"Many years had elapsed during which nothing of Combray, save what was comprised in the theatre and the drama of my going to bed there, had any existence for me, when one day in winter, on my return home, my mother, seeing that I was cold, offered me some tea, a thing I did not ordinarily take. I declined at first, and then, for no particular reason, changed my mind. She sent for one of those squat, plump little cakes called "petites madeleines," which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted valve of a scallop shell. And soon, mechanically, dispirited after a dreary day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory - this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I sensed that it was connected with the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it infinitely transcended those savours, could, no, indeed, be of the same nature. Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it?"
The words A La Recherche du Temps Perdu rolled off my tongue in high school French in the most pleasing way. I wanted to not just know of it but to read it in its entirety. But as the reading life sometimes goes, two decades plus have elapsed and I have yet to read more than excerpts. At the top of what I like to call my Hall of Shame to-be-read list.
So for this Sunday Salon, I have decided to invite everyone who would like to join me in my "why haven't I read that?" quest to read through all of In Search of Lost Time over the next twelve months or so. On Sunday, April 19, I will post here about Swann's Way, the first volume of the renowned work. My hope is that all of those who would like to play along will post about the book on the same day and then pop over here for conversation and to supply their own link. Interested?
The edition you see featured above is the most current and translated by Lydia Davis. The classic translation was done by Charles Scott Moncrieff, but is often criticized not for its readability but for its acccuracy in terms of fidelity to the original Proust work. Moncrieff is after all responsible for the long popular identification of Remembrance of Things Past, a title that sounds wonderful but is clearly an inaccurate translation. For more insight into the differences in translation, you might want to consult an interesting piece from Reading Proust. The choice is in text is yours though. Read along in whatever edition suits you best.
And by the way, if you see the book below (original edition of the Davis translation), make it yours. It is lovely and out of print and usually difficult and expensive to acquire.
If you love the beautiful books from The Folio Society, treat yourself to the set below. The translation information for this set says Moncrieff & Kilmartin, revised by D.J. Enright. Anyone with knowledge of this translation? Everyone would appreciate your insight. What is your preference in translation?
Read Swann's Way by April 19? See why some regard this as a reading life altering experience? Are you game? The date is over a month away. Plenty of time. You are an uber reader. You can do this. Join me?
