattleya, con cui nel primo romanzo Proust alludeva al sesso.Il tema di questo quarto capitolo dell'opera Alla ricerca del tempo perduto è proprio l'omosessualità, ma attenzione, Proust si concentra sulle falsità legate alla sessualità degli individui, a quanti sfruttino il proprio corpo per ottenere del potere e a quanti fingano una eterosessualità inesistente, capovolgendo così il senso comune del perbenismo. Al di là della storia ciò che mi ha colpito è stata la franchezza con cui l'autore ha trattato il tema, considerando che egli stesso ha faticato tantissimo a vivere la propria sessualità. Che liberazione deve essere stato scrivere questo romanzo! Si arriva ad un punto, attenzione spoiler, in cui il narratore è geloso della sua donna perchè sa che ha relazioni lesbo. Sarebbe una lotta impari, da non intraprendere, ma si rende conto che lui è ancora in tempo:allora avevo l'ingenuità delle persone che credono che un'inclinazione ne escluda necessariamente un'altra.Già, già! Proust arriva al concetto di bisex! Per questa affermazione scommetto che Marcel mi riempirebbe di invettive. Perché alla fine, quello che proprio emerge è che le persone non hanno etichette, amano, si invaghiscono: di corpi, di menti, di idee non reali, di fantasmi, di uomini e di donne. Ah, anche della mamma!E' un libro questo, in cui davvero ci sono colpi di scena, ironia a fiotti e sì, tante proustiane paranoie (pesantissime) su feste e ricevimenti. Touché.

  • Hadrian
    2019-03-19 16:46

    I'm sorry, I'm putting this whole series back on the 'to-read' list for now.It's not that they're bad. It's the precise opposite. I have been so distracted with work and other books that I've fallen behind schedule and now I've forgotten the events and even some of the characters.I enjoyed the three books I did finish immensely. I did not place as much emphasis on the character interactions, as a novel of this scale is so vast that I did not focus on the totality of it. Instead I enjoyed our narrator's 'non-fiction' thoughts on memory and life and society. Those were excellent. A few pages into The Guermantes Way were enough to convince me that it was 5 stars, and nothing after could possibly bring that down. This journey, as incomplete as it is, was one which brought me much entertainment and even wisdom as can be derived from conversations with books and about them.Some day I will come back here, and I will finish what I have started. To do otherwise would be a disservice not only to myself, but M. Proust as well.

  • Paul
    2019-03-02 12:55

    I don't need to detail the plot it meanders on as beautifully written as ever with the Guermantes and Verdurins being wonderfully silly as ever. The narrator continues to pursue and Albertine and get bored of her. The minor characters stand out in this volume; Charlus, Morel and the members of the salons. Proust explores homosexuality in some detail; both male and female. Of course the Proust scholars continue to debate the real nature of the narrator's lovers; Albertine, Andree and Gilberte are all feminised forms of male names. Proust also makes interesting observations and reflections on death, grief and ageing. The narrator lost his grandmother in the previous volume and he continues to feel her loss and dream about her. There is also a moment of revelation when he suddenly sees his mother as his grandmother; time is passing. I don't really feel the need to over analyse at this point because I'm just enjoying the journey; it's like falling into an impressionist painting

  • Narjes Dorzade
    2019-03-17 18:00

    پروست هم خسته ات می کنه ؛ هم دوستش داری ....

  • ReemK10 (Paper Pills)
    2019-03-05 18:35

    "Flower and plant have no conscious will. They are shameless, exposing their genitals. And so in a sense are Proust's men and women .... shameless. There is no sense of right and wrong." Samuel Beckett Marcel Proust writes: "People in society are too apt to think of a book as a sort of cube one side of which has been removed so the author can " put in" the people he meets."(MKE 90) He goes on to say that it is " thanks to them when one reads a book or an article, one "gets to know the inside story " one" sees people in their true colours." (MKE 90) Proust is such an author. His characters may be viewed as being shameless because they have been exposed to reveal their true identities. Readers acquire the botanist's technique of contemplating and observing "the precious plants exposed in the courtyard." Seeing the laws of the vegetable kingdom command the germination of a flower, one also observes the laws of society mandating the behavior of people, namely their pleasures. Unveiling people's true natures in turn resonates and touches a responsive chord within us making us aware of vices that are laid bare. Proust explains opening our eyes to what was invisible to us before. Everything becomes clear. We arrive at conclusions that we never forget. Social constraints, inward constraints impose themselves and are observed. Proust does not let us suffer the disillusionment of deception, even as we guess at them. Proust delivers as the reader acquires a new way of seeing things- the exquisite blue girandole of a jellyfish makes us now see a mauve orchid of the sea. Proust intends for us to become these human herbalists and moral botanists as we observe the shameless exposition of flower and plant in whatever metaphorical forms and to notice the flowers that mimic the insects that they wish to attract.Love of ostentation will strike the reader as the shameless behavior of polite society as is self-importance and social categorization.Proust has us realizing that getting to know people better makes them change before our own eyes with displays that can often be most infuriating. Previously, seeing through non- transparent glass has us seeing in distortion. Utilizing Proust's different degrees of attention has our eyes dilating and bringing us to a new reality.Proust teaches that it is love that magnifies our perception of people's traits. Faults are often seen as superior qualities.We also encounter rude awakenings when we recognize parts of ourselves we'd rather not see in those people who bear a striking resemblance to who we are. Beckett's claim that the characters of the Recherche are shameless is an interesting one because any flawed personality is bound to feel shame. Perhaps Proust's characters do not feel any guilt for their actions, and so for Beckett that meant that "There is no question of right and wrong." It is true that Proust doesn't expose his characters to a shameful glance and that might make them be perceived as being shameless. Proust and Beckett are clearly at opposite ends. Proust is obsessed with time, whereas with Beckett there is no sense of time. Proust is in search of involuntary memory, whereas with Beckett there is no memory. Proust has an extensive cast of characters, whereas Beckett has them stripped down to the bare minimum. Proust presents a moral subversion of his characters that we come to accept them for what they are, as ugly, ridiculous, obsessive, or neurotic as they may be. His are not characters that necessarily inspire empathy, nor does he judge them. Proust only presents social interaction and leaves the reader to figure out what the flaws are in their personalities as he adds layer upon layer of jealousy, rivalry, and envy. There is intimating with eyes, making gratitudinous gestures, tilting against windmills, and eleventh- hour reviews of the troops invited to a garden party. The favorable becomes unfavorable and vice versa. Proust has us understanding that there can be no shame because one can only be what one is. "The question is not, as for Hamlet, to be or not to be, but to belong or not to belong." (MKE 572)

  • Susan
    2019-03-06 14:01

    This is volume four of Marcel Proust’s, “In Search of Lost Time.” I assume that, if you have made it this far, that you intend to read to the end – however, if you are thinking of starting this and have not read the earlier books, then do please begin at volume one. This is not a literary experience to be rushed and you need to read these volumes in order.The first volume concentrates largely on childhood memories, while volume two and three looks at society and status. Here, though, the narrator turns his attention to more daring and explicit themes; including forbidden and jealous love. In fact, jealousy is a theme which runs through this whole series; from Swann and Odette to his obsessive desire for Gilberte. Now we have his infatuation with Albertine and also the viewed lives of other characters; dissected with sharp clarity and laid bare. Indeed, the book begins with the narrator witnessing a hurried encounter between Jupien and Baron de Charlus in his courtyard and Charlus prowls through the pages of this book as we encounter him again and again. As for our narrator, there are late night, frantic desires to see Albertine, desires for her friend, Andree and sudden wishes to be free of the restraints of his feelings, while almost clinging to the distress he causes himself. Again, there are musings on the narrator’s beloved grandmother, his relationship with his mother and with those around him. There is also the return of the Verdurins and their clique, which the narrator becomes involved in. He spends time at Balbec, before returning to Paris at the end of this volume. However, it not so much what happens, but how Proust writes about it which is what makes these works so powerful. His writing is lyrical, beautiful and, despite the passing of time, all too understandable. We have all experienced these feelings of jealousy, desire and these aspects of human nature and behaviour and, through understanding them, sympathise with the people who come alive within these pages. I am glad I finally got around to reading, “In Search of Lost Time,” and look forward to reading on.

  • Greg
    2019-02-28 13:47

    "The women shall have Gomorrah and the men shall have Sodom" opens this book (the quote is by Alfred De Vigny). And Proust certainly delivers, surprisingly (given the publication year of 1921) covering many points along the sexual spectrum. He writes that in the past he has found himself "...stupidly thinking that people could have but one sort of love." But that's just one of three main plot lines: the second is the Dreyfus affair, and society is far more passionate about Dreyfus than about sexual preferences. And the third plot line is, of course, time: "...my effort to wake up consisted chiefly in an effort to bring the obscure, undefined mass of the sleep in which I had just been living into the framework of time." Proust beautifully weaves these 3 plot lines of duality together: Sodom/Gomorrah, Dreyfus/anti-Dreyfuss, and Sleep/Wake. And to top it all off, the author leaves us begging for more, as he ends this volume with a great cliff-hanger which is the only climax of this type (it seems to me) in the first four volumes. This is the final volume of "In Search of Lost Time" published within the author's own lifetime: the remaining 3 volumes were published posthumously. But Proust had achieved international fame with the publication of the second volume and I believe he embraced that fame to produce what is turning out to be, so far, one of my favorite literary works.

  • Rafal
    2019-03-01 12:42

    Ta część - co jasno wynika z tytułu - jest o homoseksualizmie. Świat opisywany przez autora ma na punkcie homoseksualizmu prawdziwą obsesję (jesteśmy na przełomie 19-go i 20-go wieku). Homoseksualizm jest obecny. Wszyscy o nim wiedzą, są nim zafascynowani i w pewnym sensie akceptują w sensie towarzyskim w kontaktach z osobami, które są o homoseksualizm "podejrzewane". A równocześnie homoseksualizm wzbudza pogardę i przerażenie. Tak jak w poprzednich częściach narrator surowo oceniał społeczeństwo przez pryzmat bieżących problemów politycznych (takich jak sprawa Dreyfusa) czy prostych relacji międzyludzkich, obnażając hipokryzję tych czasów; W tej części osiąga cel używając do tego zjawiska homoseksualizmu. Bohaterami są: - baron de Charlus - zdeklarowany gej, który jednak z racji pozycji społecznej i wielu innych powodów musi swoją orientację ukrywać i byłby z pewnością doskonałym materiałem dla psychologa; - Albertyna - dziewczyna, którą kocha (a czasem nie kocha) narrator, który podejrzewa ją o skłonności homoseksualne. - Ostatnim kluczowym bohaterem jest sam narrator, który jak zwykle opisuje relacje między ludźmi z cudowną ironią piętnując głupotę i hipokryzję. Jednocześnie w żadnej dotychczas części nie było tak dobrze widać, że narrator jest nieodrodnym senem tego świata. Jest taki sam jak bagno, które opisuje. Manipuluje, kłamie, rani - cel uświęca wszystkie środki, także dla niego i to mimo swojego krytycznego stosunku do wszystkich, którzy tak postępują. To przerażający świat, w którym nawet najbliżsi sobie ludzie nie rozmawiają szczerze, tylko oszukują się, by osiągnąć cel lub zaplanowaną intrygę (czasem banalną lub idiotyczną). Ta część "W Poszukiwaniu Straconego Czasu" podoba mi się najbardziej ze wszystkich przeczytanych do tej pory. Filozofujących dłużyzn, dziwacznych dygresji było mniej. Za to portrety jeszcze bardziej wyraziste niż w poprzednich częściach. Baron de Charlus - zły gej, rozpustnik, erudyta i arystokrata a równocześnie ofiara swoich seksualnych instynktów - jest rewelacyjny. Narrator, który hamletyzuje w sprawie swojej miłości do Albertyny i tym bardziej jej pragnie im bardziej sądzi, że ona woli kobiety - też doskonały. Więc tej części oddaję cześć nie tylko ze względu na jej status działa klasycznego, ale dlatego, że przeczytałem z przyjemnością.

  • Hakan T
    2019-03-02 12:58

    Kayıp Zamanın İzinde serisi benim için düşen bir grafik çizdi. İlk kitap Swann'ların Tarafı'nı çok sevmiştim. Sonraki ciltlerden aldığım keyif giderek azaldı. 4. cilt olan bu kitap hakknda burada yer alan, serinin okunması daha kolay, daha somut parçası olduğu yönündeki yorumlar ise benim düşüncelerimle örtüşmedi. 150. sayfada bırakıyorum. Kalan 373 sayfayı okumak için ne zaman dönerim, hatta döner miyim bilmiyorum. Yüz yıl önceki Fransız sosyetesinin kibirli, sahte doğasının uzun uzadıya anlatılması artık boğdu beni herhalde...