In Search of Lost Time [volumes 1 to 7]

In Search of Lost Time [volumes 1 to 7]
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"'In Search of Lost Time' is widely recognized as the major novel of the twentieth century." —Harold Bloom "At once the last great classic of French epic prose tradition and the towering precursor of the 'nouveau roman'." —Bengt Holmqvist "Proust so titillates my own desire for expression that I can hardly set out the sentence. Oh if I could write like that!" —Virginia Woolf "The greatest fiction to date." —W. Somerset Maugham "Proust is the greatest novelist of the 20th century." —Graham Greene
On the surface a traditional «Bildungsroman» describing the narrator's journey of self-discovery, this huge and complex book is also a panoramic and richly comic portrait of France in the author's lifetime, and a profound meditation on the nature of art, love, time, memory and death. But for most readers it is the characters of the novel who loom the largest: Swann and Odette, Monsieur de Charlus, Morel, the Duchesse de Guermantes, Françoise, Saint-Loup and so many others – Giants, as the author calls them, immersed in Time. "In Search of Lost Time" is a novel in seven volumes. The novel began to take shape in 1909. Proust continued to work on it until his final illness in the autumn of 1922 forced him to break off. Proust established the structure early on, but even after volumes were initially finished he kept adding new material, and edited one volume after another for publication. The last three of the seven volumes contain oversights and fragmentary or unpolished passages as they existed in draft form at the death of the author; the publication of these parts was overseen by his brother Robert.

Оглавление

Marcel Proust. In Search of Lost Time [volumes 1 to 7]

Contents

Contents

Overture

Combray

Swann in Love

Place-Names: The Name

Contents

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Contents

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Contents

Introduction

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Part Four

Contents

Contents

Chapter One. Life with Albertine

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Contents

Chapter One. The Verdurins Quarrel with M. De Charlus

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Part Three. Flight of Albertine

Contents

Contents

Chapter One. Grief and Oblivion

Chapter Two

Part II. Mademoiselle De Forcheville

Part III. Venice

Part IV. A Fresh Light Upon Robert De Saint-Loup

Contents

Chapter One. Tansonville

Chapter Two. M. de Charlus during the war, his opinions, his pleasures

Chapter Three. An afternoon party at the house of the Princesse de Guermantes

Notes

Отрывок из книги

Swann’s Way

Within a Budding Grove

.....

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.

For a moment (while we moved away, and my grandfather murmured: “Poor Swann, what a life they are leading him; fancy sending him away so that she can be left alone with her Charlus—for that was Charlus: I recognised him at once! And the child, too; at her age, to be mixed up in all that!”) the impression left on me by the despotic tone in which Gilberte’s mother had spoken to her, without her replying, by exhibiting her to me as being obliged to yield obedience to some one else, as not being indeed superior to the whole world, calmed my sufferings somewhat, revived some hope in me, and cooled the ardour of my love. But very soon that love surged up again in me like a reaction by which my humiliated heart was endeavouring to rise to Gilberte’s level, or to draw her down to its own. I loved her; I was sorry not to have had the time and the inspiration to insult her, to do her some injury, to force her to keep some memory of me. I knew her to be so beautiful that I should have liked to be able to retrace my steps so as to shake my fist at her and shout, “I think you are hideous, grotesque; you are utterly disgusting!” However, I walked away, carrying with me, then and for ever afterwards, as the first illustration of a type of happiness rendered inaccessible to a little boy of my kind by certain laws of nature which it was impossible to transgress, the picture of a little girl with reddish hair, and a skin freckled with tiny pink marks, who held a trowel in her hand, and smiled as she directed towards me a long and subtle and inexpressive stare. And already the charm with which her name, like a cloud of incense, had filled that archway in the pink hawthorn through which she and I had, together, heard its sound, was beginning to conquer, to cover, to embalm, to beautify everything with which it had any association: her grandparents, whom my own had been so unspeakably fortunate as to know, the glorious profession of a stockholder, even the melancholy neighbourhood of the Champs-Elysées, where she lived in Paris.

.....

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