The Way by Swann's (In Search of Lost Time - Volume 1) (Vol 1)

Look, there's great beauty and wit in some of Proust's writing - passages of poetic intensity that really are palpable. But let's be honest, for a modern person plowing through his books, reading Proust is an excruciating experience. One page of Swann's Way is like 20 pages of another classic novel, even one as good as, say, War and Peace. It's endless. And there are six more installments after Swann! I keep picking up and putting down Swann's Way. In that time I've read a dozen other works. Maybe I have ADHD.

Virginia Woolf thought A la Recherche du Temps Perdu the greatest novel ever written and had trouble writing a word after reading it as "why write at all after this book" she said - she committed suicide. F Scott Fitzgarld put four of the the novels in the series on his top ten list - he drank himself to death. Okay, Virginia Woolf was manic depresive before she read the book and F Scott had his issues before as well, and they may have discovered some remedy in Proust from reading it and it is not fair to compare the death rates of those who walk into a hospital verse those that walk into a health club but those that connect to this book are looking for something it seems - and it may have it. It has the greatest narrative ever written. It will likely have you thinking about what your thinking about much more in new ways and possibly healthier ones. It will get you to see the silliness of the greater part of your anxieties and appreciate, live in, the now - gain control of time itself - your wasted anxious time -... maybe... if you're lucky. But maybe you don't need that - or maybe you're not quite able to face your anxieties or ready for this book, or maybe above it and its message, it just doesn't have something that speaks to you. There are funnier books. There are books with more sympathetic characters.

I must say that I had alot of trepidation about reading this book because of its reputation of being difficult. I must admit that it was not at all easy to read, but not because of the long sentences, but because the intensity of attention this book rightfully demanded and my own anxiety to understand as much as possible. I read it slowly and looked up the paintings and places in the internet to visualize people and places. I baked madeleins, and imagined its taste when dipped in lime-blossom tea, and I thought about my own connections between tastes, sights, touches, music and memories, all of which were interesting trips, some happy, some sad....as you can see, this book was very interactive for me. What is most amazing is the author's superhuman ability to notice details of life--people, places, culture, nature, you name it--- and transport them into different layers of senses, perceptions, arts with such beauty and fluidity. I often laughed out loud when reading the incredibly detailed and brutally accurate and humourous descrpitions of human behaviors that are so ridiculous in nature but commonly accepted in practice.(for example,the M. Legrandin's conversations with the author's father, shamelessly avoidant, hilarious!) The book ends with "The places we have known do not belong solely to the world of space in which we situate them for our greater convenience. They were only a thin slice among contiguous impressions which formed our life at that time; the memory of a certain image is but regret for a certain moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fleeting, alas, as the years."--left me with the image of Monet's paintings. I can see why this book has influence so many thinkers of modern history---Oppenheimer, for one. For me, one down, 6 more volumes to go, but I will take time to enjoy them , s..l..o..w..l..y. "

More than a commentary on Swann's jealousy or M. Charlus's homosexuality or the frivolity of the Guermantes' sorties, Marcel Proust's monumental work In Search of Lost Time paints the unsuccessful reconstruction of a forgone world and a lost existence from fickle memories, which like morning mists would fade with the rising sun. The narrator Marcel, longing for a past that didn't exist but must be created, sought to experience Bergson's continuous time rather than the fragmented and still-framed instantaneous moments by attempting to blur the boundaries between Cambray and Paris, childhood and adolescence, and Swann and himself and integrate here and there, before and after, and him and me through memory fragments of previous objects, people and sensations. As in a neural network or a mind-map, the madeleine linked his aunt to his mother, who in turn was linked to Albertine through jealousy, which also connected Marcel with Saint Loop and Swann, who, as with his (Marcel's) grandmother, linked his childhood and adolescence. And through recollection, Marcel would try to relive the buried years and resurrect his grandmother and Albertine.

But even during the narrative, Marcel realized memory's willfulness and the variation in hues, shapes, pitch and timbre between the actual object and its mental reconstruction. When he encountered an old friend, the facial features were so different from his recollection and reconstruction, for better or for worse pregnant with all the emotions, preoccupation, biases, that he could not match face with voice.

Because recollected sensation can never equate with the actual experience and time, like a patient thief, steals memories a morsel at a time until one day the owner would realize he was ruined, Marcel ultimately would fail to recapture and assemble stolen sensations and decayed seconds and in the end, must create new moments, new sensations and ultimately a new biography, through the synergy between past experiences and creative imagination. From those deceased hours and decayed memories sprouted In Search of Lost Time, not only Proust's novel but also that of the narrator.

Whether we savor Marcel's frailness, Swann's infatuation, Charlus's pompousness, Franscoise's independent-mindedness, the sorties' frivolousness or the social revelation of the Dreyfuss Affair, we can enjoy Proust's classic without resorting to Marxist or Freudian or Feminist critique. And the sentences, like the serpentine the store, seemed to flow unceasingly into the distant horizon carrying with it the sparkling sunlight. Although ascending the novel's three thousand pages appears precipitous, the effort will be well worth the while and, at the end of the adventure, the reader can rest on the crisp apex and savor time's transience and memory's playfulness as if they were alpine zephyrs.

Leonard Seet
[...]

More than a commentary on Swann's jealousy or M. Charlus's homosexuality or the frivolity of the Guermantes' sorties, Marcel Proust's monumental work In Search of Lost Time paints the unsuccessful reconstruction of a forgone world and a lost existence from fickle memories, which like morning mists would fade with the rising sun. The narrator Marcel, longing for a past that didn't exist but must be created, sought to experience Bergson's continuous time rather than the fragmented and still-framed instantaneous moments by attempting to blur the boundaries between Cambray and Paris, childhood and adolescence, and Swann and himself and integrate here and there, before and after, and him and me through memory fragments of previous objects, people and sensations. As in a neural network or a mind-map, the madeleine linked his aunt to his mother, who in turn was linked to Albertine through jealousy, which also connected Marcel with Saint Loop and Swann, who, as with his (Marcel's) grandmother, linked his childhood and adolescence. And through recollection, Marcel would try to relive the buried years and resurrect his grandmother and Albertine.

But even during the narrative, Marcel realized memory's willfulness and the variation in hues, shapes, pitch and timbre between the actual object and its mental reconstruction. When he encountered an old friend, the facial features were so different from his recollection and reconstruction, for better or for worse pregnant with all the emotions, preoccupation, biases, that he could not match face with voice.

Because recollected sensation can never equate with the actual experience and time, like a patient thief, steals memories a morsel at a time until one day the owner would realize he was ruined, Marcel ultimately would fail to recapture and assemble stolen sensations and decayed seconds and in the end, must create new moments, new sensations and ultimately a new biography, through the synergy between past experiences and creative imagination. From those deceased hours and decayed memories sprouted In Search of Lost Time, not only Proust's novel but also that of the narrator.

Whether we savor Marcel's frailness, Swann's infatuation, Charlus's pompousness, Franscoise's independent-mindedness, the sorties' frivolousness or the social revelation of the Dreyfuss Affair, we can enjoy Proust's classic without resorting to Marxist or Freudian or Feminist critique. And the sentences, like the serpentine the store, seemed to flow unceasingly into the distant horizon carrying with it the sparkling sunlight. Although ascending the novel's three thousand pages appears precipitous, the effort will be well worth the while and, at the end of the adventure, the reader can rest on the crisp apex and savor time's transience and memory's playfulness as if they were alpine zephyrs.

Leonard Seet
[...]

The stream of consciousness technique in the style could have been appealing in its own right but there is also so much minute detail about rather mundane lives that the novel drags.
This is okay if you like a treatise in Freudian analysis but as a consequence nothing much happens through the novel except static analyzes through the eyes of Swann and the narrator. I was left wanting but not getting tension or suspense.

Swann's Way is a work of art, a novel that attempts to show how the human brain works; how we are shaped by our memories; but also to describe culture and society, and the passage of time.

The word "epic" is used all-too-often, but In Search of Lost Time truly is epic, and it all begins with Swann's Way.

I was very pleased to find a smart edition for Kindle, well-formatted and edited, and with illustrations as well. For those put off by its length, I would just say I really recommend you make time for this book, as it really is a life-changing experience to read it.

book description Swann's way Volume 59 of Modern library of the world's best books Modern Library college editions Volume 1 of In search of lost time The modern library À la recherche du temps perdu, Marcel Proust Volume 1244 of Penguin Books Author Marcel Proust Translated by Charles Kenneth Scott-Moncrieff Edition vintage vintage paperback modern Library college Edition - T-67 Pub- Modern Library, 1956- 611 pages-

"Swann's Way" is the first book in Marcel Proust's 7-volume masterpiece "Remembance of Things Past" -- now often translated as "In Search of Lost Time" -- which many experts rate as the greatest novel of the 20th Century. Spanning the late 19th Century through the 1920's, a period including the Dreyfus Affair and World War I, the book follows the fortunes of middle and upper class French in a time of social dislocation. It's subjects range from long meditations on the nature of art, of time, of memory, of love, to encounters in bawdy homosexual brothels.

The narrator, Neville Jason, is fabulous. Gentle pacing, clear articulation, and a chameleon voice which changes accent, pitch, rhythm to capture male and female, street thugs and duchesses. He individualizes each character. It is amazing. Yes, there are free or cheaper versions of this book, but the quality of the narration makes this edition well worth the purchase price.

It took me almost a year to make it through the whole 7 volumes -- well over 100 hours of recording, listening while driving or while doing household chores, and I'm sorry it is over. I did buy a couple of books to enhance my understanding: "Proust's Way: a field guide to In Search of Lost Time" by Roger Shattuck, and Patrick Alexander's "Marcel Proust's Search for Lost Time: a reader's guide to the Remembrance of Things Past" and these were very helpful in keeping the forest in mind whenever I felt lost among the trees.

Note that this review is for the audio book version of this novel. I will first give my impressions of the audio book and then give my feelings on the novel itself.

The audio book experience was very positive. The narrator was John Rowe who sounded just like an older gentleman reflecting on his early childhood. It fitted the story well, at least when I finally figured out it was supposed to be an old man. At first I thought it odd that they were using an old man to speak for a child; but then realized that was the way it was supposed to be. The translation is the one done by C.K. Scott Moncrieff, who was the original English translator. I found the translation very beautiful and easy to follow. I would rate the audio portion 5 stars.

As for the novel itself; I had mixed feelings. To give a background on myself; I am an engineer (that may explain right there to many people my feelings on the book), and have been listening to many of the great works of literature on my commute for the past few years. I had noticed this book on almost every list of great books I had seen and decided to give it a try. This is the first book by Proust that I have read.

I found the language beautiful and very descriptive. I felt like I was getting into the head of a very artistic person and saw many things from a point of view that I have never experienced myself. The two biggest problems I had with this novel are first, I never connected with the characters and second, I didn't learn anything that I felt was useful. When reading literature I am almost always able to expand my horizons and see the other side of great issues, or to understand why people do things I don't approve of. None of these things happened to me.

Bottom line; I can see why this is considered great writing, but it didn't click for me.

A fully annotated copy of Proust is something I've desired ever since I became interested in Proust's work. While the Modern Library edition of "Time Regained" does do a good job of expanding the synopsis section included in the Moncrieff editions by adding character lists, allusion references, analyses of themes, and number of other topics, one typically has to purchase at least "Time Regained" in addition to "Swann's Way" in order to get this helpful guide. That's why I believe that this edition will be very valuable to both those familiar with Proust and those reading him for the first time. As with other Norton Critical Editions, the footnotes should be clear and accessible (the Kilmartin guide at the end of "Time Regained" can be a little hard to navigate). I'm also glad to see that Norton has used Scott Moncrieff's translation as the basis for this revised text. Moncrieff's first translation of Proust continues to be one of the greatest translations of any work into English. Penguin has sought to use new translations with different translators working on individual volumes. One can see the problems that arise from this bold experiment; one such problem that comes to mind is consistency. It is also very enlightening to see that, as with all Norton Critical Editions, that there is a series of essays that accompany the primary text itself. Now the usefulness of the essays included in the critical editions series waivers depending on the text, but this edition of "Swann's Way" includes some of the most important critics of Proust: particularly very eminent names like Deleuze, Genette, and Kristeva. If you are approaching Proust for the first time, I'd recommend this volume since it appears to be a close rendering of the standard Scott Moncrieff Vintage translation, which is the best. The inclusion of expositions of Proust's contemporary world are very beneficial since so much of the novel is a reflection of major historical events that occurred during his lifetime, specifically the Dreyfus Affair. The wonderful selection of essays by critics who are not only experts on Proust but experts on literary theory in general is also a major bonus. With those essays, one not only gains a keen insight into Proust's work but also a very good education in literary theory.

This is the first of the seven Proust novels. And in the first sentence one is confronted with a kind of writing, a kind of reading experience unlike any other. Proust's style is complex and rich, weaving immediate perception and reflection into long qualifying and accumulating sentences. His focus is the consciousness of the narrator and its highly original way of seeing and feeling human relations. The book originally translated 'Remembrance of Things Past' is today generally considered better translated as 'In Search of Lost Time'. This opening novel of the seven contains the famous passage in which the narrator- alter ego of Proust tastes the madelaine and is flooded with the pleasure of a past time of life restored. In the concluding novel we will come to understand that the whole long enterprise has been one in which Life through remembrance transformed to Art is to have a permanence mere experience can never have. The act of remembrance will in this sense be for Proust an act of 'immortalization of his own world and experience'.
In this opening novel much time and space are given to Swann and his romantic attachment to the courtesan Odette. Swann's daughter Gilberte will also be a central character as the narrator becomes involved with her in a friendship that falls short of romance.
The reading of Proust is a unique, difficult experience. The level of sophistication in perception is perhaps the highest in all of literature. The notes of sickness, decay, decadence will also play into the tone of the work. And there will emerge a picture of French society which is critical and exposes all variants of vices, especially those in which there is falseness and hypocrisy.
How strange sad and sick this world appears despite its Beauty.

In the previous volume of Proust's IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME, Marcel was poised at the pinnacle of social success as he readied himself to attend the Princesse de Guermantes' party. Those alabaster gates that from a distance appeared to be the entry to paradise actually opened only onto a continuing pageant of human folly. Early in the book, a chance peek out the window shows the elegant Baron de Charlus to be a pervert as he romances the servile Jupien.
Even his beloved Duchesse de Guermantes "allowed the azure light of her eyes to float in front of her, but vaguely, so as to avoid the people with whom she did not wish to enter into relations, whose presence she discerned from time to time like a menacing reef in the distance."
Marcel retreats from the social whirl and returns to Balbec, the scene of WITHIN A BUDDING GROVE. There he takes up again with Albertine and, after hobnobbing with the Guermantes, now joins Mme Verdurin's "little band" of opinionated second-raters. This was the same salon at which Swann had met Odette in SWANN'S WAY. You may recall that Swann discovered that Odette was multiply unfaithful to him, yet married her anyway.
In SODOM AND GOMORRAH, it is Marcel who is drawn ever closer to Albertine. As the book draws to a close, he discovers from a chance remark that Albertine claims close friendship with two lesbians one of whose trysts Marcel had witnessed years before in Combray. Just as Swann had agonized just before deciding to wed Odette, Marcel sees the death of his hopes and of any chance for joy in his young life.
"As by an electric current that gives us a shock, I have been shaken by my loves. I have lived them. I have felt them: never have I succeeded in seeing or thinking them. Indeed I am inclined to believe that in these relationships ..., beneath the outward appearance of the woman, it is to these invisible forces with which she is incidentally accompanied that we address ourselves as to obscure deities."
During this, my second reading of IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME, I continue to marvel at Proust's mastery. The scene of a social gathering that occupies two hundred pages, and takes me two or three days to read, seems to pass by in the blinking of an eye.

The fourth volume of "In search of lost time" (Sodom and Gomorrah) begins with the sickness of Marcel's grandmother's sickness, which will lead her to the grave. During the dissease she will be treated by doctor Huxley, whose behavior surrounding the woman's unavoidable death awakens Marcel's digressions. Once she dies, the story resumes his contact with the high spheres of society. Marcel travels once again to Balbec, where he finds Albertine again. Their relationship grows as they assist to Mme. Verdurin's gatherings. Her "wednesdays", as she calls them, now that she attends in Balbec to her group of friends. Marcel's mind games surrounding Albertine are comparable to those utilized by Charlus to manipulate his young lover, the son of an old servant of his (Marcel's) grandfather... who plays the violin. Marcel is involved in this relationship as an comunicating vessel between Charlus and his "Adonis". It is rather curious how telephones, automobiles and trains are more and more involved in the telling of the events. The encounters in the stations, the dangers of traveling in an automobile, the unpersonalized feel to talking to someone through a telephone, etc... All these entail not only technological changes, but social ones as well: how people relate to one another begins to be considered outside the reduced space of fixed spheres... now, they move all over the space, they can even be broken into pieces... their voices, their bodies, the possibility of an effective transport that also allows privacy and secrecy (such as Marcel and Albertine's travels in the car, and all the implied events surrounding this machine -involving Charlus and his young "friend").
Marcel's doubts about Albertine's likes, are more overwhelming everyday... and he finally decides to marry Albertine, to take her to Paris with him.
In this volume, Marcel Proust submerges deeper in the waters of human affections and desires. If in the second volume he began to experience love for the first time, in this one, he is experiencing love outside the protection of young idelism and romanticism... instead, he realizes the conection between love, desire, snobism and pain: the truth of love is far from being an eternal, selfless and happy feeling: it is the constant haunting of a question, the everlasting wonder about evil within and without.
It is most memorable when Marcel assists to a party and describes the unfixed nature of gender differentiation: how much can a woman look like a man, how much can a woman desire another woman... and how much like a woman can one man desire another man.

I have to admit that I was extremely dubious about how good an audio version of Proust could be. After all, this is the man who has mastered the full-page sentence, and it didn't seem possible to me that he could be digestible off the printed page. I was wrong. In fact, I am now of the opinion that Proust deserves to be read aloud. I was aware before of Proust's highly developed sense of humor, but I had never before realized how wry and all pervasive it was. Now, upon returning to the printed version of the novels, I am aware as never before of the humorous and emotional nuances of the book.
The novel succeeds as an audio book for a couple of reasons. For one thing, the editors of the reading script did a masterful job of paring away the longer and more difficult sentences that would have merely confused a listener (not that they are always immediately accessible to a reader). We are told that approximately half of the complete text of the novel is read aloud. But the parts that are read do a marvelous job of distilling he content and the spirit of the entire work. Another reason the work succeeds so well is stellar job that Neville Jason does in rendering the novel orally. Despite the host of characters, he manages to give each one their own distinct flavor, without engaging in vocal gymnastics. His reading is as tasteful as one can imagine.
I would not recommend this audio version replacing a reading of Proust, but I think it can be of enormous service in two ways. First, one can listen to the novel as an introduction to Proust. Second, it can serve as a refresher course for those who have read the novel and would like to reexpose themselves to it, but without taking the considerable time to read the entire work. I listened to all this on my walk to work for a few weeks, and I'm sure others can find ways to fit such a work into their schedule in interesting ways.
There is one other truly useful function this version can perform. For those of us without French, it is of enormous benefit to hear the various names--both of people and places--read aloud by someone skilled in the pronunciation. I'm sure my accent would horrify anyone who speaks French, but I at least can hear in my mind how each name should be pronounced, even if I cannot master it aloud.

The famous madelaine of the opening scene which brings the narrator back to the scene of his childhood where he longs to go down to his mother, and be embraced and assured by her- and when she feels this a sign of emotional weakness. The involuntary memory and the story of the life of Combray is the opening of one of the greatest of all literary adventures. This adventure though it will eventually encompass and portray a whole society and its decay through a lifetime is primarily the adventure of the most exquisitely sensitive of all literary consciousneses. The rich perceptive and reflective mix by which the narrative is conveyed is one in which every line seems to provide its own pleasures in insights of incredible complexity and often beauty.

The story of the narrator the would- be- writer in the first part becomes in the Second Part the story of Swann, the man of many loves whose love for his wife Odette is like every other genuine feeling shown to be compromised and contradicted in Proustean reality.

This opening novel of the seven which compromise "Remembrance of Things Past" provides the reader above all with a sense of having entered a literary world like no other, one of the great literary worlds, like that of Quixote or Hamlet- Lear or 'War and Peace' a world which is parallel to and yet enhances and transforms our perception of our own real world. For the writer for whom every real paradise is a paradise lost this first entry into a literary Garden of Eden however rich and surprising carries with it also a sombre sense of doom and gloom and sadness a wheezing sickness and shortness of breath, a hint of life not as a long , slow quest to transform bitter Reality into Artistic Beauty.

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!

If you want to read Swann's Way and don't have the actual book, then DO NOT bother with *THIS* Kindle edition (the freebie). Instead, you might as well "splurge" on a $0.99 professionally created edition so that you'll get to read the real thing.

1) All accented letters are converted as question marks.
2) Indented text such as block quotes or lines of poetry were entirely dropped. Without the real book to compare, the blanks would've been inexplicable, annoying gaps in the narrative.

That's enough to make this freebie worth less than i paid for it.

I do find this edition useful as a companion to the actual book.

The first book of "In Search of Lost Time" consists of three independent but connected parts. The first one, "Combray", is a treatise on involuntary memory, triggered by Marcel's tasting of a pastry that automatically brings back memories of the old vacations at Combray, a fictionalized countryside town in France. The reader feels immediately identified with the character, since all of us have experienced the same. Sometimes, a scent, a face, a tune or a taste touches on an old, forgotten memory. The amazing thing here is that the taste of the pastry leads to one of the most daunting achievements in the history of literature: seven volumes of memories, of an undescribable beauty. This first part, as all the series (which is really one long novel) has an analytical, obssesive quality of extreme beauty. It is an homage to remembrances, to nostalgia and to the life that we recreate in our memory.
The second part, "A love of Swann", is the most peculiar of the whole series. It is a step back in time, to tell a story that Marcel had heard in his family circle. Charles Swann, a wealthy Jewish banker and a friend of the family, fell once in love with a "cocotte" or courtisan, a vulgar woman who made him mad with an obsessive passion. The story, relevant to the subsequent development of events in the novel, is also a treaty on jealousy. It is an exasperating tale of passion, lust, betrayal and obsession, told in a straightforward and beautiful style. Its last line is brutally smashing.
The third part, "Names of Lands: the Name" is perhaps the most poetic. It is another dissertation on the character's childhood memories, the evocations that the names of places bring about, and the first love, the daughter of Swann and the courtisan Odette de Crecy.
Hundreds of books have been written about this magnum opus. It is art for the sake of art; the deepest treatise on memory and Time; literature of the highest sort; a pleasure in pure writing and reading. It is always useful to compare it to Joyce. While Joyce tries to capture the ever-running present, Proust's endeavour is to recapture that which is already gone: the Past. But the past, seems to say Proust, is not gone: it lives, in a disguised form, in our present memory.
If you are a casual or lazy reader, read something else: this is reserved for true lovers of literature. And, I would say, for true lovers of themselves.

The first volume of Marcel Proust's massive In Search of Lost Time is arguably the greatest introductory work of literature ever written. This edition is yet another revision of Scott Moncrieff's classic translation, first revised by Terence Kilmartin during the 1980's, and revised yet again by D.J. Enright for further readability; Enright apparently altered a number of the French expressions used by Proust which are fairly ordinary in French but come across as a bit strange in Moncrieff and Kilmartin's initial translation.

Swann's Way is simply a wonderful and profound novel. It is often criticized for its lack of a forward moving plot, but such judgments are both unfair and incorrect. While it is true that In Search of Lost Time is a deliberately slow and contemplative work, yet during the first section of Swann's Way set in Combray, Proust is actually quite judicious about introducing the major characters and establishing the most important themes of the work, the themes of time, art, love, and longing. The narrator finds himself having difficulty sleeping and involuntarily recalls the events of his life, he flashes back to his childhood in Combray and Paris, and the novel begins. He reflects on his family, on the Verdurins, on M. Swann, and on his growing love for Gilberte and literature.

Swann's way is simply a joy to read. Proust's acute sense of aesthetics, of love, and of the strange inner workings of bourgeois society place him among the true greats of literature right up there with Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and Joyce. This edition of Proust's great work of art is highly recommended for those with patience.

We apply "classic" and "masterpiece" too liberally, but regardless of how loosely or strictly we deploy the terms, Marcel's Proust's extraordinary novel belongs to the shortest of short lists deserving such description. At the risk of hyperbole (though I do not thing it is hyperbolic), Proust is the one writer of the 20th century who perhaps belongs to the ages more than to his own time, who belongs with Shakespeare and Dante and Homer.
Many are put off Proust by not understanding the structure of his work and his writing strategy. The book, to many, seems to have no point and no plot. The novel actually does have a plot, albeit a simple and not easy to discern one: Will the narrator (usually termed "Marcel") become a writer? Through seven long volumes, we watch Marcel variously resolve to write and then forsake his resolve, we see him even forget for enormous lengths of time his intent to write. Through love affairs, through events with his friends, through reflections on all matter of subjects and experiences of every kind, Marcel finally comes in the final volume to rediscover his vocation and the subject of his work.
This first volume in the series contains many of the most famous episodes in all of Proust. The famous passage in which the Narrator tells of his not being able to fall asleep as a child is found in the first pages. The most famous section in all of Proust, that of his eating as an adult a madeleine that first creates an inexplicable sense of joy and then engenders a plethora of involuntary memories of his childhood, is also found in this volume. The second half is the remarkable story of "Swann in Love," in which family friend Charles Swann falls in love, much to his surprise, with the courtesan Odette.
This first volume glitters for the same reason that subsequent volumes do: Proust's remarkable sentences, in which he heaps phrase upon apt phrase on top of a carefully concealed central idea; Proust's extraordinarily complex, interesting, believable, and brilliant characters (I personally think he handles character better than any other author); and the wonderful passion and sensibility that permeates every page.
I will end with a piece of advice: Proust, more than any writer I know, gives back as much as you point into him. If you expend a great deal of effort in working through his masterpiece, you will be comparably rewarded. If, on the other hand, you pick up SWANN'S WAY casually, expecting a relaxed, entertaining read, you will be profoundly disappointed. But if you approach him with an open mind, a great deal of patience, and a willingness to work your way carefully through each sentence, you just might believe this to be the most remarkable thing you have ever read.

I am reviewing this edition of the novel, not the novel itself.

I have read the Penguin and the Kilmartin-Moncrieff translations previously. Carter's annotated and edited version of Moncrieff's translation is not worth the money. The notes are mostly trivia. The formatting of the book is cumbersome; the book is needlessly large and bulky. Carter's changes are subtle and do not amount to very much in the end. Most importantly, there is a major printing error in the Swann In Love section. Huge chunks of it are completely out of order.

Don't waste your time with this. The only reason I give it two stars instead of one is because the notes are occasionally (very occasionally) interesting.

I think people make too much of the 'difficulty' of Proust's writing, and I'm no over-educated super-literary snob, either (probably sufficiently proven in this sentence alone). Don't be scared off by the reviews claiming to have not been able to get through it. Sure you need to concentrate, hopefully without interruption, while reading Proust, but is that so bad? Isn't that a big part of what reading is all about?

Swann's Way is a rich and elegant tapestry, reflected nicely in the beautiful new cover design. It feels like a volume of pure thought of the first order - ruminative, peripatetic, placid, and somehow effortless and simple, despite the highly embroidered language. However, the language is not merely complex for complexity's sake, but to convey the intricacy of the thought therein, and, when combined with the gentle, steady pacing from which Proust never wavers, creates the feeling of wisdom itself unfolding on the page. It is a welcome antidote to the concoctions of the most "brilliant" contemporary authors being trumpeted today, that often leave you with nothing other than a fleeting amazement at the cleverness of the author.

After every reading session I felt richer and wiser, and more able to face the world with the same thoughtfulness that the narrator does (this doesn't mean that I was able to, mind you, just felt so). To me that's what reading is all about, and if that's wrong...then I don't wanna be right.

Here, in the first volume of "In Search of Lost Time," are the overture and prelude to Proust's symphony. We meet the narrator as a child, sickly, a bit pampered, unable to sleep, and desirous of his mother's attentions and affection--an opening scene memorably mocked by one myopic contemporary publisher as "thirty pages to describe how he tosses in his bed before falling asleep." (It's actually one of the most beautifully sustained set pieces in all of literature.) We are then transported, via a cookie dipped in tea, to a recollection of the narrator's childhood home and family life in Combray, followed by "Swann in Love," a sort of "novel-within-a-novel" that describes Swann's fateful love affair with Odette--a relationship that serves as a harbinger for the narrator's own experiences in subsequent volumes. The book closes with the introduction of Gilberte, the narrator's "first love"--or perhaps more accurately, puppy love--which will be explored in greater depth in the second volume.

In other words, most of Proust's now-famous themes and recurrent metaphors are introduced in "Swann's Way": despair over the loss of one's past, mitigated by sudden rushes of "involuntary memory"; his simultaneous mockery of and reverence for the trappings of the aristocracy; the aesthetics of literature, music, and art. And, of course, love (and sex). I was prepared by my previous dabblings in Proust's works for the wondrous, arduous dissections of love and lust and jealousy and spite, but, it is nevertheless a revelation to me, as a first-time reader of the entire Proust opus (in any translation), how profoundly cynical Proust's outlook really is.

Love, Proust seems to say again and again, is itself a loss of one's past, the ultimate creator of "lost time"; or, as Swann exclaims after his obsession for Odette has faded: "To think that I wasted years of my life, that I wanted to die, that I felt my deepest love, for a woman who did not appeal to me, who was not my type." Both here and in the following volumes, Proust gives relatively short shrift to love's subsequent, mature stages--contentedness, familiarity, fondness, friendship, habit, mutual dependence. And, in "Swann in Love," we won't read much about "her final transformation into the Odette who was loved with a peaceful affection."

For Proust, that is, the "final" stages of love are not comfort and growth and maturity but loss--loss of passion, loss of lovesickness, even loss of jealousy. Proust's own biography, of course, would support the development of such a view: he was alternately lucky and unlucky in love, in and out of a series of relatively short affairs, none of which came to anything more substantial than radiant yet painful memories. I don't mean to press this biographical interpretation too far, but it's clear that Proust's rather dim view of love echoes, if it may not always mirror, his own experiences. Yet it's equally clear that he wouldn't have exchanged that passion (or his constant need for passion) for anything in the world--except, perhaps, his art.

I stuck with it and now I am devoted. This series is more of a mood than it is a huge volume of books. After a while, the words begin to wash over you and you become as contemplative as the author. I definitely want to read the whole series again, maybe in a few years and see if, with the passage of time, it brings new insights.

Everyone, from time to time, experiences the strangeness of having some momentary sensation recall something from the distant past. For example, the scent of a window screen after rain can still recall to me a moment from, probably, 1956, the year I was five. I stood at the back window of my grandmother's bedroom, arms on the sill--looking across her backyard, the alley, and the neighbor's back yard to the cars rolling along Midlothian Turnpike. It was a gloomy fall day. I can feel my forearms resting on the cool wood. I can see the white sill and the screen and the landscape in some detail, so that I know it was a real moment from my life, not something snatched from a dream.
But the effect is fleeting. It's like a piece of film that runs for a few seconds and then disappears. I can't attach anything to it, before or behind, that would explain why this particular moment comes back to me, except the scent of wet screen. There are a few other such bits of my life that sometimes come back to me, but I have no connections between them.
Now imagine that a similar experience happens to you, but one that is vastly larger. A sensation of taste or smell, not encountered for many years, brings back, not a single momentary impression, but the entire history of your childhood and of all the years since, so that you are finally able to contemplate your life in its completeness--so that you know fully who you are and how you came to be who you are. And imagine that you are an aspiring writer, that you've sought all your life for the right subject, the right thing to share with the world--and now you have finally found it. And you are gifted with a kindhearted nature, high intelligence, psychological insight, irony and humor, along with the power of precise description, so that you can convey in words anything you think or feel. And this sudden discovery, which brings you all of your life and all of your gifts, comes with such force that you devote nearly all your energy, for the remaining years of your life, to sharing the fullness of your remembered and re-imagined experience with those who will read your work--so that you and your life, to an extent that reaches the edge of human possibility, are delivered from the limitations of time and language and death. And the resulting work brings readers so deeply into your head and heart, and they find your humanity and understanding so rich, that it is read with delight and gratitude by millions throughout the world.
This fortunate person, of course, is Marcel Proust, whose novel In Search of Lost Time (of which this is the first volume) is one of the greatest achievements in the history of creativity.

All of us have self-talk, which is quite different from the way we converse with each other or write. Proust has captured self-talk in a delightful display of stream-of-consciousness writing that is unequaled in literature. You will find yourself remembering many of the same thoughts in your own self-talk. By focusing inward, Proust succeeds in portraying much of what is universal about all of humanity.
Unlike Joyce, who employed the same technique, Proust is easy and delightful to follow. You will sense beauty in thought that will make you glad to be alive. It will also stimulate you to notice more about the world around you and your reactions to it.
Do be aware that an internally-focused book does not have a lot of action and drama in it. On the other hand, neither does most of life. I think Proust has captured the essence of human life in a very valuable way. But if you like Dirk Pitt novels and little else, you would do well to avoid Swann's Way.
The main drawback of self-talk is that we often build hurdles where there are none. We often talk ourselves out of things that we should pursue. As a result, our thinking stalls our ability to act. You will find lots of delicious examples of this in the hypochondria explored in this book.
Although this book is rarely assigned in literature classes, almost everyone would benefit from reading it. You can best use it as a mirror to see yourself better. That should make for a tasty dish that is irresistible once tasted. Bon appetit!

"Sodom and Gomorrah," the fourth volume of Proust's masterwork "In Search of Lost Time," contains two very long set pieces that strike me as amazing achievements in the entire canon of literature. The first is an evening party at the mansion of the Prince and Princess de Guermantes attended by Proust's young narrator despite his doubt about having been properly invited, and the second is a dinner at the seaside clifftop house of the Verdurins filled with absurd but fascinating conversation. These episodes combined cover hundreds of pages of narration yet never give the impression of being stretched because Proust evokes the natural importance in every detail and human gesture, as though the course of the world depended on every little thing that transpires.

These details unify under the banner of the entire novel into a series of fictionalized memories of Proust's social life as a young man making his way through Parisian aristocratic circles and observing the events which develop his artistic conscience. These memories tend to be romanticized visions of the past, wistful dreams of what he might have really wanted his life to be: "We dream much of paradise, or rather of a number of successive paradises, but each of them is, long before we die, a paradise lost, in which we should feel ourselves lost too."

The title of the volume implies love between men and women, and men and men, and women and women. Here, the young Marcel chronicles the torrid romances of the Baron de Charlus, brother of the Duke de Guermantes, whose salon was the focal arena of the previous volume. Upon his spying--innocently, not judgmentally--on de Charlus and Jupien the tailor in an act of sodomy, he expounds on the societal attitudes confronting male homosexuality and on the ways de Charlus must go about procuring younger men for himself, such as he does with a conceited young violinist named Morel.

Meanwhile, Marcel's love affair with Albertine, the pretty girl whom he met at the seaside resort of Balbec in Volume II, is progressing slowly but not smoothly. He notices that she, as Odette used to do with Charles Swann, is beginning to play games with his propensity for jealousy, flirting first with a girl named Andree and then with Marcel's friend, the soldier Saint-Loup. As the volume wraps up, Marcel resolves to marry her, hoping to draw her away from her Sapphic inclinations.

Proust portrays a wide range of colorful supporting characters, who I have no doubt are based on people he knew in real life. While staying at Balbec, Marcel meets an eccentric family named Cambremer whom the lift-boy at the hotel mistakenly but amusingly calls Camembert and whose acquaintance provides a springboard for the dinner at the Verdurin estate. Here we experience the personalities of the physician Cottard, whose preoccupation with his Verdurin invitations affects his professional ethics; the shy, socially graceless Saniette, who is continuously bullied by Verdurin; and a pedantic bore named Brichot, who talks almost exclusively about the etymology of place names.

The motifs recurring in this volume include the society-enveloping controversy over the Dreyfus affair, the snobbery involved in invitations to certain salons, and Marcel's association with the aging and ill Swann and his wife Odette, who now have some hard-earned esteem in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. In his deeply contemplative approach to narration, Proust functions as an essayist as much as he does a novelist, but his genius is that he merges both forms seamlessly. His sentences, at least as translated into English by Moncrieff and Kilmartin, are consistently worthy of applause and inspire me to write with more sensitivity to my surroundings.

I started "Swann's Way" a few times before a friend suggested that we read the whole of "Remembrance of Things Past" together. Every Wednesday on his way to the office, he'd stop by my room (it wasn't really an apartment) and we'd drink coffee, smoke(!), and talk about the book. Encouraged in this way, we both finished the novel. I read it again, and aloud, to my wife over the course of two winters. When Kilmartin's reworking came out, I acquired that but only read the final part ("The Past Recaptured"), which Scott-Montcrief died before translating, and which in my 1950s edition was the subject of a pedestrian translation by Frederick Blossom.

After reading a rave review of vol. 2 ("In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower") in this new translation, I decided to acquire it, and then I thought better of the decision and got "Swann's Way" as well. It was the right move. Lydia Davis does a wonderful job with this first volume. (It also helps that I am familiar with the text: I know what comes next and sometimes can quote from memory.) It's been criticized here as too literal, but my own impression is rather different. Finding a typo in the Davis translation, I compared the sentence with the Montcrief/Kilmartin version, and I thought Davis's was better. They were actually almost the same, word for word, except that Davis uses "said" where the previous translation has "exclaimed." I will always go with the writer who uses the simpler verb!

Just as each generation of readers gets its new translation of Homer, so Viking/Penguin has given us a Proust for the 21st century. It is technically more accurate than the earlier versions, because it incorporates the latest French scholarship on Proust. More to the point, for the American reader, Davis and her colleagues have freshened up Scott Montcrief's rather dusty prose. And by employing seven translators instead of just one, they avoid the tragedy of having the translator die before the job is done, as Scott Montcrief did.

As noted, there are a few typographical errors in the American edition of the new "Swann's Way." Except for the one cited above ("O" for "An"), they won't cause any confusion.

I have been planning for some years to read IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME, and finally started in March with Lydia Davis' translation of SWANN'S WAY.

Proust is one of the most empathetic authors that I have ever encountered. To tell the story of his youth, to describe his fears and joys and loves, he turns inward, and in doing so, gives a strikingly accurate portrayal of the human heart, and human folly.

SWANN'S WAY is diveded into four sections, too long to be called chapters: Combray, Combray II, Swann in Love, Place-Names:The Name.

Combray and Combray II tell of the summers of Marcel's youth, his grandmother and great-aunt Leonie (who never got out of her bed), Francoise, the maid, walks with his parents, meeting M. Swann, their neighbor, meeting M. Swann's daughter for the first time and falling in love with her. It is very difficult for an author to write from the perspective of a child and do it convicingly, but Proust succeeds here. I loved little Marcel, a sensitive, naive little boy who absorbs everything around him.

'Swann in Love' tells the story of M. Swann and how he fell in love with one Odette d'Crecy, a woman not of his class who seduces him and then breaks his heart.

In 'Place-Names: The Name' we read about a slightly older Marcel, and his first attempts at winning the heart of Gilberte, the daughter of M. Swann. My favorite image in SWANN'S WAY comes from 'Place Names' - an image of Odette d'Crecy strolling down the Avenue of the Acacias alone, which Proust includes in his diatribe against the death of elegance.

As the purpose of writing IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME was to recover his forgotten memories, Proust's tale is not told as a series of interconnected events, but as a collection of interwoven memories - some of them incomplete. [The short novella, 'Swann in Love', that is contained in the novel is an exception - though still told from an internalized perspective, that of M. Swann.]

In this format, description trumps plotline and dialogue. His descriptions - of tapestries in cathedrals, of a child's longing for his mother, of the beauty of words and the pain of falling in love - are first rate. I found many times that reading this book was a lot like looking at a great painting, or a sunset - soothing, [also with the exception of 'Swann in Love', where I found myself completely aggravated with M. Swann and hating Odette. An author that can calm you but also create characters capable of arousing passionate anger must be great.]

SWANN'S WAY is highly recommended.

I tried 3 times in my twenties to read "Swann's Way", the first volume in Proust's 4000-page epic novel, "In Search of Lost Time", and could not do it. No patience. I had to go read some Bukowski just to wash out my brain. But I'm delighted to report that now, in my thirties, I've given Proust another shot and am absolutely in love with his writing. The serpentine arrangement of his sentences is extremely daunting, but I got some good advice on that before I started: KEEP GOING. Don't slow down and wonder where you are, just keep pushing through as though Proust was speaking to you and you couldn't stop to ask him what he just said. Like Shakespeare, it takes awhile, but soon you get into the rhythm and it's no problem at all.
I don't know how the relentlessly-examined minutae of another man's life can be so fascinating over 100 years later, but it is. I was completely caught up in Proust's childhood remembrances, and was then completely caught up in Swann's tragic love affair, and then was completely caught up again in Proust's short coda about Gilberte. The final 30 pages were devastating in their beauty and regret, and I quickly reached for the second volume, "Within a Budding Grove".
The original translation of the whole novel's title is "Remembrance of Things Past", and frankly that's a better-sounding title than the new "In Search of Lost Time", but after finishing "Swann's Way" I understand the difference, and why the latter is better: Proust isn't simply sifting through memories and giving a melancholy smile because women used to wear prettier hats when he was a kid; he is lost in the world where he's found himself as an adult, and he is becoming more and more trapped in his ailing body, and he's searching for the things in his life that gave it meaning, and how they felt, and why they felt that way. This is a tragic and almost impossibly beautiful piece of work, and I can't wait to read the rest.

Sodom and Gomorrah makes it difficult for those who speak of Proust and attempt to reduce his grand work to mere flowery social observation. This is a bold and often disturbing installment of la recherché, as Marcel recalls brutal homosexual sadomasochism among two of the principle characters, and has to deal with great loss and self-loathing.

The narrator also returns us to the superficial world of the Verdurins, where Swann and Odette first made their interactions in Swann in Love.

Marcel falls deeply in love with Albertine, but later discovers that she has been involved in homosexual relationships with two women, mirroring Swann's problems with Odette. There are remarkable passages on the nature of love in here: "But if something brings about a violent change in the position of that soul in relation to us, shows us that it is love with others and not with us, then by beating of our shattered heart we feel that it is not a few feet away from us but within us that the beloved creature was. Within us, in regions more or less superficial" (pg. 720)

Sodom and Gomorrah is a deeply felt and complex development in Proust's extraordinarily full and beautiful search.

I've read many a great novel, both classic and contemporary, but until I read Swann's Way, I had never before been tempted to take a highlighter to a book. Never has an author been able to squeeze so much out of so little. Like Shakespeare's, much of Proust's genius lies in observing and explaining complex human emotion. Unlike Shakespeare, though, Proust believes in using everyday events for this purpose. And rather than explaining thoughts and emotions through action on a stage, Proust takes the reader directly into his characters' thoughts. While the plot may not take you away, his insights are genius. Yes, sometimes he describes scenery in too much detail for my tastes (don't get him started on flowers, music or architecture), but his understanding of the human heart is peerless. This is all the more astounding when you consider how much of his life Proust spent bedridden. Swann's Way is an absolute miracle of literature, but having said that, I must also admit that it's not for most readers. Most people will not have the patience to decipher Proust's excessively long and complex sentences before they simply throw the book into the fireplace. Most people will not be impressed by how much detail Proust uses to describe something as seemingly simple, on the surface at least, as neighborhood gossip, dipping cake into a cup of tea or the architecture of a church steeple. I'll give it five stars, but most people won't get past the first 50 pages. I also struggled with some of the lengthy descriptions, and had to set it aside or force myself through parts of it. So when I say most people won't enjoy it, that's not to congratulate myself, it's just being honest. I can't imagine the millions who enjoy watching "Survivor" or WWE wrestling or who subscribe to "People Magazine" ever even hearing about Proust, let alone buying Swann's Way. And how many of those that do dare to buy it on this or any other recommendation, will get past the Combray section and continue reading? Very few indeed. That's really a shame, because this is one of the greatest works of literature ever published anywhere.

To read Marcel Proust's "Remembrance of Things Past" is a pleasure and a challenge in the same proportion that any brave read can have. Not only is it a hard task, but also a very pleasant one. The books are written in such a way that readers are transported to another time and place, and get to know the characters as if they were old friends of ours. Of course, if it weren't like that, not many people would dare to try and read the seven novels that compound the whole series. But Proust is a master to keep your interested glued to his words. Even when this words are in a paragraph that lasts four pages.

"Swann's Way" is the first novel and it is a blessing and a curse at the same time. It is good because everything is new to us, so the `nameless' narrator takes his time to explain a lot of things, introduce people, describe places and the action is built up bit by bit. On the other hand, the reader is not used to Proust style and when we come across a paragraph that lasts four pages we get scared.

To make things more complicated, when he was writing "Remembrance of Things Past" Proust wanted to make a novel, but he also wanted to philosophize. Therefore, there is a lot of philosophy in his books. At first this device seems to be difficult to understand, to get the gist, but with time, one gets used to it, and is able to realize that we're not supposed to read this books in the same way we read any other novel.

Proust's work is about senses. He does not expect you to understand everything he is saying. His narrative is not cumulative. What he wants, in fact, is to make his reader feel what he was saying, to feel things like time passing through our lives and its effects on our memories. Bearing this in mind, any reader is able to focus on the poetic narrative and the author's idea rather than understanding the events.

Of course there is a plot in the book, but there are things that are more important to produce the effect Proust wanted. "Swann's Way" begins with the `nameless' narrator remembering experiences from his childhood in Combray. But the largest section of the novel is not about him, but about Swann, a friend of his family. Fifteen years before the events described in the first part, Swann felt in love with Odette, a woman with a terrible reputation. And this love affair will affect his life forever.

Despite Proust's language being evocative, it is not difficult to understand his sentences. His work is replete of references and allusions, mostly to visual arts, namely painting. Some descriptions are like the works of Monet and Botticelli. The writer also has interest in literature. The main character relationship to his mother echoes works as "Oedipus Rex".

Qualities like these make "Remembrance of Things Past" one of the most important works produced ever. With his caldron of references, ideas and images, Proust has created one of the most beloved works from the XX Century. It is certain that this series of books will be read for many many years to come, and will be seen as a definition of what we used to think.

This book is misleadingly shown under the series title. It is actually "Sodom and Gomorrah" as translated by John Sturrock, and is volume five of the new "Penguin Proust" translations of "In Search of Lost Time".

Of the four Penguin Proust volumes I've read so far, this is my favorite--a wonderfully funny study of society (if not of sex). Proust specializes in transformations. We'll be introduced to a character and led to believe that we know everything of importance about him, only to have him turn up in a later volume as entirely different. In this volume, the remote and terrible Baron de Charlus is tranformed a pathetic tubby, besotted by the pianist Morel (himself a bit of a transformation, since he first appeared in the novel as the son of a valet).

Marcel (the narrator) meanwhile finds himself more deeply involved with Albertine, herself probably a stand-in for a male secretary of Proust's, Alfred Agostinelli. To complicate matters, I see elements of this relationship not only in the Marcel-Albertine affair, but also in the Charlus-Morel romance. It's as if Proust divided his experience into two parts, giving the romantic elements to Marcel and the comic part to Charlus.

The two romances come together at the seaside salon of the awful Madame Verdurin, who is inexorably rising in the world. In one of Proust's hundred-page setpieces, the aristocratic baron has his first clash with the social-climbing Verdurins. I found myself cheering for Charlus, whom I'd earlier learned to dislike, because he is so genuine and she is such a fraud. And I know in my heart (and through my earlier readings of this great novel) that things are not going to turn out well for Charlus. Against all logic, Proust in one of his hundred-page dissections of French society is able to keep me on tenterhooks.

The less said about Albertine, the better. I am not one of those who find her/him a convincing character. So it is with a bit of apprehension that I now turn to volume five of the Proust Penguin, containing the two books of the "Albertine cycle."

But back to Sodom (as it were): this is a wonderful translation of a riveting story. If you stick with "In Search of Lost Time" thus far, you will know that you are in the middle of one of the great experiences of your life.

I've come to Proust quite late. I tried to read Remembrances many years ago but couldn't get my head around the extended sentences liberally convoluted with parenthesis. Recently I took another plunge and a different approach. I realized that to read Proust is a consuming commitment. The reader has to relinquish the comfort of the customary literary narrative. If you do this then the world of Proust will first entice you then become an obsessive pleasure into which you will eagerly immerse yourself.

Having said this now comes the question of which translation to read. I've read the first English translation by C.K. Scott Moncrieff published by Random House in 1927. I've also read the new Penguin translation of The Guermantes Way by Mark Treharne. The Penguin translations are "easier" to read and cater more to a 21st century sensibility. To my mind the restructuring of sentences at times, unfortunately, sacrifice the poetics of Proust's language in favor of adherence to modern grammatical convention. Montcrieff also had the advantage of doing his translation closer to the time in which Proust actually lived and worked; the flavor of this early translation feels more "authentic" and contemporaneous with the period. An example: The first sentence in Montcrieff's The Germantes Way reads: "The twittering of the birds at daybreak..." Treharne's reads: "The early-morning twitter of the birds..." Does this matter? It's your call.

Read the Penguins if this gets you into Proust. But don't discount earlier translations. Just read Proust...you'll be happy you did!

Volume IV of "In Search of Lost Time" begins in the afternoon of the day of Princess of Guermantes's party, the one that Marcel had looked forward for so long as his definitive entrance into the world of high society. That afternoon, by spying on them, Marcel discovers with his own eyes, for the first time, homosexuality, in the form of an encounter between the depraved Baron de Charlus and the tailor Jupien, Marcel's neighbor in the property of the Guermantes. Later that evening, Marcel attends the party, attended also by a cast of characters like very few in literature: Charlus himself, a Swann close to his death, and others. The Dreyfuss cause keeps winning adepts, among them the very Prince and Princess of Guermantes, as the injustice of the sentence is revealed. In the party, Marcel continues on his way to disappointment about noblesse: they are people just like everyone else, only with grand names and big egos, but not much more.

Days later, with his mother, Marcel returns to Balbec, where, alone in his room he finally feels all the weight and sorrow of his grandmother's death, which had happened a year and a half before or so. It is a profound passage about the perception of death, everyday indifference to it, and the memories left to us by our beloved's passing away. In Balbec, Marcel reencounters with Albertine, in that perverted play of seduction and deceit, of attraction and rejection, which foreshadows a sick relationship. Disturbed by the graphic discovery of homosexuality, Marcel broods a lot about it. Two women who stay at the same hotel, and who openly show their lesbianism, awaken in Marcel a deep suspicion about Albertine's mysterious life, and so begins a torment of permanent jealousy, of anxiety and anguish which reminds the reader of the similar episode, in times gone by, of the beginning of the relationship between Swann and Odette. Meanwhile, Marcel has simultaneous relationships with a couple of maids of the hotel (literally simultaneous).

Marcel rents a car to go around with Albertine through the countryside and the coast, deepening his relationship with the capricious, naughty, annoying and elusive Albertine. In her company, he begins to frequent the little band of the social-climbing Verdurins (where Swann had met Odette years before), in the country estate they have rented from the Marquises of Cambremer. The central part of the book narrates that summer in Balbec and its surroundings, above all the wide mosaic of characters surrounding the Verdurins: insecure but arrogant Doctor Cottard and his simple wife; musician Vinteuil; the rustic and silent sculptor Ski; Professor Saniette, pathetic and constantly humiliated; and Madame Verdurin herself, presumptuous and increasingly successful in society. Over this fresco is shown the repulsive couple of Charlus and musician Morel, son of a former servant of the Prousts. Morel is the worst kind of climber and representative of sexual and moral corruption. In contrast with what happens in the first three volumes, here it seems that it is the nobles who yearn to be accepted in bourgeois society, and not the other way around. It is the bourgeois who attract interesting people: intellectuals, scientists, artists. Charlus makes a fool of himself big time, pretending everybody ignores his homosexuality, when in fact he is the target of cruel jokes and gossip. So continues the great saga of memory, sex, love, longing, and social observation of the XX Century.

Like in no one of the previous volumes, in this one the subject of homosexuality is analyzed in all its complexity. Marcel and Albertine's relationship forebodes hell. Charlus begins to sink. The bourgeois approach triumph. Like in all the previous volumes, what astounds the reader is Proust's immense power of microscopic vision to analyze individuals and dissect societies. It includes a magical reflection on dreams, as well as precious depictions of landscapes, sexual assaults, personalities and emotions.

In the previous two volumes of IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME, we have seen the young Marcel fantasize about love (in the persons of Gilberte and Albertine) and high society (in the person of the Duchesse de Guermantes). The bulk of THE GUERMANTES WAY's 819 pages is concerned with two parties involving the glitterati of fin-de-siecle Paris.
At the party of the literary Mme de Villeparisis, Marcel gains his first admittance to the world of the nobility and gets invited to an evening of his prized Dutchess, whom he had gazed on from afar when she attended church services in Combray, amid the tombs of her ancestors. Sometimes, however, when you get your heart's desire, there is that nagging question: "Is this all there is?"
At one point in the latter party, Swann says to Marcel that "one can't have a thousand years of feudalism in one's blood with impunity." The novel ends with the Guermantes about to leave for yet a more empyrean social gathering, to which Marcel is not even sure he is invited. (As we see in the next volume, he is invited and does attend.) At the very end, the Duke puts off seeing a dying friend and begins carping about his wife's choice of shoes.
We see the beginnings of Marcel's disenchantment with the social scene. Since this volume covers such a short span of time, we do not yet see the effect of his grandmother's death on the young narrator. We leave him, stunned and confused, at the threshhold of a personal triumph that has already lost much of its luster for him.
As I re-read Proust's great series, I am struck by how much I missed the first time I read it years ago. Many reviewers are struck by the length of the scenes describing the parties, but now I find that there is so much going on, and so many undercurrents, that the interior action passes quickly. Most of the action takes place in Marcel's mind as he encounters these gods of society and their hangers-on as they duel for position in their circles.
"Thus I beheld the pair of them," muses Marcel, "divorced from that name Guermantes in which long ago I had imagined them leading an unimaginable life, now just like other men and other women...."

The third volume of In search of Lost Time begins with the moving of Marcel's family to an apartment in a palace, next to the which Charlus lives. This is where Marcel begins to deal with the highest society: the Guermantes family, which seemed so distant to him in his child fantasies, becomes soon part of his life. He goes to parties and meetings, where he can see Mme Cambremer, duchess Orianne and her husband, Charlus, Odette, Swann, etc. The words of the narrator are as thorough as his sight, and he describes for pages and pages the dialogues and behaviours that take place during such encounters. In this volume is where we begin to find the diferent sexual tendencies that will be later explored. As Marcel keeps visiting Saint-Loup, Mr. Charlus develops an interest in Marcel, therefore he begins to play a series of odd games: Charlus will have outbursts of rage as Marcel's shallowness becomes clear to the count.
The snobism and everchanging criteria, through the which political circles consider someone as part of the group of desireable relations, are shown through the detailed depiction of the Dreyfuss affair. The fears of society are suddenly embodied in the character of this german diplomatic, who apparently is spying on the french government. But, even worse, he is a jew. The colliding opinions about this affair divide society. In the midst of this social confusion, Marcel is but a quiet witness, whose interventions seem to stop in invitations and references to other great names of society. One of his favorite activities during this parties is to find and reconstruct the family ties between the different participants. An interesting relationship develops between Marcel and Orianne and her husband, while Charlus finds this to be of bad taste. Marcel will know through these people the details surrounding Saint-Loup's romance with an "indecent" dancer. He knew something from the days he spent visiting his friends while he was in service.
By the end of this volume we get to see Swann's decadence in the high circles, while his wife, Odette, seems to gain more terrain everyday. Swann tries to mantain his contact with the Guermantes, but they are less interested in him as time goes by... and not even his revelation of being in the route of death, due to an ailment, captures their interest. Even more, they don't believe him.
Proust keeps working in describing the defyning coordenates of this world of looks and absurd, hollow judgements. The life of the court parties is ruled by worldly signs, theatrical effects and empty forms. Although the character's fantasies surrounding the name of the Guermantes crumbles after he meets them and find them to be... just humans (and not the corporeal reality behind the images he used to see with endearment in Combray); although this fact, he is more and more fascinated by their importance between the other aristocrats. His desire is renewed by the inclusion of a third party that desires to establish contact, or to hold good relations with the Guermantes. It is the game of snobism, in which fear seems to be the main tool.

I've come to Proust quite late. I tried to read Remembrances many years ago but couldn't get my head around the extended sentences liberally convoluted with parenthesis. Recently I took another plunge and a different approach. I realized that to read Proust is a consuming commitment. The reader has to relinquish the comfort of the customary literary narrative. If you do this then the world of Proust will first entice you then become an obsessive pleasure into which you will eagerly immerse yourself.

Having said this now comes the question of which translation to read. I've read the first English translation by C.K. Scott Moncrieff published by Random House in 1927. I've also read the new Penguin translation of The Guermantes Way by Mark Treharne. The Penguin translations are "easier" to read and cater more to a 21st century sensibility. To my mind the restructuring of sentences at times, unfortunately, sacrifice the poetics of Proust's language in favor of adherence to modern grammatical convention. Montcrieff also had the advantage of doing his translation closer to the time in which Proust actually lived and worked; the flavor of this early translation feels more "authentic" and contemporaneous with the period. An example: The first sentence in Montcrieff's The Germantes Way reads: "The twittering of the birds at daybreak..." Treharne's reads: "The early-morning twitter of the birds..." Does this matter? It's your call.

Read the Penguins if this gets you into Proust. But don't discount earlier translations. Just read Proust...you'll be happy you did!

Volume IV of "In Search of Lost Time" begins in the afternoon of the day of Princess of Guermantes's party, the one that Marcel had looked forward for so long as his definitive entrance into the world of high society. That afternoon, by spying on them, Marcel discovers with his own eyes, for the first time, homosexuality, in the form of an encounter between the depraved Baron de Charlus and the tailor Jupien, Marcel's neighbor in the property of the Guermantes. Later that evening, Marcel attends the party, attended also by a cast of characters like very few in literature: Charlus himself, a Swann close to his death, and others. The Dreyfuss cause keeps winning adepts, among them the very Prince and Princess of Guermantes, as the injustice of the sentence is revealed. In the party, Marcel continues on his way to disappointment about noblesse: they are people just like everyone else, only with grand names and big egos, but not much more.

Days later, with his mother, Marcel returns to Balbec, where, alone in his room he finally feels all the weight and sorrow of his grandmother's death, which had happened a year and a half before or so. It is a profound passage about the perception of death, everyday indifference to it, and the memories left to us by our beloved's passing away. In Balbec, Marcel reencounters with Albertine, in that perverted play of seduction and deceit, of attraction and rejection, which foreshadows a sick relationship. Disturbed by the graphic discovery of homosexuality, Marcel broods a lot about it. Two women who stay at the same hotel, and who openly show their lesbianism, awaken in Marcel a deep suspicion about Albertine's mysterious life, and so begins a torment of permanent jealousy, of anxiety and anguish which reminds the reader of the similar episode, in times gone by, of the beginning of the relationship between Swann and Odette. Meanwhile, Marcel has simultaneous relationships with a couple of maids of the hotel (literally simultaneous).

Marcel rents a car to go around with Albertine through the countryside and the coast, deepening his relationship with the capricious, naughty, annoying and elusive Albertine. In her company, he begins to frequent the little band of the social-climbing Verdurins (where Swann had met Odette years before), in the country estate they have rented from the Marquises of Cambremer. The central part of the book narrates that summer in Balbec and its surroundings, above all the wide mosaic of characters surrounding the Verdurins: insecure but arrogant Doctor Cottard and his simple wife; musician Vinteuil; the rustic and silent sculptor Ski; Professor Saniette, pathetic and constantly humiliated; and Madame Verdurin herself, presumptuous and increasingly successful in society. Over this fresco is shown the repulsive couple of Charlus and musician Morel, son of a former servant of the Prousts. Morel is the worst kind of climber and representative of sexual and moral corruption. In contrast with what happens in the first three volumes, here it seems that it is the nobles who yearn to be accepted in bourgeois society, and not the other way around. It is the bourgeois who attract interesting people: intellectuals, scientists, artists. Charlus makes a fool of himself big time, pretending everybody ignores his homosexuality, when in fact he is the target of cruel jokes and gossip. So continues the great saga of memory, sex, love, longing, and social observation of the XX Century.

Like in no one of the previous volumes, in this one the subject of homosexuality is analyzed in all its complexity. Marcel and Albertine's relationship forebodes hell. Charlus begins to sink. The bourgeois approach triumph. Like in all the previous volumes, what astounds the reader is Proust's immense power of microscopic vision to analyze individuals and dissect societies. It includes a magical reflection on dreams, as well as precious depictions of landscapes, sexual assaults, personalities and emotions.

In the previous two volumes of IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME, we have seen the young Marcel fantasize about love (in the persons of Gilberte and Albertine) and high society (in the person of the Duchesse de Guermantes). The bulk of THE GUERMANTES WAY's 819 pages is concerned with two parties involving the glitterati of fin-de-siecle Paris.
At the party of the literary Mme de Villeparisis, Marcel gains his first admittance to the world of the nobility and gets invited to an evening of his prized Dutchess, whom he had gazed on from afar when she attended church services in Combray, amid the tombs of her ancestors. Sometimes, however, when you get your heart's desire, there is that nagging question: "Is this all there is?"
At one point in the latter party, Swann says to Marcel that "one can't have a thousand years of feudalism in one's blood with impunity." The novel ends with the Guermantes about to leave for yet a more empyrean social gathering, to which Marcel is not even sure he is invited. (As we see in the next volume, he is invited and does attend.) At the very end, the Duke puts off seeing a dying friend and begins carping about his wife's choice of shoes.
We see the beginnings of Marcel's disenchantment with the social scene. Since this volume covers such a short span of time, we do not yet see the effect of his grandmother's death on the young narrator. We leave him, stunned and confused, at the threshhold of a personal triumph that has already lost much of its luster for him.
As I re-read Proust's great series, I am struck by how much I missed the first time I read it years ago. Many reviewers are struck by the length of the scenes describing the parties, but now I find that there is so much going on, and so many undercurrents, that the interior action passes quickly. Most of the action takes place in Marcel's mind as he encounters these gods of society and their hangers-on as they duel for position in their circles.
"Thus I beheld the pair of them," muses Marcel, "divorced from that name Guermantes in which long ago I had imagined them leading an unimaginable life, now just like other men and other women...."

The third volume of In search of Lost Time begins with the moving of Marcel's family to an apartment in a palace, next to the which Charlus lives. This is where Marcel begins to deal with the highest society: the Guermantes family, which seemed so distant to him in his child fantasies, becomes soon part of his life. He goes to parties and meetings, where he can see Mme Cambremer, duchess Orianne and her husband, Charlus, Odette, Swann, etc. The words of the narrator are as thorough as his sight, and he describes for pages and pages the dialogues and behaviours that take place during such encounters. In this volume is where we begin to find the diferent sexual tendencies that will be later explored. As Marcel keeps visiting Saint-Loup, Mr. Charlus develops an interest in Marcel, therefore he begins to play a series of odd games: Charlus will have outbursts of rage as Marcel's shallowness becomes clear to the count.
The snobism and everchanging criteria, through the which political circles consider someone as part of the group of desireable relations, are shown through the detailed depiction of the Dreyfuss affair. The fears of society are suddenly embodied in the character of this german diplomatic, who apparently is spying on the french government. But, even worse, he is a jew. The colliding opinions about this affair divide society. In the midst of this social confusion, Marcel is but a quiet witness, whose interventions seem to stop in invitations and references to other great names of society. One of his favorite activities during this parties is to find and reconstruct the family ties between the different participants. An interesting relationship develops between Marcel and Orianne and her husband, while Charlus finds this to be of bad taste. Marcel will know through these people the details surrounding Saint-Loup's romance with an "indecent" dancer. He knew something from the days he spent visiting his friends while he was in service.
By the end of this volume we get to see Swann's decadence in the high circles, while his wife, Odette, seems to gain more terrain everyday. Swann tries to mantain his contact with the Guermantes, but they are less interested in him as time goes by... and not even his revelation of being in the route of death, due to an ailment, captures their interest. Even more, they don't believe him.
Proust keeps working in describing the defyning coordenates of this world of looks and absurd, hollow judgements. The life of the court parties is ruled by worldly signs, theatrical effects and empty forms. Although the character's fantasies surrounding the name of the Guermantes crumbles after he meets them and find them to be... just humans (and not the corporeal reality behind the images he used to see with endearment in Combray); although this fact, he is more and more fascinated by their importance between the other aristocrats. His desire is renewed by the inclusion of a third party that desires to establish contact, or to hold good relations with the Guermantes. It is the game of snobism, in which fear seems to be the main tool.

In this third volume of Marcel Proust's epic In Search of Lost Time, the narrator gains entrance into the Duc and Duchesse de Gurmante's chateau near Combray and becomes more intimate with the elite Parisian society, he provides a detailed portrait of the mechanics of social interaction and the underlying driving forces that motivate the bourgeoisie. He encounters nobles, officers, aristocrats, and of course his friends Robert de Saint Loup and his prostitute Rachel, and the Baron de Charlus at a number of extravagant and detailed parties. Proust situates the reader in the world that he vividly experienced, and it's a totally absorbing experience. We see Oriane Guermantes calculate every social decision like a four-star general; she refuses to show at the parties which expect her and forces herself into the parties which did not to draw consideration to herself. Guermantes Way is also, somewhat surprisingly a much more political section of the book. It deals with military strategy, with socialism, anti-Semitism, and class struggle. However, unlike the previous volumes, the last one hundred pages slow down to a near stand-still in pure social observation. Readers often cite this section of the work as the most difficult, and their judgment is correct. The pace is simply comatose here, but it picks up again for those with enough patience to get through it. The Guermantes Way is a powerful and beautiful centerpiece to Proust's great novel.

First, I feel that it's imperative to identify the express edition which I'm reviewing as the store has a proclivity for assigning every review to every edition: The 1992 Modern Library hardcover of "Swann's Way," by Marcel Proust, translated from the original French by C.K. Moncrieff and Terrence Kilmartin (1981), and revised (1992) by D.J. Enright. Having completed my reading of the book I can say outright that this particular translation fully met and exceeded my expectations in terms of both quality and fluid reading.

The full and proper title here, "In Search of Lost Time, Volume I, Swann's Way," informs us that this initial entry is simply the first episode of a larger work which consists of multiple volumes, one of the longest novels ever written. If you go with the Modern Library series there are a total of six volumes which encompass the novel in its entirety: "Swann's Way"; "Within A Budding Grove"; "The Guermantes Way"; "Sodom and Gomorrah"; "The Captive -- The Fugitive", and; "Time Regained, (and A Guide to Proust)".

THE STORY: [I have made every reasonable effort here to render the general premise of the story with a particular eye to avoiding any major spoilers.] A young boy is raised in the fictional hamlet of Combray, (the real town is now named Illiers-Combray, clearly in celebration of Proust's novel), two hours southwest of Paris, in a bourgeois household along with his parents and extended family members. They are an eclectic lot. This young boy becomes the readers' anonymous narrator and protagonist, but he remains unknown to us only in name as he robustly informs us of his every act and thought.

The boy endures a heavily sheltered existence although his parents' purpose in effecting his containment, a virtual strangulation of the boy's soul, is more for their own convenience than for any perceived benefit to their son. Thus deprived of any practical day-to-day knowledge outside his narrow social and cultural sphere, our narrator regularly observes and reports specific events, a fact which often serves to embarrass his family, ergo: comments regarding his great uncle's young mistress which immediately leads to the subsequent shunning of this old curmudgeon's presence from the family fold. (And, of course, this episode represents an exemplary and classic illustration of Proust's uniquely subtle brand of humor.)

As the boy grows, he is permitted just a few freedoms such as taking walks through the community with family members and servants. One of these paths is referred to as "Swann's Way," a foot route which passes the estate of M. Charles Swann, an amiable and artistically learned aristocrat. Swann interacts with the boy from time to time at dinner parties sponsored by the boy's parents.

One other family member, a noxious and eternally complaining old great-aunt by the name of Mme. Léonie Octave, is widely feared and dreaded by her own clan. Her dissolute commentary about others affords a dubious foundation for much of the boy's perspective on visitors to his home and on society in general. But all this does not diminish the boy's zealous enthusiasm for that which he encounters outside the home as well as what he surreptitiously reads in period fiction.

The first of the book's three chapters concludes with the boy's hope of future travel and of expanding his clearly limited social skills -- he expresses himself only with great difficulty.

The bulk of the story, the second chapter which moves the scene north to Paris, is devoted to M. Swann's obsessive and bizarre pursuit of one Odette de Crécy, a concupiscent gal of the working class and who is adorned with a third-rate mind. Her personal appearance, an aspect which bears a marked resemblance to an ancient portrait which graces one wall of the Sistine Chapel (according to M. Swann), rapidly diminishes in direct proportion with her self-indulgent and hedonistic lifestyle as she ravenously consumes the fruits of Swann's fertilely-funded trees, thus indulging her abundant caprices at will. Swann revisits his venerated Italian tempera image vicariously through his puerile gazing at Odette. She strings M. Swann along, (albeit not too cleverly), limiting his access to her, and he desires her ever more with the coming of each day. Swann's passion is entirely unrequited. But he is hardly less at fault in the chaotic affair. His attentions on Odette personify an idiosyncratic dichotomy of worldly erudition tenoned with the naïveté of an immature adolescent.

Reports of strings of Odette-lovers, both male and female, flow endlessly to M. Swann but due to his inexperience in courting he is ill-equipped to deal with her frivolous maltreatment of him. He fulminates over her endless lies and improprieties and he periodically voices his worst suspicions to her - she remains frustratingly evasive during his inept interrogations. The only reason she continues to see him at all rests entirely with her own mercenary materialism and thus her frequent need to have her many debts swept away by the accommodating M. Swann. As the relationship develops, M. Swann's opinion of Odette sinks to the lowest possible levels; however, his desire to retain and control her manifests as nothing short of an absurd and injudicious mania.

In the finale of the work, we return to the narrator, now a teenager in Paris with his family, who himself becomes enamored with a striking young lady by the name of Gilberte. She strings our protagonist along to some extent but not so mendaciously as Odette has done in the case of M. Swann. The young man then attempts to square his yearning for Gilberte with other fresh opportunities, (now afforded by his parents), to travel and thus realize a chance to fulfill those particular long-standing desires.

At this juncture one can rightly say that Volume One, "Swann's Way," stands on its own; but readers will undoubtedly feel the inspired urge to move forward into the next entry, as many questions and anticipations remain unanswered at this point.

The consumption of Marcel Proust's (1871-1922) literature is really not companionable with the atmosphere of the typical waiting room of a busy dentist's office. This is mood literature to be sure and a significant level of concentration is required of readers if they expect to fully appreciate the notable number of literary subtleties with which Proust endlessly bombards us. There are three particular caveats of Proust's writings which tend to challenge readers:

1. His extensive vocabulary.

2. The employment of lyrically expressive language: Proust's literary images rival the combined artistic impressionism of Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, and Matisse.

3. The exploitation of a daunting writing practice which has universally endured over time as the very bane of blue-haired old English teachers across America: the run-on sentence! Proust's sentences are more often lengthy paragraphs and one's thought train can indeed suffer from a lack of comprehension if apt mental focus is not duly exercised.

Another Proust device arises through his narrator, the young boy whose name remains a mystery throughout this volume. The first chapter, where the boy expresses the intricacies of his youth in First Person delivery is much like that which we would encounter elsewhere in fiction. But in the next chapter which chiefly concerns M. Swann's relationship with Odette, we are forced to wonder (in retrospect) how the narrator can be present inside the mind of this much older man, particularly since various activities of Swann may have transpired prior to the narrator's birth! The narrator is empowered with, and shares, M. Swann's every contemplation, deliberation, and frustration. This entire section of the book continues in First Person delivery from the boy's viewpoint; however, as difficult as all this may sound, Proust has somehow shrewdly made it simple for the reader to accept both the textual commentary and dialogue at their face value.

In the third and final chapter, we return to a more traditional direct, (continuing along in First Person), disclosure where the narrator personally interacts with others.

Proust was a fervent devotee of a literary predecessor, Anatole France (1844-1924), (as I am myself). Proust's crafty brand of humor was clearly influenced by the renowned author of works such as Anatole France- A Mummer's Tale.; but France's writing technique was much more straightforward and unpretentious than that of Proust. The latter author has taken on a much more challenging approach to fiction writing and has artfully served it up to his readers in a worthy and palatable, if sometimes intricate, end-product. Here's an example, a humorous and clever extraction from page 207:

"`...He may be sure it isn't music that she's teaching his daughter.' But M. Venteuil assured them that it was, and indeed it is remarkable how people never fail to arouse admiration for their moral qualities in the relatives of those with whom they are having carnal relations."

In summary, I was much gratified having read this distinctive hallmark of European literature although it stands in stark contrast with the simplicity of Leo Tolstoy, or the conspicuous frankness of James Joyce. I can unabashedly recommend it to any enthusiast of classic literature. I should also mention that there is yet another fairly recent translation of this inspired work which has been remarked by many as a preferable choice (a notably thinner volume): Swann's Way: In Search of Lost Time, Vol. 1 (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition).

I am writing here of the "Penguin Proust" translation by John Sturrock. (Much of what appears on this page is misleading, with the editorial matter referring to an audiobook and many reader reviews to an earlier translation. Even first-sentence quote is not from Sturrock's translation!)

Of the four Penguin Proust volumes I've read so far, this is my favorite--a wonderfully funny study of society (if not of sex). Proust specializes in transformations. We'll be introduced to a character and led to believe that we know everything of importance about him, only to have him turn up in a later volume as entirely different. In this volume, the remote and terrible Baron de Charlus is tranformed a pathetic tubby, besotted by the pianist Morel (himself a bit of a transformation, since he first appeared in the novel as the son of a valet).

Marcel (the narrator) meanwhile finds himself more deeply involved with Albertine, herself probably a stand-in for a male secretary of Proust's, Alfred Agostinelli. To complicate matters, I see elements of this relationship not only in the Marcel-Albertine affair, but also in the Charlus-Morel romance. It's as if Proust divided his experience into two parts, giving the romantic elements to Marcel and the comic part to Charlus.

The two romances come together at the seaside salon of the awful Madame Verdurin, who is inexorably rising in the world. In one of Proust's hundred-page setpieces, the aristocratic baron has his first clash with the social-climbing Verdurins. I found myself cheering for Charlus, whom I'd earlier learned to dislike, because he is so genuine and she is such a fraud. And I know in my heart (and through my earlier readings of this great novel) that things are not going to turn out well for Charlus. Against all logic, Proust in one of his hundred-page dissections of French society is able to keep me on tenterhooks.

The less said about Albertine, the better. I am not one of those who find her/him a convincing character. So it is with a bit of apprehension that I now turn to volume five of the Proust Penguin, containing the two books of the "Albertine cycle."

But back to Sodom (as it were): this is a wonderful translation of a riveting story. If you stick with "In Search of Lost Time" thus far, you will know that you are in the middle of one of the great experiences of your life.

This is the first volume in a two volume set that contains the entire REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST, unabridged. It's from the U.K., which is why you don't see it for sale much in the U.S. (You can get it no problem on the store's U.K. site, though: use ISBN-10: 1840221461 or ISBN-13: 978-1840221466 to find it.)

It's much cheaper than those silver ones that you do see, published by Vintage.

But there's something you should know about the translation. This is the translation by C. K. Scott-Moncrieff and Stephen Hudson (the latter completing the job after the former croaked midway through it). This translation was later reworked by Terence Kilmartin to the approval of many (which translation was in turn reworked by D. J. Enright). That is the translation offered in those silver ones you see everywhere, but IS NOT THE TRANSLATION YOU'RE GETTING HERE from the Wordsworth Editions. This is just the unreworked 1922-1930 job.

It doesn't offer any footnotes or anything else like that.

The entire thing is also available in one volume in French from the store here: A LA Recherche Du Temps Perdu (French Edition)

Followed by 350 pages of flower descriptions. And concludes with the highly touted Swann in Love which raises for me whether a gay guy can portray heterosexual love. (The answer for Proust is yes, but not here). Swann in Love is tawdry with the debonair Charles Swann going overboard for a devious coquette on her last legs. Proust can do opposite sex romantic love when inspired as he is for all of Ombre Jeune Fils, whose entire 550 pages comprises the second greatest passage in Proust.

I read the Overture three times. In fact, I had a hard time getting beyond it. It took me 22 years elapse time to slog through the 350 pages of flower descriptions. Once I hit Swann in Love I polished off Proust in a book every three weeks. Currently stuck again at The Captive, the fourth book. I just can't stomach the idea that Proust is holding a woman captive for 400 pages when in reality he was obsessed with his chauffeur. Man up.

All said, the opening 100 pages (the Overture) has been the most wondrous of my experience (rivaled only by Walden's first 100 and chapters 2-49 of Dreiser's American Tragedy, another 500 page stretch of cinematic and auditory poetry) and I can hardly give Swann's Way anything less than five stars.

Btw, don't let anyone tell you Proust gets sidetracked by trying to do Philosophy. Any concerted thought by Proust is almost always an object of wonder.

If you're wondering why Proust inspires such reverence, I think it's all in the Overture, and in Books Two and Three of the Recherche - Ombre Jeune Fils and the utterly remarkable Sodom and Gomorrah. He really does change your life. No one else come close to so much sustained enchantment.

Those of us who love Proust - either from long acquaintance, or from reading him for the very first time - can count ourselves fortunate in now having two very fine English translations to work from: the classic Moncrieff/Kilmartin rendition of the complete novel, and the new Lydia Davis translation of "Swann's Way." I've read and enjoyed both, because each brings something special and valuable to the work.
Davis is a breath of fresh air, being more literal (while still literary!) in that she follows the original French syntax and meaning more closely. I liked her translation, and applaud it. Normally, such a fine translation would be my first choice. However - and I admit this is a very subjective judgement - I was long ago seduced by the sheer beauty of Moncrieff/Kilmartin, and therefore cannot love the Davis translation quite so much. Of all authors, Proust requires us to surrender to the beauty of his language. Davis' translation is, for me, more likeable than loveable.
Really, it's an old (and impossible to resolve!) conflict between the more literal and the more "poetic" type of translation. I've dealt with this myself, in trying to translate Baudelaire, and there's no perfect answer. One thing I'd suggest (if you haven't read MK) is to get the MK translation of Swann's Way, now available in a very inexpensive paperback, along with Davis so that you can get a feel for both ways of appreciating Proust's great and magnificent work.

This book is rich with some of the most fascinating observations on love in general and homosexual love specifically. The flower metaphor at the starting of the book is particularly clever. Proust has more of a sense of humour than usual in this volume. Around the middle of the book this is especially evident; there is more sarcasm, irony, and wit throughout than in other volumes. I found myself highlighting many passages as I was reading, and oftentimes just one sentence of Proust's work is enough material to write a whole book on! His observations are so loaded and so true that they can be stretched out a long way before they've been used up. I find myself constantly in awe while reading In Search Of Lost Time; Proust was so gifted in so many ways that it's a privilege to read his writings! I can't think of anyone besides Shakespeare who comes close to Proust in his understanding of all apsects of human nature.

I've read many a great novel, both classic and contemporary, but until I read Swann's Way, I had never before been tempted to take a highlighter to a book. Never has an author been able to squeeze so much out of so little. Like Shakespeare, so much of Proust's genius lies in observing and explaining complex human emotion. Unlike Shakespeare, though, Proust believes in using everyday events for this purpose. And rather than explaining thoughts and emotions through action on a stage, Proust takes the reader directly into his characters' thoughts. While the plot may not take you away, his insights are genius. Yes, sometimes he describes scenery in too much detail for my tastes (don't get him started on flowers, music or architecture), but his understanding of the human heart is peerless. This is all the more astounding when you consider how much of his life Proust spent bedridden. Swann's Way is an absolute miracle of literature, but having said that, I must also admit that it's not for most readers. Most people will not have the patience to decipher Proust's excessively long and complex sentences before they simply throw the book into the fireplace. Most people will not be impressed by how much detail Proust uses to describe something as seemingly simple, on the surface at least, as neighborhood gossip, dipping cake into a cup of tea or the architecture of a church steeple. I'll give it five stars, but most people won't get past the first 25 pages. I also struggled with some of the lengthy descriptions, and had to set it aside or force myself through parts of it. So when I say most people won't enjoy it, that's not to congratulate myself, it's just being honest. I can't imagine the millions who enjoy watching "Survivor" or WWE wrestling or who love "People Magazine" ever even hearing about Proust, let alone buying Swann's Way. And how many of those that do dare to buy it on this or any other recommendation, will get past the Combray section and continue reading? Very few, indeed. That's really a shame, because this is one of the greatest works of literature ever published anywhere.

Obviously, Swann's Way is a classic piece of literature, one of the most vital works of fiction of the 20th Century. The prose, whether in the original French or in the beautifully translated English, is lush, evocative and deliriously prolix--from the moment the narrator takes a bite of that famous pastry, the reader is swept up into a world so tangibly realized and, at the same time, so hallucinatory in its lushness that he or she cannot fail to be drawn in, quite despite the fact that there's not much of a "plot" to carry the thing along. Instead, we are given intimate access to the minds of Swann, Odette and Proust himself and they are unbelievably fascinating people--so complex, so "real" that one is actually quite sorry when the book ends. Which brings me to my main point: Don't stop here. If Swann's Way is the most famous volume in the monumental "In Search of Lost Time" series, it is not necessarily the best. It is, in fact, something of an extended prologue to the later books, gracefully and movingly setting the scene for the far more dramatic twists and turns that will culminate in the mind-blowing final volume "Time Regained." While Swann's Way is a most compelling and satisfying read on its own, you'll miss out on so much beauty, drama and passion if you don't follow up and read through the full series, rich as it is with intrigue, consuming love, staggering insights into the human mind and outright entertainment value. So, Swann's Way is a must read, but one has to come to it realizing that the end of the novel is only the beginning of Proust's enormous, all-consuming magnum opus. No one will tell you that committing to Proust's fictional world is a slight undertaking, but it is a deeply rewarding one and a required one for all serious readers.

Proust plunges the reader into the world of his vivid imagination, traversing between memory, image and objective reality. His work is truly a reflection or refraction of perception, to then be reconstructed in descriptive prose that conjures enchanting visuals of paradisaical landscapes, childhood wishes and dreams, and a time forgotten or lost as the modern age came crashing in with the arrival of the twentieth century. In the last pages of ~Swann's Way~, one cannot help but feel his lament of times passed, when women dressed with unconscious elegance, the French countryside remained pure, and the sheer simplicity and sophistication of the horse drawn carriage. These times are truly lost, however the narrator speculates, '...remembrance of a particular form is but regret for a particular moment...held between the contiguous impressions that composed our life.' When the narrator remembers, he realises that what he has known no longer exists, or possibly never existed, but they most certainly exist in his memories.
This constant play between perception through the senses, the idealized image, and their interaction, and the character's responses to this constant flux of the real and the imagined, is the central theme of this text. The central character of the second chapter, Swann in Love, is hopelessly seduced by the coquettish, Odette. She draws Swann into her world and, over time, her indifference and listlessness, her unpredictable irritability and at times chilly manner towards him, causes Swann to suffer. But the reader gets the impression that Swann tends towards masochism, and in a perverse way, enjoys the pain. Swann's taste in women has always tended towards those below his social station - the shopgirl, the worker's daughter or the prostitute. These liaisons are always carried out in secret for the obvious reasons. However, in spite of Odette's lack of education and birthright, the aristocratic male finds her extremely attractive. She is a mistress with natural class and possesses that necessary skill of discretion. But is Swann actually in love with Odette, or the idealized image? When the actual woman and the idealized one do not meet, his expectations are dashed and he continues to suffer. Swann's friends anonymously attempt to tell him about Odette's seedy past, but this action only further embeds him into his reserve to somehow return to the pure love they once shared. And so the tale continues...
This is the first book of Proust's seven-volume magnum opus, A la recherché du temps perdu. To my mind, the second section, 'Combray', is the most sensitive and beautiful description of early youth in modern literature. The last chapter is a kind of poetic lament of that innocent time period before the ravages of the Great War, which irrevocably changed the world forever. One cannot sing the praises of this novel enough.

This is the first of the seven volumes of the widely known but not always read "A la recherche du temps perdu". I particularly like that in this edition the translator chose the term: In search, and not remembrance. The novel is not about remembering, it is about searching the truth in the past. The past was a time in which Marcel was not able to understand what rested underneath the social conventions, personal passions and random emotions. What Marcel does when he writes is to explore those depths of human behavior and worldly condition.
In this first volume of "In search of Lost time" we get to see three parts. In the first one, Marcel shows us how he came to remember the time he spent in Combray with his parents, grandparents and aunts. We get to see here for the first time a very important character: Charles Swann, in whom Marcel sees an obstacle between him and the good night kiss of his mother. Vinteul appears as well. In the events surrounding his death Marcel finds for the first time the perversions of love and the human disposition towards evil and cruelty.
The second part revolvs around Swann and how he falls in love with Odette, a cocotte. A dark secret eventaully tortures Swann: Has Odette had unholy relations with other women? What is it that she does while he is not with her? Is she with other men?
The third part is a reflection on how names, things, experience of things themselves and the remembrance of them are separated by an abyss, which is only surpassed by the idea of the subject.
What is the best way to give unity to all these things? Through writing and art, seems to be final answer of "In Search of Lost time". But "Swann's way" leaves us with the sense of having lost something in the act of remembering.
This is one of the novels everyone should read.

"In search of lost time" continues with Marcel's return to Paris after vacation in Balbec, to the new family house. The neighbor is the Duchess of Guermantes with whom Marcel falls in love in a platonic and purely imaginary way. He gets desperate to be admitted into the Duchess's social circle, and so he takes advantage of his new friednship with Saint-Loup, who belongs in that circle. Marcel goes to visit him at the town where he's in military service, and on his return, he is admitted to the salon of the Marquise de Villeparisis, a first step to his goal. What follows is a treatise, a bittersweet one, on the aristocratic world of Paris, in times of the scandal provoked by the Dreyfus Affair. Proust admirably portraits the hypocrisy, hollowness and cruelty of the aristocratic world, as well as the main character's affection for his grandmother, his friendship with Saint-Loup, the spiritual desolation of the age, and his disenchantment with aristocrats. So continues the greatest saga of memory and emotions, one of the best books ever written.

In "The Guermantes Way," the third volume of "In Search of Lost Time," Proust's nameless narrator has reached his teenage years and continues to observe the world around him as inspiration for his planned career in literature. His family's relocation to a new apartment building in Paris, the Hotel de Guermantes, affords him the opportunity to acquaint himself with the Faubourg Saint-Germain and what he imagines to be the fashionable, intellectual side of the city's society, personified by the Duke and Duchess de Guermantes.
The narrator's fascination with the Duchess could be described as an infatuation far surpassing that he used to have of Gilberte, the daughter of his parents' friend Charles Swann. Sickly and meek, he has trouble making a positive impression on the Duchess in his chance encounters with her, but he is persistent. He happens to have befriended her nephew Robert de Saint-Loup, a young military officer, from whom he politely requests a proper introduction by claiming a common interest in the work of a painter named Elstir. Through Robert's help, the young narrator gains admission to the high society of his dreams, which gradually destruct into the apprehension that the rich can be frivolous and boring.
As Balzac's interest was in the depiction of Paris society as a "human comedy" in all its colors and movements, Proust's palette is much more subtle and sensitive but no less broad, taking prose about as far as it can go in the description of the intimacy of all the various complex emotions. Cruelty, for example, is a simple subject, but Proust's portrayal of the nasty trick that Robert's girlfriend Rachel, a full-time actress and part-time prostitute, plays on one of her rivals, allows the narrator an inconceivably deep meditation on the ugliness of conceit. Similarly, the narrator's unreasonably lengthy account of his grandmother's stroke and subsequent death is actually a brilliant exposition on the agony of mortality.

The events of "The Guermantes Way" play against the backdrop of the Dreyfus affair, and Proust remarkably demonstrates the heavy impact this incident had on the society of the day, bringing to the surface the particular virulence of French anti-semitism, usually latent, occasionally blatant. Society is divided between pro-Dreyfus and anti-Dreyfus factions, Proust's sympathetic narrator being of the former but, like most "Dreyfusards," not too vocal about the matter. Proust uses a Jewish character, a rising dramatist named Bloch, as a token of the conflict, exhibiting him as an object of a peculiar French attitude that is less racial hatred than exotic curiosity.
Swann, himself of Jewish heritage, makes an appearance towards the end of the volume to remind the reader of his long relationship with the humble narrator. Roughly I detect an analogy, not easily sustained by the evidence presented in this review but palpable in the text nonetheless, of their friendship with that of James Joyce's Leopold Bloom, also a Jew in a hostile environment, and Stephen Dedalus. What Proust and Joyce really have in common, though, is their ability to forge bold new forms of literature that explore aspects of life never before exposed on the printed page.

In this, the fourth volume of Proust's "In Search of Lost Time" (a.k.a. "Remembrance of Things Past"), the narrator is suddenly exposed to a new level of worldly knowledge, a knowledge that the previous volumes foreshadowed but never openly discussed. The volume begins at the apex of society, more or less where the previous volume ends (i.e., a reception at one of the fashionable Guermantes). We are then taken on a somewhat bumpy ride down from that peak, to the lesser salon of the Verdurins (previously seen through Swann's eyes in vol. 1) and the narrator's less-than-admirable conduct toward Albertine. Along the way, as the narrator becomes more of an actor in, and less of an observer of, the world, Proust's style likewise becomes, at times, more traditionally novelistic. Yet it retains the unique insight, precision, and vitality that make reading Proust a life-changing experience.

This book is like a great kaleidoscope where the characters are the cristals of the myriad scenes depicted page after page.
Proust creates a delighful new world from every little thing that surrounds him. His childhood is a mean to give birth to a gallery of charming characters and strong sensations that flow in a continuous stream. His exquisite and delicate prose transports us to our own childhood. He lets us perceive the beauty of simple things stimulating all our senses.
(It is strange how a simple translation can give a book's title more than its original sense. "Du coté de chez Swann" or "Por el camino de Swann" -the former being the original title and the later the spanish translation- tell us simply that we are going to introduce ourselves in a beautiful promenade along a little ville called Combray. However, the english tittle "Swann's way" creates in the reader's mind an expectation about the main character that does not come up even in the original tittle.)

I wish I hadn't waited so long to experience Proust, for now having read "Swann's Way," I see that his deeply sensitive prose is a reference point for almost all of the introspective literature of the twentieth century. As the story of a boy's adolescent conscience and aspirations to become a writer, the book's only artistic peer is James Joyce's "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man."
The narrator is presumably the young Marcel Proust who divides his recollections between his boyhood at his family's country house at Combray and his parents' friend Charles Swann, an art connoisseur. In fact, the path that passes Swann's house, being one of two ways the narrator's family likes to take when they go for walks, gives the book its title. Proust uses the theme of unrequited love to draw a parallel between his young narrator's infatuation with Swann's red-haired daughter Gilberte and Swann's turbulent affair with a woman named Odette de Crecy.
Intense romantic obsessions are a Proustian forte. Swann falls for Odette even though she is unsophisticated and frivolous and does not appear to love him nearly as much as he loves her. He is desperate for her, always sending her gifts, giving her money when she needs it, and hoping she will become dependent on him. It comes as no surprise that he is consumed with jealousy when he notices her spending time with his romantic rival, the snobbish Comte de Forcheville, and he is shocked by her lesbian tendencies and rumors of her prostitution. He finally realizes with chagrin that he has wasted years of his life pursuing a woman who wasn't his "type" -- but even this resignation is not yet the conclusion of their relationship.
Proust's extraordinary sensitivity allows him to explore uncommon areas of poignancy, perversity, and the human condition. One example is the young narrator's childish insistence on getting a goodnight kiss from his mother at the cost of wresting her attention away from the visiting Swann. Another remarkable instance is the scene in which a girl's female lover spits on the photograph of the girl's deceased father in disrespectful defiance of his wishes for his daughter's decency. And I myself identified with Legrandin, the engineer whose passion for literature and art grants his professional career no advantages but makes him an excellent conversationalist.
Few writers can claim Proust's level of elegance and imagery. The long and convoluted sentences, with multiple subordinate clauses tangled together like tendrils of ivy, remind me of Henry James; but Proust is much warmer and more intimate although admittedly he is just as difficult to read. The narration of "Swann's Way" is a loosely connected flow of thoughts which go off on tangents to introduce new ideas and scenes; the effect is similar to wandering through a gallery of Impressionist paintings. And, as though channeling Monet literarily, Proust displays a very poetical understanding of and communication with nature, infusing his text with pastoral motifs and floral metaphors that suggest the world is always in bloom.

This book is a failure in its two major attempts: to entertain and to capture human thinking. Swann's Way is generally said to be written in the stream-of-consciousness technique. Having thus said that, I daresay it is a psychoanalytic error. Both important characters in this story (Swann and the narrator himself) think in a way that is entirely incredible. They take every little aspect of their uneventful lives and seem to put it under a microscope, leaving not a single detail of that aspect, that facet, undetected. They break it down to its indivisible remains. They're relentless; they peal away until there is nothing left. That is mainly why the book drags on so much. It seems as if Swann and the narrator (both of whom, it should forthwith be established, are boring as hell) are not average in any way. They are two psychologists who'd make Freud and Jung quiver to their very skeletons.
Give me a break, I say. No one in real life thinks the way they do, taking pages upon endless pages in analyzing the minutiae, the most diminutive stuff that happens in their lives - stuff that in real-life goes totally ignored. Not being anything near a psychologist, I can easily tell that the characters in this story are faker than a toupee. At least Joyce, who is worlds more tedious than Proust at his worst, succeeded with near-perfect accuracy at transmitting man's consciousness from the brain to the paper. Proust, with his microscoped slides tightly clasped at the nucleus of his characters' brains, made a bad claim to the selfsame place Joyce later reached. Swann's Way, in this respect, is a dud; an exaggeration wrought by meticulosity.
And then, of course, it must be remembered that it is also a work of fiction. But a deceptive work of fiction at that, for the first sentence promises a story that would never melt away into one's oblivion: "For a long time I would go to bed early." A simple sentence, so simple that it promises the reader that the story is filled with all possibilities. Anything may happen. But the reader soon learns that there are no possibilities, that the sense instilled into his mind by the first sentence is a false one. For in the end, nothing happens. Not that nothing is resolved, because that really doesn't matter - just that nothing happens. It's a long, boring cab-drive home.
And those long sentences and long paragraphs that seem to make the pages cry, filled with those tremendous blocks of text - they are of no positive effect to the overall story, or any portion of it, for that matter. That is not to say that extensive writing like this is bad in literature, keeping in mind those few writers like Gabriel Garcia Marquez who made such wonderful use of his long stretches of paragraphs. Proust merely needed to trim his up, needed to remove all that bogus stream-of-consciousness. The story of M. Swann and his liaison with Mme Odette is so simple that any other writer would have taken up two hundred pages or less to tell it.
But of course, now, there are the positives. To say that Swann's Way - with all its barren poetry - had no wonderful passages would be a perjury. A book of such longevity would as sure as hell-fire have a couple of things one would delight in reading. Early on in the story, for instance, the narrator describes the church towers, steeples, and belfries he sees overhead one day whilst walking home. The words he uses in conveying these sublime images into the reader's mind are so delicious the reader thereafter finds himself quickly turning the pages back to reread the passages in their entireties. Sometimes, Proust's words are like a Turkish Delight for the eyes. If the Moncrieff translation is this grand, one can only imagine how good the book is in its original language. Thus, for the tender sake of language, Swann's Way is a good book. There is a practice, an exercise into language in this book that, while not unprecedented, you seldom see in others. But all the rest is nothing more than a boring prose poem that serves as the overture to an epic that must surely be painstaking to finish.

In order to understand life, one has to read Proust. This a beautifully written book about the most basic and complicated human feelings and emotions. The contradictions and hypocrisies of any human society that we can all recognize while reading in this book. Yet, if not impossible, it is hard for human nature to move away from those contradictions and hypocrisies. The most written about human feeling--love-is written by Proust in a beautiful way. Any avid reader must have to read Proust during their life. It is one of those books, which readers are guaranteed to enjoy.

With the famous dipping of the madeleine into his tea, Proust begins his fictional/auto-biographical journey through memory and time, alternately seeing his world through the eyes of a younger, more innocent Proust and the weary old man he has become. Random comments on people or places morph into paragraph- and page-long memories, coloured with the rosy tint of time and age, or not, as sometimes is the case. Throughout the novel we are generally confined to the time period of Proust's childhood, but the narrator is very loose with the time frame, effortlessly jumping back and forth through the memories of his boyhood, from the thrill of a mother's kiss to the beauty of flowers and grass along the way by Swann's.

The writing is flowery and beautiful, with long, flowing sentences that seem to evoke places and times buried within us all. Proust is a master of mental imagery, and through the mostly universal experience of his childhood - and while the particulars will not be identical for us all, the thoughts and ideas certainly will - we are able to relive our own childhood, our own desires and dreams, our own gradual awakening and loss of innocence.

While reading Proust, there is a sense that we have settled ourselves within his skin. The writing is so personal and intimate that we, for just a moment, become the little boy Proust, we share his feelings, we understand his pains. This can be uncomfortable at times, but the pleasure of such an intense journey far outweighs the 'warts and all' intimacy. While reading, it seems that nothing - not one thought or feeling - has been held back, and that Proust is willing and almost joyous at the prospect of baring his soul to the world in his six book masterpiece.

Halfway through the first volume, there is a short novella describing one of his father's friends, Swann, and his jealous courtship of the woman who would later become his wife. The change from an intimate 'I' to a less personal 'he' is at first dis-orienting, but thanks to the strength of the writing, this worry is soon dispelled. Of course, by the end of the novel, the purpose of Swann's interlude has become clearer, and it can be imagined that later volumes will shed more light on these mysteries.

There is not much to be said about Proust that hasn't been already, except that the sheer size and density of his work should not be an intimidating factor when reading. Take your time, be slow about it, and read him as the mood takes you. The rewards are there, on every single page, but they will also be there a year from now. And perhaps, when you are that one year older, the search for memory will be that much more desperate, and Proust's own search will be all the more rewarding.

Writers are always wipping out their sentences, seeing whose is longer, in some type of testosterone-induced competition. This being said Proust (for all his flowery prose and sentimental yearnings) has to be the most virile and manly author; the man is capable of one long sentence, raising the awe and eyebrows of other writers.
Are you looking for plot? Let's just say that the muffin the narrator begins eating in volume 1 doesn't get finished off until volume 2.... the rest is tangential, reminiscent, nostalgic. At times I had an allergic reaction to the syrupy prose that left me with a howling headache, but nevertheless the sublime achievments of this book outweigh such moments. However the Swann in Love section I found tedious and misplaced. I found myself editing and revising chunks of it. Although i think Proust is phenomenal at writing of the "ebb and tide of memory", i can only handle him in small doses, say have a volume every 10 years. Therefore, provided I live until the age of 174, I should be able to finish the whole of In Search of Lost Time.

I approached this book with some trepidation. Did I really want to start a 6-volume project? Was it as inaccessible as some have said it is? Was I just being pretentious in wanting to read them? And which edition to read? So many to choose from. After much research, I decided to go for the Modern Library 6-volume paperback edition, translated by Moncrieff and Kilmartin with revisions by Enright. This is what the experts recommended, and the beautiful cover art is a bonus.
I started reading and immediately was captivated by the book. I enjoyed every bit of minutiae and every beautiful sentence. The scenes from Combray were wonderful, but I especially loved the love story between M. Swann and Odette. I could feel Swann's anguish, confusion, suspicioun, and obsession.
Do yourself a favor, make time for Proust.

One of the most fascinating and beautiful books I've ever read, Proust had a knack for taking the smallest detail and making it meaningful and beautiful. His sentence structure is very different from anything I've ever read before and his writing style is very dense(somebody once told me that it was like swimming through mayonaise) He is one of most original writers of this century and certainly one of the most poetic. Reading Swanns Way has made me hungry to read more of Proust. I've looked everywhere for the whole set of In Search of Lost Time(or Rememberence of Things Past) luckily the store has the whole set. Everybody should at least try to read Swanns Way.

Lydia Davis's translation of Swann's Way is a great addition to the language. That's not the issue, though. At the top of the page there's a note to the effect that this book is available in a Kindle edition, but the link is not to Davis's translation. Rather, it goes to the Modern Library version, which is a very good update of the old Scott Moncrieff translation from the 1920s.

Personally, I like the new 'Penguin Proust' -- liked it so much, indeed, that I bought and read the Modern Library editions. They are excellent, but they are not the same thing.

If you are up to reading À la recherche du temps perdu on a small digital screen, be awfully careful where you shop. The Kindle bookstore is full of bandit editions, several of which link to the new translations in order to steal their cover artwork and reader reviews. (This review of mine will no doubt appear on one of them. I hope it does some good!) Caveat lector.

The third part of the novel follows the narrator into the aristocratic salons of turn-of-the-century Paris, and comments on such matters as the Dreyfus Affair, art and literature, and the disappointments which invaribly follow the achievement of goals sought after with unbridled desire. Whether The Guermantes Way is better or worse than the earlier parts of the novel (or those parts to follow) is not important as a recommendation or criticism; it makes up an integral part of the novel and cannot exist without the other parts.
Proust is not easy reading and demands the undivided attention of the reader; as I am becoming aware, the effort put into reading the novel is eminently rewarding.

It was time, I thought, to read Proust. Unfortunately, this has to be one of the most boring books ever. It's clear that it takes more dedication than I possess to make my way through such a plotless story. Maybe it's better in French.

In search of Lost Time is regarded by many as a key work of modern literature, bridging ideas from the 19th and 20th centuries. Proust is often compared to Joyce and Kafka.

This is revised translation of the early Moncrieff translation. That was the primary translation for the first 50 years after the first publication in French. The present work includes the later changes to the original French manuscripts made in 1954. These additions and changes were excluded in the first manuscript from Proust. The manuscript was revised in the Pleiade edit of 1954 to include all of Proust's final edits. Those edits, additions, and changes are now translated and revised by Enright.

There are three parts to Volume I:
- Combray (the town)
- Swann in Love (Swann is the family name of the narrator)
- Place-Names-The Name

Here is a question for the average reader: is this a novel? What is it? The present Volume I is 600 pages, and if you continue on after Volume I, you face another 5000 pages or so. It is not a novel and it is not a play or drama as one sees with Shakespeare; instead, it is a seemingly endless narrative. Should we be concerned with what it is? The answer is yes, because some will find Proust to be a tedious challenge while others will love him.

For example, Madam Bovary is a novel. It has a beginning, an end, clear characters who are good, evil, and indifferent. It takes place in 19th century French countryside as does Proust, and unlike Proust it is a gripping tale. The writing by Flaubert is flawless. The structure is perfect. That is a novel. I read all 500 pages of Madame Bovary in one day and was very entertained and impressed.

Proust's Volume I, by contrast, has taken me 12 months to read. Again, as with Flaubert, the prose is faultless and the details described are done exquisitely, but there is no plot, and it is not gripping. It is a series of memories or short sections. Almost by definition, these short pieces do not carry the drama of a well balanced novel. They are weakly linked together plus the writing is complicated by many characters, often relatives of the narrator. If you put the book down and start again you are momentarily lost. Some readers, and that includes myself, wonder why we continue.

Proust is part of our literary education and one can appreciate the interwoven snapshots of life, the beautiful descriptions of rural Combray, the characters of France, and the relatives in his family. It is an endless narrative about a man's life and those pieces of his life. It is a collection of memories. Here in Volume I we see three broad snapshots of one man's life; we escape to 19th century France, and we become part of a seemingly endless tale about the fine details of that life. If that interests you, then you will love Proust.

Only the most patient should read Proust. Be prepared for beautiful prose and French 19th century life.

'Swann's Way' has been called the least balanced of Proust's works, with the chapter - 'Swann in Love'- sticking out like a sore thumb, while this does seem apparent I have faith in Proust's reasoning for his placement - as he is a genius when it comes to structure. He structures themes in such a profound way that after you read him other authors start to seem flimsy in their approach. 'Swann's Way' is one of the greatest books about life and love I have read (so far) but I think you must look at it as part of a whole - a whole which one day I hope to grasp!

I discovered Proust on my own, or from someplace I can't now remember, because I inexplicably recognized the title "Swann's Way" while lazily walking through a used bookstore. Without knowing how to even pronounce the author's name, I bought the book and went home. I hadn't any idea what I held, and so had no preconceptions about the precious quality of Proust's work. I began reading it that night, in my room at the top of the house, in cool retreat from the hot summer evening. Before I finished the second page, I realized what I had done. Mistakenly stumbled upon a genius. No one had mentioned this man to me. I couldn't believe it.

I can't comment upon the translation for two reasons: I don't read French, and this is the only version I've read. But I'm happy in my narrow ignorance; I choose to believe that those are Proust's very words, and I see him in every sentence. In an age of succinct and imageless writing, where everyone is suspicious of sounding too pretentious or distant, I subsist on on his beautiful, metaphor-laden, and verbose prose. Proust is a master at what modern writers fear, dwelling on a sentence for pages without losing sight of meaning or the reader.

Yes, it does require some effort at first: this is no potboiler. And what is it about, exactly? The most succinct answer I can conjure is: nostalgia. That is, an old man trying to recapture his past, himself, and the significance of everything. I suppose that makes this also rather autobiographical, since Proust noted that he only began to write, really, once he had acquired enough experience.

This is the first installment of what would become a 3,000 page epic, so it probably shouldn't be entered into lightly. But it will not be regretted.

To be honest, I started reading this because I always felt that I should have and never got around to it, Proust being one of those "important" authors. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed it. Proust really seems to be about the beauty of language and description. The sentences and paragraphs are long but they flow beautifully and I appreciate an author who wants to say beautiful things as well as tell a story. Literature isn't all about plot. I'm sure something is lost in the translation but I really enjoyed this book.

I had never been properly introduced to the world of Proust, so I was a little intimidated when I bought the book. I read the introduction, and thought I should prepare myself, but just to get a taste of what I would be in for, I started reading the first chapter. Then I never looked back. Despite popular belief, Proust isn't that difficult of a read. In fact, if you take the time to enjoy it, it's not hard to follow at all.

The beauty in Proust is in the details. Yes, he describes things in extreme. But once you've gotten through the details, you'll find an eye-opening philosophical statement, bringing every previous sentence to achieve an unseen potential.

Even though I've never read any other translation of Proust, I would never read a different translation. The words and flow of the novel seem like it would have been written in English. Unfortunately, after the fourth book, this particular series stops due to copyright issues. But I would highly encourage anyone who is remotely interested in reading Proust to grab this off the shelf. It can change your life, and the way you experience nature, people and the scenes around you...if you take the time to let it.

This is the British paperback of "The Way by Swann's," which in the U.S. hardcover edition is called "Swann's Way." The translator is the American short-story writer (and MacArthur "genius" award-winner) Lydia Davis, who has done a superlative job of translating the first volume of Proust's masterwork. I have reviewed it at greater length on the page devoted to the hardcover edition. Personally, I think that these volumes are for the ages, and I want a permanent copy for my library. But if your wants are more transient, this is the edition to get. -- Dan Ford

In this volume Proust's narrator at last penetrates to the salon of Mme de Guermantes, the apex of Parisian society. If you've read Swann's Way and Within a Budding Grove, then you realize that this achievement is far more exciting than any summary can convey. Here Proust also develops the narrator's friendships with Saint-Loup and Albertine, presents us with one of the most beautifully written death scenes in Western literature, dissects the salon culture, and introduces an unforgettable ...mentor. This may sound irrelevant to life in the 2000s, but, as always, Proust's artistry captures the timeless human reality running through the daily details.

Clearly, Proust has a remarkable gift for perception, as if he is able to see human experience, circumstance, and even plain objects, in exploded detail, and distill them for the reader. Particularly in the first and third parts of the book, he frequently drops gems of absolute truth, in much the same way that Shakespearean couplets remarkably capture the essence of love or revenge. To me, this is the reward of reading the book, and what makes the challenge worth undertaking.

At first, you may be overwhelmed by his very complex sentences, as others have noted. It is important to Proust to express an entire thought in one sentence; a lofty objective with sometimes dire consequences, but Proust adheres to it admirably. You soon learn to maintain the subject of the sentence in your head while Proust explores two or three tangents to the original thought before he comes back to it. What works in the reader's favor is that Proust is very regular with his sentence structure, so once you develop a feel for it, it ceases to intimidate.

The book is divided into three parts: The first and third parts recount experiences of Proust's early childhood, while the second part details the love affair of Charles Swann. To me, the first part is the most beautiful, followed by the third part. You will be able to tell within the first 50 or so pages whether or not Proust will suit you. The second part of the book becomes plodding and monotonous, as Proust narrates even a simple set of circumstances in many layers of redundancy, each recounted in exhaustive detail, in his complex style which begins to feel formulaic, wordy, and indulgent. Here's the subject of the sentence, tangent number one, the tangent to tangent number one, tangent number two, and then it ends with yet another metaphor about invalids. The regularity of sentence structure is much easier to tolerate in the first and third parts because Proust flits between several ideas or subjects, whereas in the second part, he drills to the very core of the earth on one or two subjects with a few variations. I found myself feeling pretty burned out, counting down pages to the end of Part 2. My advice is to pick up your reading speed if it starts to become boring or if you lose your concentration.

If Proust were not quite so overly thorough in Part 2, or if he had varied his cadence or sentence structure a bit more, I could recommend this book without hesitation. As it is, it will require an unusual investment of concentration and patience, but I believe it is worth it.

Compare the first three pages of this text to the volume translated by Lydia Davis and you'll see that Moncrieff's and Kilmartin's prose, in an effort to simplify text, misses the poignancy and rapture that Proust offers. The Davis translation may not be as fluid, but it offers profound insights that this volume skims over.

This is the British paperback of "The Way by Swann's," which in the U.S. hardcover edition is called "Swann's Way." The translator is the American short-story writer (and MacArthur "genius" award-winner) Lydia Davis, who has done a superlative job of translating the first volume of Proust's masterwork. I have reviewed it at greater length on the page devoted to the hardcover edition. Personally, I think that these volumes are for the ages, and I want a permanent copy for my library. But if your wants are more transient, this is the edition to get. -- Dan Ford

In this volume Proust's narrator at last penetrates to the salon of Mme de Guermantes, the apex of Parisian society. If you've read Swann's Way and Within a Budding Grove, then you realize that this achievement is far more exciting than any summary can convey. Here Proust also develops the narrator's friendships with Saint-Loup and Albertine, presents us with one of the most beautifully written death scenes in Western literature, dissects the salon culture, and introduces an unforgettable ...mentor. This may sound irrelevant to life in the 2000s, but, as always, Proust's artistry captures the timeless human reality running through the daily details.

Clearly, Proust has a remarkable gift for perception, as if he is able to see human experience, circumstance, and even plain objects, in exploded detail, and distill them for the reader. Particularly in the first and third parts of the book, he frequently drops gems of absolute truth, in much the same way that Shakespearean couplets remarkably capture the essence of love or revenge. To me, this is the reward of reading the book, and what makes the challenge worth undertaking.

At first, you may be overwhelmed by his very complex sentences, as others have noted. It is important to Proust to express an entire thought in one sentence; a lofty objective with sometimes dire consequences, but Proust adheres to it admirably. You soon learn to maintain the subject of the sentence in your head while Proust explores two or three tangents to the original thought before he comes back to it. What works in the reader's favor is that Proust is very regular with his sentence structure, so once you develop a feel for it, it ceases to intimidate.

The book is divided into three parts: The first and third parts recount experiences of Proust's early childhood, while the second part details the love affair of Charles Swann. To me, the first part is the most beautiful, followed by the third part. You will be able to tell within the first 50 or so pages whether or not Proust will suit you. The second part of the book becomes plodding and monotonous, as Proust narrates even a simple set of circumstances in many layers of redundancy, each recounted in exhaustive detail, in his complex style which begins to feel formulaic, wordy, and indulgent. Here's the subject of the sentence, tangent number one, the tangent to tangent number one, tangent number two, and then it ends with yet another metaphor about invalids. The regularity of sentence structure is much easier to tolerate in the first and third parts because Proust flits between several ideas or subjects, whereas in the second part, he drills to the very core of the earth on one or two subjects with a few variations. I found myself feeling pretty burned out, counting down pages to the end of Part 2. My advice is to pick up your reading speed if it starts to become boring or if you lose your concentration.

If Proust were not quite so overly thorough in Part 2, or if he had varied his cadence or sentence structure a bit more, I could recommend this book without hesitation. As it is, it will require an unusual investment of concentration and patience, but I believe it is worth it.

Compare the first three pages of this text to the volume translated by Lydia Davis and you'll see that Moncrieff's and Kilmartin's prose, in an effort to simplify text, misses the poignancy and rapture that Proust offers. The Davis translation may not be as fluid, but it offers profound insights that this volume skims over.

Obviously, Swann's Way is a classic piece of literature, one of the most vital works of fiction of the 20th Century. The prose, whether in the original French or in the beautifully translated English, is lush, evocative and deliriously prolix--from the moment the narrator takes a bite of that famous pastry, the reader is swept up into a world so tangibly realized and, at the same time, so hallucinatory in its lushness that he or she cannot fail to be drawn in, quite despite the fact that there's not much of a "plot" to carry the thing along. Instead, we are given intimate access to the minds of Swann, Odette and Proust himself and they are unbelievably fascinating people--so complex, so "real" that one is actually quite sorry when the book ends. Which brings me to my main point: Don't stop here. If Swann's Way is the most famous volume in the monumental "In Search of Lost Time" series, it is not necessarily the best. It is, in fact, something of an extended prologue to the later books, gracefully and movingly setting the scene for the far more dramatic twists and turns that will culminate in the mind-blowing final volume "Time Regained." While Swann's Way is a most compelling and satisfying read on its own, you'll miss out on so much beauty, drama and passion if you don't follow up and read through the full series, rich as it is with intrigue, consuming love, staggering insights into the human mind and outright entertainment value. So, Swann's Way is a must read, but one has to come to it realizing that the end of the novel is only the beginning of Proust's enormous, all-consuming magnum opus. No one will tell you that committing to Proust's fictional world is a slight undertaking, but it is a deeply rewarding one and a required one for all serious readers.

Before reading Lydia Davis's translation, I'd wandered half-way into Scott Moncrieff's original version before getting lost. I'd read a review of this edition by Christopher Hitchens, who faults Davis's prose in comparison to Moncrieff/Kilmartin's. I feel however, that Proust's sentence-construction is so complex that the modernized language is a tremendous asset. This is a fine introduction to Proust; it comes with an introductory essay, a complete set of notes (which is very much needed), and a brief synopsis at the back (which could actually be a little more thorough).

As far as beautiful prose and art for art's sake, it doesn't get much better than Proust. Only Joyce, Genet, and Melville have so intoxicated me with their styles; which i would call carnivorously, brutally gorgeous - though Proust is somewhat more delicate and sentimental (however persuasive his sentiment), he is equally omnivorous. Before picking up Swann's Way i was reading Gide and conviced that his was the voice most suited to my taste; subjectively speaking, the "perfect" voice. Gide is pure, simple and strong. But here was Proust, who said in a gigantic, intimidating sentence what Gide said in a taut one - but Proust said it better. He elucidates. He doesn't just put it into words, he makes it flesh. I felt i was understanding not just intellectually but almost experientually. His prose is living and all encompassing; scientific but mystical, sentimental yet detatched; irrevocablly convincing. He impresses, almost singularly among artists, the reality of his genius. Still, it seems to be art for art's sake, and for my money, i'll take a Dostoyevski, with his "novel of ideas" anyday.

There are several reasons why Marcel Proust's Remembrance of Things Past should make a worthy audiobook, and this offering from Naxos takes full advantage of them. The addition of mood-setting music from the period places us squarely in Proust's world while also providing a dreamlike sense of distant recollection. Neville Jason has taken more pains than most audiobook performers to create a character for the narrator. His smooth urbanity fits "Marcel" perfectly. This is an abridged version of the first two sections of Swann's Way, and is therefore not a substitute for the books. But it is a deliberate and largely successful evocation of Proust through the medium of a single, gifted narrator and some well chosen music transitions. Buyers considering this title might want to purchase its immediate sequel "Swann in Love", and enjoy the two as a unit.

I got the book as a gift and was surprised by the lack of publisher information, just an ISBN number and a reference to hardpress.net (not much there as of this review). This is a printing of the classic Charles Kenneth (C.K.) Scott-Moncrieff translation from 1922 available from Project Guttenberg at [...] I believe it lacks the revisions by Kilmartin and Enright.

The same text is also offered as: Swann's Way (Dover Thrift Editions). I'm not sure how many folk over there actually reviewed that printing or a more recent translation.

All of the caveats of the reviews there apply. Briefly, it contains "archaically inflected turns of phrase", making it an exercise in patience to the modern reader. Yet it's a classic.

Given that the text exists in numerous other forms, some of them free, all that's left is to review the physical printing. The cover is simple, but respectable. For a paperback, it'll look somewhat sophisticated on a bookshelf. The spine is sturdy and holds up well under stress. My only complaint is that the line spacing is dense, further complicating the task of deciphering those "turns of phrase" from the page-sized blocks of Proust's prose.

Proust is not brief but I shall be. This is one of the most stunning, sustained performances imaginable. It is unabridged, so you get all of SWANN'S WAY. I have some of the NAXOS abridged versions read by Neville Jason, and they are too are excellent. But this is all of the book. Like Mahler, his near contemporary, Proust is full of contradictions: dramatic, gripping, often overwhelming; as well as silly, long-winded, a little too precious and snobbish. Often his insights are breathtaking, sometimes they are trivial.
If you don't want to read, and just want to listen, do this first. In the abridged versions, it is all genius. Here the writer/narrator is a sloppy human being, but one who often rises to the level of genius. That's the real Proust. Get Proust whole.

This new edition of Proust's masterpiece offers a refreshing entry point into what could easily become an obsession. New translations reject the Edwardian archaicisms of Sco-Mo and show how timeless this great work is. It is disappointing, however, that petty Mickey-Mouse protection laws stop the final volumes from being published in America. The Penguin Classics Delux editions are fabulous, and to have to buy the less attractive English editions, with their wishy-washy covers, smaller print, and Groucho Marx on the spine, is a dissapointment. One does wonder, however, what would have happened if instead of tea with a madeline, Proust had had a cup of coffee and a tim tam.

So i finally made the commitment to reading Proust's In Search of Lost Time. I've been contemplating this for years, and this spring i have the time so i've excitedly decided to forge what will be a memorable relationship with the author and the text.

But geez, am i DISAPPOINTED with the first "installment"!!! I'm usually an avid reader of European classics, and although i wasn't expecting Proust to be thrilling, i guess i didn't realize that the work was completely plotless.

I have to stop and remind myself (lest i give up?) that i am reading for the full experience rather than instant gratification, so i'm going to doggedly push on, and read something "fun" like Waugh or Vonnegut between each of the 6 books of I.S.O.L.T...

On a postive note, Proust's unique style allows the reader's mind to wander with the narrator, so i honestly can't say that i was "bored". It is also interesting that Proust is so often right on target about the human psyche and about society, when he, an invalid, was himself removed from it for much of his life.

Finally, Swann's Way is, let's face it, a moderately thick book. Without plot, you'd think that it would be a slow and dragging read. However, his long sentences somehow propel the reader forward to the next interesting speculation or to the next social event, and once again, his style is such that we become involved in the character's life....what will be the next step in Swann and Odette's relationship?

Although i have mixed feelings about the start of my Proustian journey, I console myself with his notions of time. The way we feel and think about something while we are in the midst of it may differ greatly from the way we feel and think about it once we are removed from it. Perspective is altered by distance (and memory, imagine that...). Perhaps once i finish the work in its entirety the pieces will all come together and there will be a cumulative gain. If nothing else, there will be a sense of accomplishment!

This is 600 pages. And it's only the first 1/8 or so of the truly monumental IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME. And the plot, such as it is, could be summarized in 4 or 5 sentences. There are about 3 analogies per page. Yet, somehow, I'm not bored . . . and have just, in fact, ordered the 2nd (of the 6) books that comprise the novel in this edition. That's because I was virtually never bored. I've found the writing to be rather remarkable: elegant and sure. And Proust's exegesis and application of memory and of consciousness are truly, TRULY stupendous, immaculate, intellectually compelling. A caveat: Proust is not for everyone, for his writing is very difficult to read because his language is so dense and exact(ing). But if you think you have the ability and perseverence, give it a go.

Reading Proust is one of those things that simply should be done. Swann's Way is 400+ pages of almost unbelievable prose, a river, a torrent of words, phrases, paragraphs that sweeps you along through it seemingly without conscious effort or care to the all too quick end.
This book is simply staggering, I can't think of any other way to describe it or explain it. It simply must be read.
There is an old saying that everyone should see Paris before they die. The same sentiment is true for Proust - you should simply do it.

I am a great admirer of the Kindle device, having bought both v. 1 and v.2 immediately upon their introduction.

Unfortunately, though the device may earn 5 stars, the store's book marketing doesn't rate 1 star -- especially with regard to translated and out-of-copyright classics.

This book is a case in point. If one goes to the (hardcopy) book page in the store for the superb Lydia Davis translation, v. 1 in the Penguin series, one is offered a one-click link implying that the book can be ordered instantly for one's Kindle. Try it, though, and you'll find (as noted by the earlier reviewer) that you get not the Davis Penguin version, but rather a very different translation.

This is simply dishonest, and beneath the store. the store would never dream of sending to a hardcopy shopper ordering the Davis translation the one that is offered via Kindle. Why, then, try to fob off something like this to Kindle shoppers as though it were the Davis translation?

Readers are not stupid, and these types of shenannigans are no way to develop Kindle reader loyalty.

This needs to stop, now.

If I had to send a single book to space martians, it would probably be Anna Karenina, the most concise powerhouse ever written. But as for sheer reading experience and linguistic ability, Proust is the grandmaster. In Search of Lost Time is the most staggering human achievement ever produced. Many of his famously long sentences contain more beauty than most people's complete bodies of literary work. I marvel that a human being was able to so beautifully and succinctly articulate, by using himself, the whole human experience. Proust's only rival in terms of felicity of language is Charles Dickens, but the former's subject matter is inarguably just so much more sophisticated than the latter's. I wish I could speak French just to read this masterpiece in its original language. I don't know if this translation is particularly better or worse, I just know the voice that comes through is unmistakably Proust's, and that's plenty. I am thrilled that I still have four volumes left to read, but I'm also greatly discouraged that no one else is reading them with me. Each time I tell people that I'm reading Proust, they either think I'm kidding or say, "you must be the only person in America to be doing that." Knowing that a piece of art like this is perennialy ignored in the museum while the line goes out the door for Thomas Kincaide's sugar packets is enough to make you want to hang yourself.

A word about this particular edition. It's the easiest of the Moncrieff/Kilmartin editions to carry with you. During a Proust reading group, my friends were lugging around the huge and heavy volumes from the 3-book edition. I had this one, which became known as "Proust Lite." Supposedly, this is also a more definitive translation than the ealier M/K translation, but we compared some sections and both seemed good.

And, for what it's worth, In Search of Lost Time is the single most exciting and satisfying reading experience of my life. It's certainly not for everyone--Alexander Wollcott, I think, said reading Proust was like lying in someone else's dirty bath water. I'd say it's closer to living someone else's life. I even have memories from the book that seem as real as some of my own. The hawthornes...the melody of a sonata I've never heard...the hidden corner from which I catch a glimpse of a decrepit Charlus. So many others. It may be time to re-read.

This new translation was well reviewed by The New York Times and the book itself is beautiful. I found the structure of many sentences more convoluted than in the Moncrieff version, but this is often closer to the original French text. However, each volume in this series has a different translator and volume 2 has been harshly criticized, so beware that you may not wish to read the entire work in this series. I switched to the Modern Library series for the second volume and I must say that it is more straightforward to read. It would be worth comparing the versions -- each has its strengths.

This book is Great, however you need to get somewhere quiet to read it, as it does demand full attention. The section: "Swann in Love" is the best work I have read to date. I have learned now to love Proust's work page by page as opposed to making it a race to the finish. This book can be a little tricky but give it full attention and you will love it for sure....and keep me updated!

I hate this edition, not the book itself. Instead of pages 717 to 732, my copy substitutes page 685 to 700 from Within a Budding Grove. Very annoying! Is anyone else in the same boat? Hard to believe that mine is the only copy that was misprinted like this. :-(

For the longest time, I was too intimidated to read Proust. Then, one day, I dived into this first volume like jumping into the deep end of a swimming pool. My only regret is not having jumped in sooner.
This book is the beginning of one of the greatest novels ever written. The prose and imageries are breathtaking--not at all difficult to read if you take the time to savor each sentence. Proust, like all great writers, makes you read on his terms. But once you've surrendered to the style, what a treasure you find yourself floating in. The themes and characters are universal. It makes me wish I knew French to enjoy Proust untranslated. Swann's Way can be read as its own novel. But once you start, you would surely want to continue on.

Less than a year ago I began Swann's Way and tossed it aside after less than a hundred pages, disgusted at young Marcel's mewing dependence on his mother's goodnight kiss. For some reason I picked the book up again a few months later and started back at the beginning. This time I overcame my disgust and proceeded to finish the book. And then I was hooked. Three months ago I finished all six, and two weeks ago I began Swann's Way again. This time I had different insights and different likes and dislikes. At random times I will have a Proustian insight. It is easy to loathe the writer and his affectations and neuroses, but having read his work, one cannot dismiss the depth of language and feeling.

Although Proust was most obviously indulging himself when he wrote this book, he was also brilliant. If the book doesn't speak to you, so be it. It doesn't mean you're stupid, so you don't have to be defensive and call the people who enjoyed the book pretentious. They like what they like, and if they're pretending, that's their problem. There were a few moments when I was bored, but more moments in which I was absolutely breathless, touched, pierced. If you feel like the book is talking directly to you, then you got what you were supposed to. If you enjoy the language, enjoy it to your heart's content, it's pretty (though translated, so I don't know why people complain as if it was intended for english syntax). If you want to tear you eyeballs out, put it down.

I would recommend it wholeheartedly.

When I first read this novel 35 years ago, I found a button in a head shop that read, "PROUST IS A YENTA." It's true. Proust is, underneath all the vivid and evocative prose, a fellow who loves to dish the dirt, and the more sordid the better.

Poor Swann! In love with a two-timing hussy who takes him for all he's worth and alienates all his haute-bourgeois friends in the process. Amazing the lengths Proust goes to to tell this simple tale! No metaphorical stone goes unturned (as it were), no perfervid phrase unused, no nuance of ratiocinated feeling unnoticed.

If you are a Proust neophyte, understand that single sentences sometimes go on for more than a page and that paragraphs often take multiple pages to unfold -- that every diamond has infinite facets and all are examined. Only late Henry James rivals Proust in the complexity of his sentence sructures which seek to eke out the essence of the quintessence of feelings.

The effete narrator (for truly he defines the word "effete") spends the first 150 pages of the novel dissecting nostalgia for his childhood. Only after these rarified ramblings does he deign to tell us poor Swann's story!

Well, no one reads Proust for the tales. Either you'll think he's the greatest stylist of any language ever, or you'll stop reading after the first page. You may need a large dose of Elmore Leonard after reading Proust just to cleanse the palate! Still, there's nothing quite like it.

Proust, yeah that Proust who writes books with paragraph long sentences about nothing. Many think him the example of dull indulgent literary fiction; others sing odes that somehow fail to rouse the most passionate of readers to try his books, and there are those for whom Proust is another author to namedrop in front of the pulp fiction reading masses. When NetGalley offered a new edition of Swann's Way (Volume one of the seven volume In Search of Lost Time, also know as Remembrance of Things Past) published by Yale University Press, I decided I might as well see all about Proust for myself.

Yes, it is a long read, and yes, it veers towards the ponderous and the tedious, but it is not uninteresting. Even though the reading does demand a certain patience and concentration, I found myself drawn in. His observations of childhood were engrossing, more so because of his precise explorations of its exaggerated fears and the outsized anxieties. The attention to detail can overwhelm, but they do weave magical tapestry of feeling and depth. His explorations of characters, e.g. the narrator's aunts and grandmother, captured humans in their most ordinary and their most captivating moments.

An important theme of the volume is memory and its fickleness, its uncertain divagations, its distressing lack of assurances. A lot of passages were long and impressionistic, dreamscapes so dense with images and vague feelings that I had to read a few times to comprehend the breathtaking immensity of it. Take the book cover image of a Madeleine, for instance: the narrator's simple act of tasting a Madeleine unleashes a torrent of feelings and flitting images that last for more than two pages. After a while, you sense that the point of reading Swann's way is not to consume wholesale, but to savor in piecemeal fashion--this is not a text you can read quickly like the latest pulp fiction novel.

As I understand it, this edition is a revision of the 1923 Scott Montcrief's translation, revisions done by the editor and Proust scholar,William Carter. His annotations on French culture and French historical references were helpful in gaining a deeper understanding of the text. And the prose style was modern and readable enough for my standards. If you have been wary about trying Proust, you can do no better than trying a copy of this edition.

This is the public-domain C K Scott Moncrieff translation from the 1920s. You can get it without cost from the Gutenberg Project. By no means should you pay money for it.

Far better you get the paperback of the Penguin edition translated by Lydia Davis: Swann's Way: In Search of Lost Time, Vol. 1 (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition). Alternately, go for the much-improved Enright edition of the Scott Moncrieff translation: In Search of Lost Time: Volume 1, Swann's Way (Modern Library Classics) (v. 1). More about all this at ReadingProust dot com -- Dan Ford

This is a wonderfully elegant reading of nauseatingly cloying and pointless prose. Since this is a translation, I cannot say if the fault is in that or in the original. But if this English version reflects the original, it is one of the most over-praised and disappointing works I have ever experienced.

Don't get me wrong, Proust is a great writer, and many parts of this book are amazing. The problem is that his sentence structure and plot are poorly adapted for listening. He winds around and around the commas, parantheses, dashes, etc. to the point where you have no idea what he is referring to. I picked up a written copy of Swann's Way, and I the parts I remembered being bored and confused made sense to me and became very enjoyable.

I don't know one translation from another but this Lydia Davis rendition of Swann's Way is beautiful in the first book, compelling in the second book, and fine enough in the third book. I assume that's Proust more than Ms. Davis but I give her credit for the loveliness of the English translation. I had been reading the same translation in a very attractive hardback but it was heavy to carry around. This trade paperback edition offers the same brilliant text but in a format that weighs almost nothing. I'm now reading the second volume in hardback (because that's what I bought before getting the first one in paper) but I'm thinking about shelling out the $17 for In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower in paper in order to save my back.

The second I finished The Guermantes Way I slammed the book down on the floor, half out of Proust's genius, and half out of having finished it. Proust was a genius, and In Search of Lost Time is a masterpiece filled with beauty. From the beginning of the novel all the way to the death of the Narrator's Grandmother and the Narrator's meeting with Albertine, I was captivated. But after those instances of poetic beauty and delicate word placement and description that permeate the first half...it comes to a halt as soon as the Narrator begins to enter society. I realize that this is the point...Parisian society lacks the poetic hawthorns, the madeleine, the seascape of Balbec, all the things that are present in Swanns Way and In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower...because none of that is present in society. Proust does a good job of omitting those things due to the lack of it in the Narrators new surroundings. Yet, this is where I found it tiring, and was anxious to finish it. The last 50 pages had me in a fit to get it over with. The vast amount of names is what irritated me the most. How many times do you hear the name Mme de Guermantes, M. de Charlus, The Duc de Guermantes, The Princess of Parma, Mme Villiparisis, etc? In the last 200 pages alone?....you read every name 1,000+ times. It's as if Proust forgot about the personal pronouns "he" and "she."

But I in no way regret reading The Guermantes Way at all. Proust is a pleasure to read!

I have read that there are better translations out there and would like some feedback on which is the most accessible while retaining Proust's qualities and style. Some translators are a bit overwrought and purple as any reader of translated works can recall, I should think.
Thanks.

I can see why this represents a significant change in literature and why Harold Bloom considers him significant but reading it now leaves me with a meh sort of feeling. Not very interesting. Well, okay, interesting but not in the way great literature is supposed to be interesting.

What a remarkable book! The characters are pathetic; their society is pathetic; their attitudes, motivations, interactions and miriad self-deceptions are hopelessly pathetic. Considering this, how can I possibly like the book? There are two reasons. First, the writing is often exquisite: the writer is clearly a master of this chaotic pathos. Second, in some undeniable way, this same pathos resonates with my personal experience. Readers who do not experience this resonance are not necessarily lacking. Rather, they may have had the good fortune of a more civilized society than the one Proust caricatures. For them, it is unlikely that the beauty of the language is sufficient to elevate the content beyond the pitiful fare that it is.

Proust's eye for the everyday events of life remains unmatched by any other writer this century. Anyone attempting this style of observant detail would risk losing the reader;however,Proust knew the right words for grabbing the reader's attention. His sentence structure may be unorthodox but his flow moves down the highest streams of consciousness.Swanns Way has the ability to broaden any artist's creativity. Proust, himself, was an artist of innovation and eccentrity. This books graces his uniqueness.

I am viewing Swann's Way of the "Penguin Proust" translation, ASIN B002RI97S4, titled In Search of Lost Time Volume I (Penguin Modern Classics eBook) (Vol 1). The listing is thoroughly messed up:

1) the store has titled the Kindle edition by the name of the full novel, rather than as Swann's Way or The Way By Swann's.

2) The cross-links to the hardcover and paperback editions are to The Guermantes Way (Vol 3), and all the Reader Reviews refer to The Guermantes Way as well.

3) The cross-links are to the competing Random House / Modern Library translations, and not to the fresh new translations commissioned by Penguin Group.

This was my first encounter with Proust. I read Davis' well-written intro and a smattering of other stuff, so I had a basic idea going in as to what Proust set out to do. After 50 or so pages I began to get into the rhythm of Proust's long and meandering sentences; however, not long after I began to tire of the excess somewhat. There *is* a certain momentum in the piling up of each sentence, but often I had to return to the beginning of a sentence, after taking in the digressions, to recall where it started. I don't mind making the effort necessarily but I found it happening too often.

Stylistically, it is quite remarkable. The book is filled with brilliance. I marked many passages that I found revelatory or unique. The language is beautiful (not sure how much of this to attribute to Proust vs Davis). However, it's also self-indulgent and at times self-consciously overwrought. Swann in Love, in particular, I found exhausting and a little tedious.

Now that I'm done, I miss the book in a way, and have had thoughts of continuing with the next volume, but not anytime soon. Too many other great books out there.

ps: Possibly the most beautiful book jacket/cover ever. Like a chocolate confection. Long live the paper book, screw e-readers...

What a remarkable book! The characters are pathetic; their society is pathetic; their attitudes, motivations, interactions and miriad self-deceptions are hopelessly pathetic. Considering this, how can I possibly like the book? There are two reasons. First, the writing is often exquisite: the writer is clearly a master of this chaotic pathos. Second, in some undeniable way, this same pathos resonates with my personal experience. Readers who do not experience this resonance are not necessarily lacking. Rather, they may have had the good fortune of a more civilized society than the one Proust caricatures. For them, it is unlikely that the beauty of the language is sufficient to elevate the content beyond the pitiful fare that it is.

Proust's eye for the everyday events of life remains unmatched by any other writer this century. Anyone attempting this style of observant detail would risk losing the reader;however,Proust knew the right words for grabbing the reader's attention. His sentence structure may be unorthodox but his flow moves down the highest streams of consciousness.Swanns Way has the ability to broaden any artist's creativity. Proust, himself, was an artist of innovation and eccentrity. This books graces his uniqueness.

I am viewing Swann's Way of the "Penguin Proust" translation, ASIN B002RI97S4, titled In Search of Lost Time Volume I (Penguin Modern Classics eBook) (Vol 1). The listing is thoroughly messed up:

1) the store has titled the Kindle edition by the name of the full novel, rather than as Swann's Way or The Way By Swann's.

2) The cross-links to the hardcover and paperback editions are to The Guermantes Way (Vol 3), and all the Reader Reviews refer to The Guermantes Way as well.

3) The cross-links are to the competing Random House / Modern Library translations, and not to the fresh new translations commissioned by Penguin Group.

This was my first encounter with Proust. I read Davis' well-written intro and a smattering of other stuff, so I had a basic idea going in as to what Proust set out to do. After 50 or so pages I began to get into the rhythm of Proust's long and meandering sentences; however, not long after I began to tire of the excess somewhat. There *is* a certain momentum in the piling up of each sentence, but often I had to return to the beginning of a sentence, after taking in the digressions, to recall where it started. I don't mind making the effort necessarily but I found it happening too often.

Stylistically, it is quite remarkable. The book is filled with brilliance. I marked many passages that I found revelatory or unique. The language is beautiful (not sure how much of this to attribute to Proust vs Davis). However, it's also self-indulgent and at times self-consciously overwrought. Swann in Love, in particular, I found exhausting and a little tedious.

Now that I'm done, I miss the book in a way, and have had thoughts of continuing with the next volume, but not anytime soon. Too many other great books out there.

ps: Possibly the most beautiful book jacket/cover ever. Like a chocolate confection. Long live the paper book, screw e-readers...

First off, let me emphasize that I am reviewing the Penguin translation, listed on the the store website as In Search of Lost Time Volume III (Penguin Modern Classics eBook) (v. 3). Another reviewer complains that the MODERN LIBRARY e-book has some "jumbled text." You can safely ignore that review, since it refers to an altogether different translation. This appears to be an error introduced by the store itself. You can read more about these dueling translations at ReadingProust dot com -- or better yet invest in The 14-Minute Marcel Proust: A Very Short Guide to the Greatest Novel Ever Written, which has links to the various e-book versions.

Lydia Davis's new translation of Swann's Way is splendid. I've reviewed it in more detail under the the store listing for the hardcover Viking edition, which is the one I own. These are books I intend to keep, and I want them in hardcover. If your needs are more transient, then by all means buy this paperback edition.

In Britain, this first volume is titled The Way By Swann's, and there are a few differences in the text. (French quotations remain in French; conversation is shown by dashes instead of quotation marks.) So it would appear that this Penguin paperback has the same text as the U.S. Viking hardcover and is not simply an import.

Note that if you should buy this volume from a Marketplace seller, you ought to note the ISBN and make very sure that the seller is offering the book as shown and not an earlier translation by Scott-Montcrief or others. Believe me, Davis's is the one you want!

-- Dan Ford

Many things have been said about Marcel Proust to myself as the sarrounding adults gushed over the fact that a teenager was reading literature. That said, many of these people confessed they had never finished Proust all the way through; one went all the way to say he had found it too "subjective." If you are reading literature to read literture STAY AWAY FROM THIS BOOK! If you want to read an incredible novel, then go ahead; you will not desecrate Proust's grave.
Many times as I read this book, I found myself pausing, almost pained at the beauty of the language. I have read many authors, and have never read such beautiful words; his descriptions seem so divine, and yet he spends the first part of the book saying that he himself can't write! It's one of those moments where you want to shake the author with mental fists, but it's okay; it adds flavour.
Proust is probably among the greatest novelists of history (probably one down after Dostoevsky). The title of the series "In Search of Lost Time," immediately gives you the clue of what the theme shall be; moments of wasted time, moments of bliss that you wish to recapture, memories long gone that you wish you could recapture. But, that is the essense of life.

To read Marcel Proust's "Remembrance of Things Past" is a pleasure and a challenge in the same proportion that any brave read can have. Not only is it a hard task, but also a very pleasant one. The books are written in such a way that readers are transported to another time and place, and get to know the characters as if they were old friends of ours. Of course, if it weren't like that, not many people would dare to try and read the seven novels that compound the whole series. But Proust is a master to keep your interested glued to his words. Even when this words are in a paragraph that lasts four pages.

"Swann's Way" is the first novel and it is a blessing and a curse at the same time. It is good because everything is new to us, so the `nameless' narrator takes his time to explain a lot of things, introduce people, describe places and the action is built up bit by bit. On the other hand, the reader is not used to Proust style and when we come across a paragraph that lasts four pages we get scared.

To make things more complicated, when he was writing "Remembrance of Things Past" Proust wanted to make a novel, but he also wanted to philosophize. Therefore, there is a lot of philosophy in his books. At first this device seems to be difficult to understand, to get the gist, but with time, one gets used to it, and is able to realize that we're not supposed to read this books in the same way we read any other novel.

Proust's work is about senses. He does not expect you to understand everything he is saying. His narrative is not cumulative. What he wants, in fact, is to make his reader feel what he was saying, to feel things like time passing through our lives and its effects on our memories. Bearing this in mind, any reader is able to focus on the poetic narrative and the author's idea rather than understanding the events.

Of course there is a plot in the book, but there are things that are more important to produce the effect Proust wanted. "Swann's Way" begins with the `nameless' narrator remembering experiences from his childhood in Combray. But the largest section of the novel is not about him, but about Swann, a friend of his family. Fifteen years before the events described in the first part, Swann felt in love with Odette, a woman with a terrible reputation. And this love affair will affect his life forever.

Despite Proust's language being evocative, it is not difficult to understand his sentences. His work is replete of references and allusions, mostly to visual arts, namely painting. Some descriptions are like the works of Monet and Botticelli. The writer also has interest in literature. The main character relationship to his mother echoes works as "Oedipus Rex".

Qualities like these make "Remembrance of Things Past" one of the most important works produced ever. With his caldron of references, ideas and images, Proust has created one of the most beloved works from the XX Century. It is certain that this series of books will be read for many many years to come, and will be seen as a definition of what we used to think.

This is a beautiful book, the first of the six books that make up Proust's "Remembrance of Things Past." If you like food, art, landscape, and an excellent depiction of turn-of-the-(20th-)century life among the French "salon" set, this is for you. Don't be put off by the dense writing. Read it slowly, and savor it.

looks like it's scanned copy of printed book, so sometimes pages are a bit crooked. i like that..
a great book to have handy when you're stuck waiting, can be reread many times because the writing is so good, even in translation..
also, the program makes it pretty easy to keep your place or to look for other passages..

This latest translation of Proust's "Sodom and Gomorrah" may be more accurate or "truthful", but the reading experience is in my opinion wooden and stilted.

Moncreiff's original translation lends much more of a roll and lyrical quality to the writing and it makes for a much more satisfying experience. I can't speak for the other Penguin editions, but this volume was a huge disappointment such that I had had enough of it after the first 100 pages and went out and bought an older edition.

The five star reviews on here are very misleading as the majority are for the Modern Library edition. I suggest that it is these and other Moncreiff editions that should be sought out.

Perhaps the most exciting publishing venture of the 21st century is the new Penguin/Viking translations of "In Search of Lost Time," as the book is now (and more accurately) titled. I have read the first two volumes in this series, and they are a wonderful improvement over the rather dusty prose of Scott Montcrief and his colleagues. I am betting that the new "The Guermantes Way" will match them. It's available in hardcover (the ISBN is 0670033170) and paperback (0143039229) from the store. The translator is Mark Trehane. Go for them! -- Dan Ford

The central figure in this volume is the Baron de Charlus. Everybody else seems to me to be relative to him. His homosexiality is a passion that is not only sexual, but also intellectual and seems to run parallel to the disintegration of this society he loves so much. I never have read a believable description of a character of such arrogance and vanity, yet posessed of such human frailty. A very disquietening classic.

One can overlook the meandering imagery and the gossip. But not being told that Odette is the mother of Gilberte and Mrs. Swann is inexcusable. How does the narrator know all the details about Swann's romance that happened before he was born? If I placed Swann In Love, in the middle of the narrative, a professional reader would scold me. The ending is weak, 'boo-hoo times have changed'.

Marcel Proust's SWANN'S WAY at first dazzles the reader with its exquisitely written prose and sharp jabs at the pretentiousness of the narrator's society. Nonetheless, the work is ultimately a failure because it offers no rewards.
One can imagine the asthmatic Proust lying in bed for days on end writing his work in place of an occupation. The reader is not so lucky as to have so much time to spend in pursuit of Proust's point. Reading Proust feels like a tedious full-time job, instead of a diversion or glimpse of great art.
Even worse is that so much of Proust's novel is empty of plot. The characterizations, however clever, do not redeem the novel's 600-page thesis on simple memory. There does exist literature that functions autobiographically and deserves praise in spite of the lack of plot, such as Anthony Powell's A DANCE TO THE MUSIC OF TIME or even Raymond Schwartz's KIEL AKVO DE L' RIVERO, but those works are much more compact and offer a wealth of fascinating setting and characters along the way. SWANN'S WAY is simply void.
For those who have the energy to tackle this work, and the five novels after it which continue "In Search of Lost Time," SWANN'S WAY might present an attractive challenge. But for those of us who cannot spend whole days reading, SWANN'S WAY is a frustrating work.

I kept expecting more to happen, and some of the metaphors were a little too detailed. I can certainly appreciate Proust's writing style, but perhaps it is easier to read in French! If you enjoy stream-of-consciousness writing, complex metaphors, and little to no plot, this is the book for you! Perhaps reading the whole series makes it more meaningful.

I have already downloaded the $0.99 Kindle version of Swann's Way and the free version. Fortunately, I sampled this version and was able to delete it for no charge. Where can I get the Lydia Davis translation for my Kindle?

Swann's Way is the ax that chops into your frozen sea by plunging and penetrating deep into your soul. Proust's mellifluous prose flows into you and you flow into it and the outcome is a intimate connection with the characters in the book, the narrator, and the author. It is nothing short of a miracle.

As brevity is the soul of wit, let me be brief. First of all, I found reading this book to be an arduous task. I feel the same way that Joseph Conrad did, namely, I saw no emotion in it. Let me take just one sentence out to illustrate: "...in order to distinguish in...Gilberte an indefinable quality analogous in the world of the emotions to what in the world of colours is called infra-red, my parents would have needed that supplementary sense with which love had temporarily endowed me." I imagine that if I were to write this sentence, my writing instructor's red ink comments would be "Wordy, awkward, over intellectual". Compare Proust's sentence with how John Steinbeck expressed the same sentiment: "Once, when I raptured in a violet glow given off by the Queen of the World, my father asked me why, and I thought he was crazy not to see. Of course I know now she was a mouse-haired, freckle-nosed, scabby-kneed little girl with a voice like a bat and the loving kindness of a gila monster, but then she lighted up the landscape and me".

This pretty much sums up my reaction to this book. I cannot recommend it to anyone, no matter how famous the book is and no matter if it won the Prix Goncourt, and no matter how intelligent Proust was, and no matter how many people say they wouldn't have wanted to go to their grave without having read it. All I can say is, Read it, and see for yourself why you shouldn't read it (paraphrasing Samuel Goldwyn).

In Search of Lost Time, Volume 1: Swann's Way by Marcel Proust

A beautiful work on human consciousness. This edition is splendidly translated from the French.

Ciao Bambini!

New Translation of Marcel Proust’s Combray by Matthew Rochon.

As always, I rushed to open the new translation. But the translation is not. It does not exist. It is not a translation. The original is not translated. I'm still waiting for it to happen. I have to say I am not a purist.

Well, the British guys you've already met: Moncrieff, Kilmartin and the last one, Enright, did not present any acceptable translation. But they were near.

Then, the first American translation came, not long time ago: by Lydia Davis. Her translation is a failure achieved.

Rochon seems to have copied that failure quite closely. However, it cannot be considered as a case of plagiarism: because all known translations, German, Korean, Arabic, Italian,etc., do contain the same faults - or if you prefer: the faults are identical, believe it or not. One does not need to read more than the first sentence to see the problems: Rochon cannot read. Perhaps you believe I'm kidding you.

The problem is, that the novel is coded and if the translator ruins the codes, and Rochon does that, then the novel becomes inaccessible. This is what happened. Our reading is exegetic AND autopistive.

Already translating 'Longtemps' by 'For a long time' is not right. Then 'se coucher' does not mean 'go to bed'. The last problematic expression: 'de bonne heure' is not 'early'.

These results one will always obtain if one walks into the semantic fields.

And THAT is forbidden.

The restriction is clearly spelled out by Proust himself. This is precisely what Stephane Heuet has drawn is his Proust-comics. Exactly the same faults. There is only one Proust reader to be trusted, a French one. He did read the novel correctly. If you want to know more, write me. I do have proof for my claims. My email is [email protected]

Ci veddiamo!

Just as a general note with Proust translations, compare them in a bookstore before you buy any of them.

There is the original C.K. Scott Moncrieff translation, which is beautiful, though based on a flawed edition put together shortly after Proust's death (especially the later books in the set).

Then there is Terrence Kilmartin's revision, which is based on a much better French edition. You can still find editions of this used, and occasionally new as well. I prefer this one, as Kilmartin didn't change most of the truly beautiful language that Moncrieff rendered except in a few places to clarify confusing sentences.

D.J. Enright, who worked with Kilmartin, made further revisions after the latter's death, whose work (so he says) was incomplete. His reworking is based on yet an even newer edition of the French text, though with fewer changes than the previous French edition had from the original. I feel that Enright modernized the language too much. He claims French hasn't changed much as a language compared to English since the early 20th Century, so to approximate how it would read to a French person today, it needs to be put into more comtemporary language. I don't care for it personally.

I've read some of these other, altogether new translations, which is a good effort considering the potential for incoherence you might have reading a revision of a revision of a translation (whew!). They're not bad, but nowhere near as much of a "new standard" as, say, the Pevear-Volokhonsky translations of Dostoevsky, which give the reader a clearer original while still using beautiful and idiomatic English.

But back to Proust. Decide for yourself! Compare an old version of Moncrieff's translation to his revisors, and then check out these new ones published by Penguin.

And better yet, if you understand French at all, look at a French copy and just absorb the rhythm, the flow of the words, and find a translation that feels the same.

I can't tell you how many times I've spoken to people who hated foreign books in translation, only to find out they read a translation that reads like a textbook and not like something that was meant to be enjoyed!!

OK, I tried. I really tried. But this classic is so dull I had to force myself to read my customary 50 pages (if a book doesn't grab me by that time, it isn't going to) before giving up. Although I've reached the ripe old age of 59, I had never (in spite of earning a B.A. in English and reading zillions of books) read this one. I did own a set of the books at one time, but finally gave them away after years of sitting on the shelf unread. So I bought another copy of this first book at my local used book store. And really gave it a try. I was surprised at how many words, and what levels of detail, can be employed to say almost nothing, for page after page after page. I apologize to those who love it; I didn't like anything about it, and I don't recommend it except as a cure for insomnia.

If I were my younger self, I would probably have posted a glowing review just so I wouldn't appear to be someone who can't appreciate great literature in translation, but at my age, I really don't care what anyone thinks of my reading habits or critical ability. My view is if something stinks, I'm going to say it stinks.

Can I have my money back? This is one very shoddy translation of Proust, practically useless. It is almost certainly not by Moncrieff but by an illiterate who thinks, for instance, that "albeit" is a synonym for "although" and that the odd clause can be dropped from Proust's sentences without affecting the reader's ability to get whatever subtle idea he is trying to put across. Nor was the thing revised: not only do typos abound but the beginning of Time Regained, for instance, actually begins several pages back in the previous book. If you've never read Proust, do not let this cheapo version tempt you into doing so -- it will unnecessarily handicap you in your ability to comprehend and appreciate it.

I waited decades to read Proust and eventually forked out a lot of money and bought all the volumes of the Everyman edition. I gave up after 1000 pages and do not know how I lasted so long. It was a dire struggle. There is no plot. The main character is a nobody. He forms no plausible relationships with anyone. He doesn't do anything. In fact, characterisation does not exist. No one is believable. There is no meaningful narrative or human interest. It has no politics on any scale. The endless trivia is not poetic. The sentences go on for pages and make no grammatical sense. And even if you can figure out what obscure grammatical structure they are attempting to employ, forget about trying to make sense of them. People talk about Proust's musing over a cup of tea. That's about as interesting as it gets. If the heart of mankind is what you are after, read Tolstoy.

I do not think this is the best translation of "Swann's Way." I revere Lydia Davis but the very qualities that make her a great writer of fiction -- her dry humor, her obsessive-compulsive observations, her fussy characters playing out their little existential scenarios on tiny stages -- make her unsuitable, temperamentally and stylistically, for the great symphony of Proust.

This is not the recent translation by Lydia Davis - this is exactly the same edition/translation as the Moncrieff/Kilmartin, but the store put the Lydia Davis cover on the item. This needs to be corrected.

Well, to be honest - these guys are trying to hoodwink you. I ordered a product that was supposed to be a six-volume box set totaling over three thousand pages. I got the fourth volume - only the fourth volume - and no explanation. You should definitely not buy this book from this supplier.

[O]ne must never miss an opportunity of quoting things by others which are always more interesting than those one thinks up oneself. -Marcel Proust
Infirmity alone makes us take notice and learn, and enables us to analyze processes which we would otherwise know nothing about. -Marcel Proust
Allow me to tell you that even though you are approaching fifty, you've stayed what you were when I first knew you, namely a spoilt child. -Lionel Hauser, Proust's stockbroker
The sad thing is that people have to be very ill or have a broken leg in order to have the opportunity to read In Search of Lost Time. -Robert Proust, Marcel's brother
My dear friend, I may be dense, but I fail to see why a chap needs thirty pages to describe how he tosses and turns in bed before sleep. -Alfred Humboldt, Ollendorf publishing house
At the end of seven hundred and twelve pages of this manuscript, after innumerable griefs at being drowned in unfathomable developments and irritating impatience at never being able to rise above the surface--one doesn't have a single, but not a single clue of what this is about. What is the point of all this ? What does it all mean ? Where is it all leading ? Impossible to know anything about it ! Impossible to say anything about it ! -Jacques Madeleine, Fasquelle publishing house
A mother's boy who never really grew up, a part-genuine, part-imaginary invalid totally incapable of looking after himself, a reluctant homosexual who may never have known genuine fulfilment, he spent his early manhood in Parisian high society and then retired, hermit-like, to his famous cork-lined room, where he turned day into night and night into day. -John Weightman, Books Unlimited review of Alain de Botton's How Proust Can Change Your Life
About a book published only a few months earlier, people never speak to me without mistakes proving either that they've forgotten it or that they haven't read it. -Marcel Proust
GRADE : U (utterly unreadable)

The sentences just go on and on and on and on. They could have been broken up a bit. Proust's flowery language isn't great at expressing meaning to begin with. It sounds great but is empty of content.

THIS IS THE MOST BORING BOOK I HAVE EVER READ. I KEPT ON THINKING THE NEXT LINE WOULD BE "AND THEN WE BRING THE COWS IN" STRAIGHT OUT OF THE ARCHERS. BACK AT YOU WHITIE. IF YOU WRITE A 3,000 PASERIES OF BOOKS YOU HAVE TO EXPECT SOME DISSIN' HOMIE BOY PROUST. BOYAKASHAKA-LAK. TWO PHAT POSSES ARE INHE HOUSE/DISSIN EACH OTHER SHOOTING OFF THEIR MOUTHS

There are some wonderful sections in this, especially the early part when the narrator is young and struggling with sleep, wanting his mother. The part about Tilia leaf tea is another high point. But mostly it seems to be overwritten, largely without any meaning or involvement.

For all the good that can be said about this atmospheric novel, Part I 'Combray' represents the point at which well-observed becomes over-analysed; Part II 'Swann in Love' represents the point at which foolish characters become false; and Part III 'Place Names -- the Name' I haven't read and probably never will.

(Edit: OK, I got around to reading part III 'Place Names -- the Name', and it's as good as 'Combray', not as bad as 'Swann in Love' -- 3 Stars, all up.)

I am glad I read this book. I appreciate its importance and influence on literature in general. Some of it was even interesting.

I did not find it a hard read.

I basically hated it. I hated dwelling for 600 pages in Proust's world.

Thank God I've done it and it's over.

This was not a book I could pick up and read. Although I read the intro and a study guide and was keenly anticipating reading one of the greatest books ever written, I was unable to. I read the first Combray twice and still did not understand sections I had read. I felt defeated, disappointed, and stupid. The book, for me, requires intense concentration - no distractions or noise while reading - a virtually impossible scenario in my world. After reading the synopsis in the back of the book I wasn't sure I would want to pursue this even in a study group or classroom situation. It sounded dry and boring and I'm not sure it would be worth the effort for me.

Got sent this book by mistake, but I was game for a fresh reading. Like many, I'm not sure why Lydia Davis bothered with yet another translation so soon after the failed Penguin translations. The only one who got it right in the past 20 years was D.J. Enright, but the store has all but choked that version out of its selection, perhaps because it's not the latest "annual" translation by yet another "professor" who teaches literature at the community college. Start here and work your way through the rest of the set. And please, if you have the urge to write YET ANOTHER TRANSLATION, get a life. It's been done to death now.

The stream of consciousness technique in the style could have been appealing in its own right but there is also so much minute detail about rather mundane lives that the novel drags.
This is okay if you like a treatise in Freudian analysis but as a consequence nothing much happens through the novel except static analyzes through the eyes of Swann and the narrator. I was left wanting but not getting tension or suspense.