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Just Another Proust Project / Proust vs Big Brother


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Inspired by nonsuch's Proust project, I half-jokingly said that I was going to go off and read A La Recherge...

 

Well, it's been on my bucket list for years, and the thought suddenly occurred: when? Actually, now: here in the UK, the next season of the reality show Big Brother is just starting, and we usually watch it. So for something different, I'm reading A La Recherge, from the beginning, the entire time the show is on. Let's see how far I get...

 

I'm reading the C.K. Scott Moncrief translation, which I know is somewhat dated now but was the most popular Kindle choice. Interestingly, having all seven volumes together on the Kindle is far less intimidating than the set of hardback copies that I used to own. Never read of course! ;)

 

Onwards, to the search of lost time...

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Thursday 5th June: Night 1 

 

In Proust: Chapter 1: in which we meet the narrator, and begin to hear about life as a child at Combray. And we begin to learn about M. Swann, a constant visitor to the house. And we begin to get a sense of the scale of the work, as we realise that the view is looking back from far in the future.

 

M. Swann at one point says:

 

The fault I find with our journalism is that it forces us to take an interest in some fresh triviality or other every day, whereas only three or four books in a lifetime give us anything that is of real importance. Suppose that, every morning, when we tore the wrapper off our paper with fevered hands, a transmutation were to take place, and we were to find inside it - oh! I don't know, shall we say Pascal's Pensées?....And then, in the gilt and tooled volumes which we open once in ten years...we should read that the Queen of the Hellenes had arrived at Cannes, or that the Princess de Léon had given a fancy dress ball. In that way we should arrive at the right proportion between 'information' and 'publicity.'

 

Which seems appropriate enough in the circumstances.

 

In Big Brother: er, some people came into the house. One slept in a box, another had some money thrown at him.

 

Kindle says: 1% complete

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Friday 6th June: Night 2

 

In Proust: Chapter 1 (continued) / Chapter 2: In which our narrator gets his wish and gets his goodnight kiss from his mother (and a bonus night of companionship), and the madeleine motif is introduced. We go back to Combray for more childhood memories.

 

Quote of the night:

The wall of the staircase, up which I had watched the light of his candle gradually climb, was long ago demolished. And in myself, too, many things have perished which, I imagined, would last for ever, and new structures have arisen, giving birth to new sorrows and new joys which in those days I could not have foreseen, just as now the old are difficult of comprehension.

 

 

In Big Brother: more people came into the house. Someone has a free pass to the final week (two months away!)

 

Kindle says: 1% complete

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Saturday 7th June: Night 3

 

In Proust: Chapter 2 (continued): In which we hear many more reminisces about childhood life at Combray - especially the steeple of Saint-Hilare:

 

And on one of the longest walks we ever took from Combray there was a spot where the narrow road emerged suddenly on to an immense plain, closed at the horizon by strips of forest over which rose and stood alone the fine point of Saint-Hilaire’s steeple, but so sharpened and so pink that it seemed to be no more than sketched on the sky by the finger-nail of a painter anxious to give to such a landscape, to so pure a piece of ‘nature,’ this little sign of art, this single indication of human existence. As one drew near it and could make out the remains of the square tower, half in ruins, which still stood by its side, though without rivalling it in height, one was struck, first of all, by the tone, reddish and sombre, of its stones; and on a misty morning in autumn one would have called it, to see it rising above the violet thunder-cloud of the vineyards, a ruin of purple, almost the colour of the wild vine.

 

This little snippet made me laugh out loud, just because it reminds me of myself, as I get older I seem to be putting more and more people into 'categories':

 

My aunt had by degrees erased every other visitor’s name from her list, because they all committed the fatal error, in her eyes, of falling into one or other of the two categories of people she most detested.

 

Our brave narrator also makes a visit to his uncle, during a visit by one of the uncle's female, erm, acquaintances:

 

And so — on the pretext that some lesson, the hour of which had been altered, now came at such an awkward time that it had already more than once prevented me, and would continue to prevent me, from seeing my uncle — one day, not one of the days which he set apart for our visits, I took advantage of the fact that my parents had had luncheon earlier than usual; I slipped out and, instead of going to read the playbills on their column, for which purpose I was allowed to go out unaccompanied, I ran all the way to his house. I noticed before his door a carriage and pair, with red carnations on the horses’ blinkers and in the coachman’s buttonhole. As I climbed the staircase I could hear laughter and a woman’s voice, and, as soon as I had rung, silence and the sound of shutting doors. The man-servant who let me in appeared embarrassed, and said that my uncle was extremely busy and probably could not see me; he went in, however, to announce my arrival, and the same voice I had heard before said: “Oh, yes! Do let him come in; just for a moment; it will be so amusing. Is that his photograph there, on your desk? And his mother (your niece, isn’t she?) beside it? The image of her, isn’t he? I should so like to see the little chap, just for a second.”

 

I wrote this entry in my head just after walking down to the beach this morning. I was idly thinking about how wherever I've been in the world, the sound of the sea is the same; the sound of surf pounding against rocks, or a gentle tide on a shingle outcrop - anywhere, the same sounds. And the way the clouds form, is always the same. However exotic the scene below the clouds, the clouds never change. And it led me on to think about time, and how daughter #3, just two years old and with us this morning, could come back to this same beach many years, decades later, and nothing will have really changed. Yes, there might be more (or fewer) buildings; the container ships might have stopped, or the sails may be more varied. But the fundamental things, the sea endlessly running back and fore over the shore, will endure. Time, it's a slippery thing alright.

 

And then, I saw a tweet on my timeline (from @bruceVH):

 

Many people who are too busy to pursue their dreams are the same ones who never miss an episode of some TV show!

 

Which nicely encapsulates what I'm trying to do here - this time that I'd already committed to watching 'some TV show,' is being used for something else. Better, worse, who's to say? Just different.

 

In Big Brother: I wasn't paying that much attention actually, since Saturday night is basically the same as the live action on a Friday night, but from a different point of view. Suffice to say the bitching in the house has begun!

 

Kindle says: 2% complete

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Saturday 7th June: Night 3

I wrote this entry in my head just after walking down to the beach this morning. I was idly thinking about how wherever I've been in the world, the sound of the sea is the same; the sound of surf pounding against rocks, or a gentle tide on a shingle outcrop - anywhere, the same sounds. And the way the clouds form, is always the same. However exotic the scene below the clouds, the clouds never change. And it led me on to think about time, and how daughter #3, just two years old and with us this morning, could come back to this same beach many years, decades later, and nothing will have really changed. Yes, there might be more (or fewer) buildings; the container ships might have stopped, or the sails may be more varied. But the fundamental things, the sea endlessly running back and fore over the shore, will endure. Time, it's a slippery thing alright.

 

Loved reading this waawo. Thank you for sharing some wonderful thoughts. By the way, yesterday was World Oceans Day.

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Sunday 8th June: Night 4

 

In Proust: Chapter 2 (continued): Well, this is getting much harder. These childhood memories of Combray, which started out fairly matter of fact, almost scene-setting-y (as you'd expect in the Prologue), are becoming deeper and much more laden with symbols. It's difficult to sum up the last few pages, so instead, just a fewhighlights.

 

Comparing the pregnant serving girl with the Giotto paintings 'Virtues and Vices of Padua':

 

And, quite possibly, this lack (or seeming lack) of participation by a person’s soul in the significant marks of its own special virtue has, apart from its aesthetic meaning, a reality which, if not strictly psychological, may at least be called physiognomical. Later on, when, in the course of my life, I have had occasion to meet with, in convents for instance, literally saintly examples of practical charity, they have generally had the brisk, decided, undisturbed, and slightly brutal air of a busy surgeon, the face in which one can discern no commiseration, no tenderness at the sight of suffering humanity, and no fear of hurting it, the face devoid of gentleness or sympathy, the sublime face of true goodness.

 

This description contrasts so very much with the TV-age "sympathy face" that we see on our screens so often; the faux concern and the very visible charity - so different from the intense, driven character that Proust describes.

 

Proust describing Big Brother (no, really! Well, okay then, the 'popular' novels of the day):

 

the ingenuity of the first novelist lay in his understanding that, as the picture was the one essential element in the complicated structure of our emotions, so that simplification of it which consisted in the suppression, pure and simple, of ‘real’ people would be a decided improvement. A’real’ person, profoundly as we may sympathise with him, is in a great measure perceptible only through our senses, that is to say, he remains opaque, offers a dead weight which our sensibilities have not the strength to lift. If some misfortune comes to him, it is only in one small section of the complete idea we have of him that we are capable of feeling any emotion; indeed it is only in one small section of the complete idea he has of himself that he is capable of feeling any emotion either. The novelist’s happy discovery was to think of substituting for those opaque sections, impenetrable by the human spirit, their equivalent in immaterial sections, things, that is, which the spirit can assimilate to itself. After which it matters not that the actions, the feelings of this new order of creatures appear to us in the guise of truth, since we have made them our own, since it is in ourselves that they are happening, that they are holding in thrall, while we turn over, feverishly, the pages of the book, our quickened breath and staring eyes. 

 

And finally, on the joys of getting lost in a good book (sorry for the long quote):

 

And then, as I continue to trace the outward course of these impressions from their close-packed intimate source in my consciousness, and before I come to the horizon of reality which envelops them, I discover pleasures of another kind, those of being comfortably seated, of tasting the good scent on the air, of not being disturbed by any visitor; and, when an hour chimed from the steeple of Saint-Hilaire, of watching what was already spent of the afternoon fall drop by drop until I heard the last stroke which enabled me to add up the total sum, after which the silence that followed seemed to herald the beginning, in the blue sky above me, of that long part of the day still allowed me for reading, until the good dinner which Françoise was even now preparing should come to strengthen and refresh me after the strenuous pursuit of its hero through the pages of my book. And, as each hour struck, it would seem to me that a few seconds only had passed since the hour before; the latest would inscribe itself, close to its predecessor, on the sky’s surface, and I would be unable to believe that sixty minutes could be squeezed into the tiny arc of blue which was comprised between their two golden figures. Sometimes it would even happen that this precocious hour would sound two strokes more than the last; there must then have been an hour which I had not heard strike; something which had taken place had not taken place for me; the fascination of my book, a magic as potent as the deepest slumber, had stopped my enchanted ears and had obliterated the sound of that golden bell from the azure surface of the enveloping silence. Sweet Sunday afternoons beneath the chestnut-tree in our Combray garden, from which I was careful to eliminate every commonplace incident of my actual life, replacing them by a career of strange adventures and ambitions in a land watered by living streams, you still recall those adventures and ambitions to my mind when I think of you, and you embody and preserve them by virtue of having little by little drawn round and enclosed them (while I went on with my book and the heat of the day declined) in the gradual crystallisation, slowly altering in form and dappled with a pattern of chestnut-leaves, of your silent, sonorous, fragrant, limpid hours.

 

I think we can all relate!

 

The hardest part of this project, already, is not "cheating" by reading when the TV show isn't on. I expect to fail in this regard very soon...

 

In Big Brother: Cliques are forming. Usual story - people, unsure of others, fall back on what, or in this case, who, they know.

 

Kindle says: 3% complete

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Monday 9th June: Night 5

 

In Proust: Chapter 2 (continued): In which we meet our narrator's friend Bloch.

 

On seeing soldiers marching down the street, Françoise and the gardener talk:

 

The gardener believed that, as soon as war was declared, they [the government, powers that be] would stop all the railways.

 

“Yes, to be sure; so that we sha’n’t get away,” said Françoise.

 

And the gardener would assent, with “Ay, they’re the cunning ones,” for he would not allow that war was anything but a kind of trick which the state attempted to play on the people, or that there was a man in the world who would not run away from it if he had the chance to do so.

 

This idea of the state 'tricking' its citizens into war hardly seems worthy of comment now, I'm sure it wasn't mainstream thinking at the time Proust was writing though.

 

Lovely image:

 

And in front of every house, even of those where it was not, as a rule, ‘done,’ the servants, and sometimes even the masters would sit and stare, festooning their doorsteps with a dark, irregular fringe, like the border of shells and sea-weed which a stronger tide than usual leaves on the beach, as though trimming it with embroidered crape, when the sea itself has retreated.

 

And finally, we hear a lot in this section about the novelist Bergotte (quick Google suggests people think this author is based on Anatole France) whose books beguile Proust. At one point he says of Bergotte:

 

For in his later books, if he had hit upon some great truth, or upon the name of an historic cathedral, he would break off his narrative, and in an invocation, an apostrophe, a lengthy prayer, would give a free outlet to that effluence which, in the earlier volumes, remained buried beneath the form of his prose, discernible only in a rippling of its surface, and perhaps even more delightful, more harmonious when it was thus veiled from the eye, when the reader could give no precise indication of where the murmur of the current began, or of where it died away. 

 

I've no idea if Proust is trying to be ironic here, because this authorial intrusion is something that happens all the time in this book!

 

In Big Brother: Nominations. In which people decide who will be up for eviction. First nominations are always a bit weird, since nobody really knows anybody else - they've been in the house 72 or 48 hours after all, depending on which day they came in.

 

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What really happened when the gardener met Francoise by the little rustic bridge and these two 'insignificant' creatures talked about the impending Great War is a chapter that was later found in the hood of the cloak that M Proust habitually wore when he vacated his cork-lined study for the rattling Boulevard Haussmann on his trudge to the soiree of Mme Verdurin? Answer in one word!

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Still with you, waawo. :yup:

 

Hooray!

 

I'm waiting for Big Brother to appear on Kindle. It's indestructible, The Archers de nos jours!

 

I know, I mean Big Brother is a format that can't be killed - every year we're the same, "oh there's nothing to like about any of these people, there's no earthly reason to watch, I'm definitely not watching this year", and a few days later...HOOKED! Well this year is slightly different, I'm mostly listening every time something loud happens, so if anybody in the house is delivering soliloquies of devastating wit and wisdom, I'm missing them. It's a chance I'm willing to take ;) 

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Tuesday 10th June: Night 6

 

In Proust: Chapter 2 (continued): I looked back over what I read tonight and realised I'd made no notes, left no bookmarks at all. I don't know why, but less and less seems exceptional. That's not a criticism, I think I'm just finding less things noteworthy, because I'm more used to the meter and language.

 

This line from Paul Desjardins, however, and quoted by M. Legrandin right at the end of this section, is resonating:

 

Now are the woods all black, but still the sky is blue.

 

M. Legrandin goes on (speaking to Marcel):

 

"May you always see a blue sky overhead, my young friend; and then, even when the time comes, which is coming now for me, when the woods are all black, when night is fast falling, you will be able to console yourself, as I am doing, by looking up to the sky.”

 

And finally:

 

He took a cigarette from his pocket and stood for a long time, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “Goodbye, friends!” he suddenly exclaimed, and left us.

 

Just, wow. When the woods are all black - what a scary thought that is. Stephen King has one of his child characters (it may have been one of his own children actually, it's a long time since I read it) say "...when the monsters get you" which I guess is just a six-year old's way of saying the same thing.

 

In Big Brother: A big argument, over - what else - who said what to whom and who called someone else something objectionable, usual foray into human fallibility...

 

Kindle says: 4% complete

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Hi waawo, thank you, I'm tagging along as well and appreciate both sets of commentary. The BB one, of course, is completely absorbing......... :lol: . 

 

Yay and hello again! Yep, BB "commentary" will be pretty samey until the end. Even at this early stage I predict Mark to win ;)

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I'm following this too.

 

Hello!

 

You'll all have noticed how I'm a *smidge* behind - I watch (listen) and read every night while the programme is one, no cheating - but don't always get chance to write it up straightaway. Must do better, see me etc. </teacher voice>

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Wednesday 11th June: Night 7

 

In Proust: Chapter 2 (continued): More tales of Combray

 

First highlight is the next paragraph after the last highlight from Tuesday night. I love this - this sentence for me sums up the style of writing so far:

 

At the hour when I usually went downstairs to find out what there was for dinner, its preparation would already have begun, and Françoise, a colonel with all the forces of nature for her subalterns, as in the fairy-tales where giants hire themselves out as scullions, would be stirring the coals, putting the potatoes to steam, and, at the right moment, finishing over the fire those culinary masterpieces which had been first got ready in some of the great array of vessels, triumphs of the potter’s craft, which ranged from tubs and boilers and cauldrons and fish kettles down to jars for game, moulds for pastry, and tiny pannikins for cream, and included an entire collection of pots and pans of every shape and size.

 

Just something about the rhythm and obviously the length and structure of the sentence. (I'm acutely aware that I'm reading in translation and so somewhat at the mercy of the translator!)

 

M. Legrandin makes a reappearance, with some characteristically - ahem, I have to say it - flowery prose:

 

Only the day before he had asked my parents to send me to dine with him on this same Sunday evening. “Come and bear your aged friend company,” he had said to me. “Like the nosegay which a traveller sends us from some land to which we shall never go again, come and let me breathe from the far country of your adolescence the scent of those flowers of spring among which I also used to wander, many years ago. Come with the primrose, with the canon’s beard, with the gold-cup; come with the stone-crop, whereof are posies made, pledges of love, in the Balzacian flora, come with that flower of the Resurrection morning, the Easter daisy, come with the snowballs of the guelder-rose, which begin to embalm with their fragrance the alleys of your great-aunt’s garden ere the last snows of Lent are melted from its soil. Come with the glorious silken raiment of the lily, apparel fit for Solomon, and with the many-coloured enamel of the pansies, but come, above all, with the spring breeze, still cooled by the last frosts of wirier, wafting apart, for the two butterflies’ sake, that have waited outside all morning, the closed portals of the first Jerusalem rose.”

 

M. Legrandin has very expressive eyes:

 

Near the church we met Legrandin, coming towards us with the same lady, whom he was escorting to her carriage. He brushed past us, and did not interrupt what he was saying to her, but gave us, out of the corner of his blue eye, a little sign, which began and ended, so to speak, inside his eyelids, and as it did not involve the least movement of his facial muscles, managed to pass quite unperceived by the lady; but, striving to compensate by the intensity of his feelings for the somewhat restricted field in which they had to find expression, he made that blue chink, which was set apart for us, sparkle with all the animation of cordiality, which went far beyond mere playfulness, and almost touched the border-line of roguery; he subtilised the refinements of good-fellowship into a wink of connivance, a hint, a hidden meaning, a secret understanding, all the mysteries of complicity in a plot, and finally exalted his assurances of friendship to the level of protestations of affection, even of a declaration of love, lighting up for us, and for us alone, with a secret and languid flame invisible by the great lady upon his other side, an enamoured pupil in a countenance of ice.

 

But, at the sound of the word Guermantes, I saw in the middle of each of our friend’s blue eyes a little brown dimple appear, as though they had been stabbed by some invisible pin-point, while the rest of his pupils, reacting from the shock, received and secreted the azure overflow. His fringed eyelids darkened, and drooped. His mouth, which had been stiffened and seared with bitter lines, was the first to recover, and smiled, while his eyes still seemed full of pain, like the eyes of a good-looking martyr whose body bristles with arrows.

 

In Big Brother: Gah, the awful electrical suits. Okay, so this may have been funny or interesting once: depending on answers to questions or some other decision making, one of the housemate's "friends" gets a small electrical shock. But the format, in BB at least, is way past its sell-by date (hmm... thinks about the entire BB format...) and seemed especially ridiculous this year, with one of the contestants not reacting at all to the "shock".

 

Kindle says: 4% complete

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Thursday 12th June: Night 8

 

In Proust: Chapter 2 (continued): Much more on M. Legrandin.

 

M. Legrandin waxes lyrical on Balbec:

 

“There are tints in the clouds this evening, violets and blues, which are very beautiful, are they not, my friend?” he said to my father. “Especially a blue which is far more floral than atmospheric, a cineraria blue, which it is surprising to see in the sky. And that little pink cloud there, has it not just the tint of some flower, a carnation or hydrangea? Nowhere, perhaps, except on the shores of the English Channel, where Normandy merges into Brittany, have I been able to find such copious examples of what you might call a vegetable kingdom in the clouds. Down there, close to Balbec, among all those places which are still so uncivilised, there is a little bay, charmingly quiet, where the sunsets of the Auge Valley, those red-and-gold sunsets (which, all the same, I am very far from despising) seem commonplace and insignificant; for in that moist and gentle atmosphere these heavenly flower-beds will break into blossom, in a few moments, in the evenings, incomparably lovely, and often lasting for hours before they fade. Others shed their leaves at once, and then it is more beautiful still to see the sky strewn with the scattering of their innumerable petals, sulphurous yellow and rosy red. In that bay, which they call the Opal Bay, the golden sands appear more charming still from being fastened, like fair Andromeda, to those terrible rocks of the surrounding coast, to that funereal shore, famed for the number of its wrecks, where every winter many a brave vessel falls a victim to the perils of the sea. Balbec! the oldest bone in the geological skeleton that underlies our soil, the true Ar-mor, the sea, the land’s end, the accursed region which Anatole France — an enchanter whose works our young friend ought to read — has so well depicted, beneath its eternal fogs, as though it were indeed the land of the Cimmerians in the Odyssey. Balbec; yes, they are building hotels there now, superimposing them upon its ancient and charming soil, which they are powerless to alter; how delightful it is, down there, to be able to step out at once into regions so primitive and so entrancing.”

 

We learn the source of this volume's name:

 

For there were, in the environs of Combray, two ‘ways’ which we used to take for our walks, and so diametrically opposed that we would actually leave the house by a different door, according to the way we had chosen: the way towards Méséglise-la-Vineuse, which we called also ‘Swann’s way,’ because, to get there, one had to pass along the boundary of M. Swann’s estate, and the ‘Guermantes way.’

 

Another lovely image:

 

My eyes followed up the slope which, outside the hedge, rose steeply to the fields, a poppy that had strayed and been lost by its fellows, or a few cornflowers that had fallen lazily behind, and decorated the ground here and there with their flowers like the border of a tapestry, in which may be seen at intervals hints of the rustic theme which appears triumphant in the panel itself; infrequent still, spaced apart as the scattered houses which warn us that we are approaching a village, they betokened to me the vast expanse of waving corn beneath the fleecy clouds, and the sight of a single poppy hoisting upon its slender rigging and holding against the breeze its scarlet ensign, over the buoy of rich black earth from which it sprang, made my heart beat as does a wayfarer’s when he perceives, upon some low-lying ground, an old and broken boat which is being caulked and made seaworthy, and cries out, although he has not yet caught sight of it, “The Sea!”

 

And finally - be still my beating heart - Mlle. Swann makes her entrance:

 

Suddenly I stood still, unable to move, as happens when something appears that requires not only our eyes to take it in, but involves a deeper kind of perception and takes possession of the whole of our being. A little girl, with fair, reddish hair, who appeared to be returning from a walk, and held a trowel in her hand, was looking at us, raising towards us a face powdered with pinkish freckles. Her black eyes gleamed, and as I did not at that time know, and indeed have never since learned how to reduce to its objective elements any strong impression, since I had not, as they say, enough ‘power of observation’ to isolate the sense of their colour, for a long time afterwards, whenever I thought of her, the memory of those bright eyes would at once present itself to me as a vivid azure, since her complexion was fair; so much so that, perhaps, if her eyes had not been quite so black — which was what struck one most forcibly on first meeting her — I should not have been, as I was, especially enamoured of their imagined blue.

 

In Big Brother: The Power of Positivity - the housemates have to "stay happy" no matter what is thrown at them; which must be pretty difficult within the confines of the BB house...

 

Kindle says: 5% complete

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Friday 13th June: Night 9

 

In Proust: Chapter 2 (continued): More walking in and around Combray.

 

Our hero learns Mlle. Swann's name:

 

And so was wafted to my ears the name of Gilberte, bestowed on me like a talisman which might, perhaps, enable me some day to rediscover her whom its syllables had just endowed with a definite personality, whereas, a moment earlier, she had been only something vaguely seen. So it came to me, uttered across the heads of the stocks and jasmines, pungent and cool as the drops which fell from the green watering-pipe; impregnating and irradiating the zone of pure air through which it had passed, which it set apart and isolated from all other air, with the mystery of the life of her whom its syllables designated to the happy creatures that lived and walked and travelled in her company; unfolding through the arch of the pink hawthorn, which opened at the height of my shoulder, the quintessence of their familiarity — so exquisitely painful to myself — with her, and with all that unknown world of her existence, into which I should never penetrate.

 

Very perceptive image of the moon:

 

Sometimes in the afternoon sky a white moon would creep up like a little cloud, furtive, without display, suggesting an actress who does not have to ‘come on’ for a while, and so goes ‘in front’ in her ordinary clothes to watch the rest of the company for a moment, but keeps in the background, not wishing to attract attention to herself.

 

And another wonderful weather image:

 

Before our eyes, in the distance, a promised or an accursed land, Roussainville, within whose walls I had never penetrated, Roussainville was now, when the rain had ceased for us, still being chastised, like a village in the Old Testament, by all the innumerable spears and arrows of the storm, which beat down obliquely upon the dwellings of its inhabitants, or else had already received the forgiveness of the Almighty, Who had restored to it the light of His sun, which fell upon it in rays of uneven length, like the rays of a monstrance upon an altar.

 

In Big Brother: The first eviction! Oh, first out...suffice only to say, I had to look up the poor girl's name. I haven't exactly been concentrating on the programme this year, so I asked my better half just for balance, and she didn't know either, so the evictee clearly hadn't been that notable. It was Tamara. 

 

Kindle says: 5% complete

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