World Literature
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Swann's Way: In Search of Lost Time, Vol. 1 (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition)
Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time is one of the most entertaining reading experiences in any language and arguably the finest novel of the twentieth century. But since its original prewar translation there has been no completely new version in English. Now, Penguin Classics brings Proust's masterpiece to new audiences throughout the world, beginning with Lydia Davis's internationally acclaimed translation of the first volume, Swann's Way.
Readers Top Reviews
S RiazJusterman
This is the first volume in Proust’s masterpiece, “In Search of Lost Time.” As I had never read Proust before, I embarked on this journey with a little trepidation. Would I simply get ‘bogged down’ as some readers suggested? Would I just not “get it…” Thankfully, I am pleased to report that this is an enjoyable and remarkable read. I would say that this is a book which requires you to drift with the author’s words – you need quiet and peace and time to fully appreciate this book. As such, I discovered it was not to be read during the commute, but saved for moments when I did have the peace and quiet to savour it properly. It is not a novel which should be rushed – there is no plot to race through, no need to ‘get to the end.’ Just change your perceptions from the writing rules of today – realise that sadly this book would not be published today as it refuses to conform to the ordinary – and then embrace it for what it is. Indeed, even in 1913, when this first volume was first released, Proust had to self publish this work; leading publishers having rejected the manuscript. Thankfully, by early 1914, one editor – Andre Gide – had the humility to apologise to Proust for rejecting the book and stating, “For several days I have been unable to put your book down… The rejection of this book will remain the most serious mistake ever made by the NRF and, since I bear the shame of being very much responsible for it, one of the most stinging and remorseful regrets of my life.” So, what is this book actually about? It is actually split into three parts. The first, “Combray,” sees our narrator musing on childhood memories. It is fair to say that, if you enjoy this part of the book, you will be able to read to the end. Musings, memories, drifting passages and endless paragraphs will either embrace you – or leave you frustrated and infuriated. The middle section is almost a novella in itself – and often taken as such and taught in French schools – and tells the story of Swann’s jealous infatuation with Odette. Lastly, the shorter, third part of the book, sees our narrator having his own infatuation, with the daughter of Swann; the schoolgirl Gilberte. However, although this tells you the bare+ facts of the novel, it does not do justice to the sheer poetry of the writing and the meandering style. It is fair to say that you will either not make it to the end or immediately reach for the second volume. Personally, I am grateful that I discovered this sublime novel and have every intention of reading on.
Bewildered Bee
As ever, I am writing a review for the physical book, not a book review on the content. Although there are exceptions, I do not think Amazon reviews are the best place to get informed opinions of literary merit, especially when so much information is now available online that is far more erudite and engaging. As such, this review considers the edition, focusing on the publisher, design, layout, and quality of the book. This is not a judgement on those who review books on Amazon (I do sometimes) but rather reflects what I want in a review when I am buying. (Although with Proust, as one of the most influential and celebrated writers of the twentieth century, surely there is already enough critical and literary commentary to satisfy any desire for further knowledge, making a review of his work somewhat redundant here?) Anyway, Penguin Classics 2003 edition of The Way by Swann’s, part of the whole: In Search of Lost Time series by Marcel Proust. I chose this edition to start reading Proust after extensively researching the history of the translation of Proust into English, and was therefore extremely happy when I found I could buy the first book of the series on Amazon. It is sold much cheaper than the stated price on the back of the book, and considering the rich enjoyment Proust brings, represents excellent value for money. It has the usual quality one associates with Penguin although the text is rather small -- understandable due to the scale of the novel and the extra sections that need to be included with Proust, ie. Translator notes, general editor notes, general notes, synopsis etc. One particularly pleasing aspect of these mint green Modern Classics editions is their methodical layout. The cover art is presented as a band across the book cover, leaving space for the individual title and series title, which for me personally, is a joy. It may seem fussy, but there is something rather fitting in the wordy organisation of the massive whole, that lends itself beautifully to Proust. I think taken together, these collected editions as In Search of Lost Time will look fantastic on the bookshelf. As I already mentioned, above, I had already done my research on the translations, so the fact that these books are also beautiful and a joy to read is just a fortuitous bonus; that they are also available on Amazon, and cheap, simply makes them perfect. However, although seemingly perfect, should you consider buying this first volume, with a view to reading Proust in his entirety via this collection, then it is important to know that the second volume is not available on Amazon -- which I found out, much to my chagrin, after finishing the first. It is listed, but out of stock (and seemingly has been for a while). To compound this, unscrupulous sellers seem to be capitalising on this by offering second-hand copies at exorbitant prices. ...
Niah
I don't know if it's the age I've reached (late 30s), or whether it's Lydia Davis's translation - but I can't put this book down. I read it first in French when I was 19 (but it was too much for me to take in), then in English (but for some reason it was also too much for me to take in). I've re-tried a few times, but really got nowhere. I appreciated it aesthetically, but not emotionally, I found it trying despite my best intentions. Then, having found my love of fiction on the wane over the last few years (I don't know why) - but still desperate to read - I picked up this translation, but with little hope. However I find I'm cramming as much in as I can before bed, again in the morning over breakfast, at lunch if I can...if you'd told me one day that I was carrying Proust around everywhere with me, finding it very difficult to put down, I wouldn't have believed you! Like someone who's had a religious epiphany, I want to share it with everyone, but the experience is so personal in some way that I can't find the words without sounding bonkers! I think it's absolutely wonderful.
Bryn Griffith
Proust has a reputation for being difficult, right? To a degree I can see why, but honestly, once you've given this book enough time (perhaps the first 50 or so pages) you begin to get to grips with his writing style, which is undoubtedly something of a challenge. Additionally, Proust isn't concerned with writing a page turner. Oh no. For me this book is verging on philosophical in that it attempts, successfully in my opinion , to convey some very deep aspects of our humanity. The book concentrates on trying to get to grips with our sensory and intellectual understanding of the world around us; e.g. the smell of flowers, the falling of light on stone, the many ways we can love etc. etc. Eventually I found this book totally immersive and, whilst I personally couldn't read more than 20 pages at a single sitting (it just requires too much concentration for more) I have come to see Proust as a writer like no other and one, I suspect, you'll either love or hate. I'll open my copy now at random and type the first significant sentence I find to give you an idea of what you find here (or are up against!). page 256 ... Of course, it did not occur to him to be jealous of Odette, but he did not feel as happy as usual and when Brichot, having begun to tell the story of Blanche de Castille's mother, who 'had been happy with Henry Plantagenet for years before she married him', tried to prompt Swann to ask him what happened next by saying to him: 'Isn't that so Monsieur Swann?' in the martial tone one adopts to make oneself understood by a peasant or instil courage in a soldier, Swann spoiled Brichot's effect, to the fury of their hostess, by answering that they must please excuse him for being so uninterested in Blanche de Castille, but he had something to ask the painter. Yes, that's one sentence!!
JessicaPhred
THIS REVIEW IS FOR THE SIMON & BROWN HARD COVER that is listed as the hard copy version to Penguin Classic's Lydia Davis translation. IT'S NOT THE SAME BOOK! GET THE PAPERBACK VERSION INSTEAD. I've been reading that Penguin Classics Lydia Davis version is the best version for newcomers to Proust's work. It's supposed to be easier to read, without all the post-Victorian embellishments of earlier translations. It's supposed to have an introduction by her in the front and is loaded with well-researched footnotes. The HARD COPY version with the blue cover and yellow font has NONE of that. In fact, Lydia Davis's name isn't anywhere in or on the book. It's not even published by Penguin Classics. The publsher is Simon & Brown, a third-rate self-publishing company (go ahead, google them -- they're not legit), and it features the old Moncrief translation with no footnotes You could basically read this version for free off the internet. I've contacted Amazon for a refund and will be exchanging it for Penguin Classic's Lydia Davis translation in paperback. It's confusing because the bootlegged Simon & Brown copy is listed as the hard copy version of the legitimate Penguin Classic paperback. Amazon, please fix this!
Short Excerpt Teaser
Swann's Way
Part 1
Combray
For a long time, I went to bed early. Sometimes, my candle scarcely out, my eyes would close so quickly that I did not have time to say to myself: "I'm falling asleep." And, half an hour later, the thought that it was time to try to sleep would wake me; I wanted to put down the book I thought I still had in my hands and blow out my light; I had not ceased while sleeping to form reflec-tions on what I had just read, but these reflections had taken a rather peculiar turn; it seemed to me that I myself was what the book was talking about: a church, a quartet, the rivalry between François I and Charles V. This belief lived on for a few seconds after my waking; it did not shock my reason but lay heavy like scales on my eyes and kept them from realizing that the candlestick was no longer lit. Then it began to grow unintelligible to me, as after metempsychosis do the thoughts of an earlier existence; the subject of the book detached itself from me, I was free to apply myself to it or not; immediately I recovered my sight and I was amazed to find a darkness around me soft and restful for my eyes, but perhaps even more so for my mind, to which it appeared a thing without cause, incomprehensible, a thing truly dark. I would ask myself what time it might be; I could hear the whistling of the trains which, remote or nearby, like the singing of a bird in a forest, plotting the distances, described to me the extent of the deserted countryside where the traveler hastens toward the nearest station; and the little road he is following will be engraved on his memory by the excitement he owes to new places, to unaccustomed ctivities, to the recent conversation and the farewells under the unfamiliar lamp that follow him still through the silence of the night, to the imminent sweetness of his return.I would rest my cheeks tenderly against the lovely cheeks of the pillow, which, full and fresh, are like the cheeks of our childhood. I would strike a match to look at my watch. Nearly midnight. This is the hour when the invalid who has been obliged to go off on a journey and has had to sleep in an unfamiliar hotel, wakened by an attack, is cheered to see a ray of light under the door. How fortunate, it's already morning! In a moment the servants will be up, he will be able to ring, someone will come help him. The hope of being relieved gives him the courage to suffer. In fact he thought he heard footsteps; the steps approach, then recede. And the ray of light that was under his door has disappeared. It is midnight; they have just turned off the gas; the last servant has gone and he will have to suffer the whole night through without remedy.
I would go back to sleep, and would sometimes afterward wake again for brief moments only, long enough to hear the organic creak of the woodwork, open my eyes and stare at the kaleidoscope of the darkness, savor in a momentary glimmer of consciousness the sleep into which were plunged the furniture, the room, that whole of which I was only a small part and whose insensibility I would soon return to share. Or else while sleeping I had effortlessly returned to a period of my early life that had ended forever, rediscovered one of my childish terrors such as my great-uncle pulling me by my curls, a terror dispelled on the day-the dawn for me of a new era-when they were cut off. I had forgotten that event during my sleep, I recovered its memory as soon as I managed to wake myself up to escape the hands of my great-uncle, but as a precautionary measure I would completely surround my head with my pillow before returning to the world of dreams.
Sometimes, as Eve was born from one of Adam's ribs, a woman was born during my sleep from a cramped position of my thigh. Formed from the pleasure I was on the point of enjoying, she, I imagined, was the one offering it to me. My body, which felt in hers my own warmth, would try to find itself inside her, I would wake up. The rest of humanity seemed very remote compared with this woman I had left scarcely a few moments before; my cheek was still warm from her kiss, my body aching from the weight of hers. If, as sometimes happened, she had the features of a woman I had known in life, I would devote myself entirely to this end: to finding her again, like those who go off on a journey to see a longed-for city with their own eyes and imagine that one can enjoy in reality the charm of a dream. Little by little the memory of her would fade, I had forgotten the girl of my dream.
A sleeping man holds in a circle around him the sequence of the hours, the order of the years and worlds. He consults them instinctively as he wakes and reads in a second the point on the earth he occupies, the time that has elapsed before his waki...
Part 1
Combray
For a long time, I went to bed early. Sometimes, my candle scarcely out, my eyes would close so quickly that I did not have time to say to myself: "I'm falling asleep." And, half an hour later, the thought that it was time to try to sleep would wake me; I wanted to put down the book I thought I still had in my hands and blow out my light; I had not ceased while sleeping to form reflec-tions on what I had just read, but these reflections had taken a rather peculiar turn; it seemed to me that I myself was what the book was talking about: a church, a quartet, the rivalry between François I and Charles V. This belief lived on for a few seconds after my waking; it did not shock my reason but lay heavy like scales on my eyes and kept them from realizing that the candlestick was no longer lit. Then it began to grow unintelligible to me, as after metempsychosis do the thoughts of an earlier existence; the subject of the book detached itself from me, I was free to apply myself to it or not; immediately I recovered my sight and I was amazed to find a darkness around me soft and restful for my eyes, but perhaps even more so for my mind, to which it appeared a thing without cause, incomprehensible, a thing truly dark. I would ask myself what time it might be; I could hear the whistling of the trains which, remote or nearby, like the singing of a bird in a forest, plotting the distances, described to me the extent of the deserted countryside where the traveler hastens toward the nearest station; and the little road he is following will be engraved on his memory by the excitement he owes to new places, to unaccustomed ctivities, to the recent conversation and the farewells under the unfamiliar lamp that follow him still through the silence of the night, to the imminent sweetness of his return.I would rest my cheeks tenderly against the lovely cheeks of the pillow, which, full and fresh, are like the cheeks of our childhood. I would strike a match to look at my watch. Nearly midnight. This is the hour when the invalid who has been obliged to go off on a journey and has had to sleep in an unfamiliar hotel, wakened by an attack, is cheered to see a ray of light under the door. How fortunate, it's already morning! In a moment the servants will be up, he will be able to ring, someone will come help him. The hope of being relieved gives him the courage to suffer. In fact he thought he heard footsteps; the steps approach, then recede. And the ray of light that was under his door has disappeared. It is midnight; they have just turned off the gas; the last servant has gone and he will have to suffer the whole night through without remedy.
I would go back to sleep, and would sometimes afterward wake again for brief moments only, long enough to hear the organic creak of the woodwork, open my eyes and stare at the kaleidoscope of the darkness, savor in a momentary glimmer of consciousness the sleep into which were plunged the furniture, the room, that whole of which I was only a small part and whose insensibility I would soon return to share. Or else while sleeping I had effortlessly returned to a period of my early life that had ended forever, rediscovered one of my childish terrors such as my great-uncle pulling me by my curls, a terror dispelled on the day-the dawn for me of a new era-when they were cut off. I had forgotten that event during my sleep, I recovered its memory as soon as I managed to wake myself up to escape the hands of my great-uncle, but as a precautionary measure I would completely surround my head with my pillow before returning to the world of dreams.
Sometimes, as Eve was born from one of Adam's ribs, a woman was born during my sleep from a cramped position of my thigh. Formed from the pleasure I was on the point of enjoying, she, I imagined, was the one offering it to me. My body, which felt in hers my own warmth, would try to find itself inside her, I would wake up. The rest of humanity seemed very remote compared with this woman I had left scarcely a few moments before; my cheek was still warm from her kiss, my body aching from the weight of hers. If, as sometimes happened, she had the features of a woman I had known in life, I would devote myself entirely to this end: to finding her again, like those who go off on a journey to see a longed-for city with their own eyes and imagine that one can enjoy in reality the charm of a dream. Little by little the memory of her would fade, I had forgotten the girl of my dream.
A sleeping man holds in a circle around him the sequence of the hours, the order of the years and worlds. He consults them instinctively as he wakes and reads in a second the point on the earth he occupies, the time that has elapsed before his waki...
