Within a Budding Grove: Seascape, With Frieze of Girls

Marcel Proust

Dinners at Rivebelle — Enter Albertine.

That day, as for some days past, Saint-Loup had been obliged to go to Doncières, where, until his leave finally expired, he would be on duty now until late every afternoon. I was sorry that he was not at Balbec. I had seen alight from carriages and pass, some into the ball-room of the Casino, others into the ice-cream shop, young women who at a distance had seemed to me lovely. I was passing through one of those periods of our youth, unprovided with any one definite love, vacant, in which at all times and in all places — as a lover the woman by whose charms he is smitten — we desire, we seek, we see Beauty. Let but a single real feature — the little that one distinguishes of a woman seen from afar or from behind — enable us to project the form of beauty before our eyes, we imagine that we have seen her before, our heart beats, we hasten in pursuit, and will always remain half-persuaded that it was she, provided that the woman has vanished: it is only if we manage to overtake her that we realise our mistake.

Besides, as I grew more and more delicate, I was inclined to overrate the simplest pleasures because of the difficulties that sprang up in the way of my attaining them. Charming women I seemed to see all round me, because I was too tired, if it was on the beach, too shy if it was in the Casino or at a pastry-cook’s, to go anywhere near them. And yet if I was soon to die I should have liked first to know the appearance at close quarters, in reality of the prettiest girls that life had to offer, even although it should be another than myself or no one at all who was to take advantage of the offer. (I did not, in fact, appreciate the desire for possession that underlay my curiosity.) I should have had the courage to enter the ballroom if Saint-Loup had been with me. Left by myself, I was simply hanging about in front of the Grand Hotel until it was time for me to join my grandmother, when, still almost at the far end of the paved ‘front’ along which they projected in a discordant spot of colour, I saw coming towards me five or six young girls, as different in appearance and manner from all the people whom one was accustomed to see at Balbec as could have been, landed there none knew whence, a flight of gulls which performed with measured steps upon the sands — the dawdlers using their wings to overtake the rest — a movement the purpose of which seems as obscure to the human bathers, whom they do not appear to see, as it is clearly determined in their own birdish minds. Continue reading

Within a Budding Grove: Place-Names: The Place

Marcel Proust

My first visit to Balbec — First impressions of M. de Charlus and of Robert de Saint-Loup — Dinner with Bloch and his family.

I had arrived at a state almost of complete indifference to Gilberte when, two years later, I went with my grandmother to Balbec. When I succumbed to the attraction of a strange face, when it was with the help of some other girl that I hoped to discover gothic cathedrals, the palaces and gardens of Italy, I said to myself sadly that this love of ours, in so far as it is love for one particular creature, is not perhaps a very real thing, since if the association of pleasant or unpleasant trains of thought can attach it for a time to a woman so as to make us believe that it has been inspired by her, in a necessary sequence of effect to cause, yet when we detach ourselves, deliberately or unconsciously, from those associations, this love, as though it were indeed a spontaneous thing and sprang from ourselves alone, will revive in order to bestow itself on another woman. At the time, however, of my departure for Balbec, and during the earlier part of my stay there, my indifference was still only intermittent. Often, our life being so careless of chronology, interpolating so many anachronisms in the sequence of our days, I lived still among those — far older days than yesterday or last week — in which I loved Gilberte. And at once not seeing her became as exquisite a torture to me as it had been then. The self that had loved her, which another self had already almost entirely supplanted, rose again in me, stimulated far more often by a trivial than by an important event. For instance, if I may anticipate for a moment my arrival in Normandy, I heard some one who passed me on the sea-front at Balbec refer to the ‘Secretary to the Ministry of Posts and his family.’ Now, seeing that as yet I knew nothing of the influence which that family was to exercise over my life, this remark ought to have passed unheeded; instead, it gave me at once an acute twinge, which a self that had for the most part long since been outgrown in me felt at being parted from Gilberte. Because I had never given another thought to a conversation which Gilberte had had with her father in my hearing, in which allusion was made to the Secretary to the Ministry of Posts and to his family. Now our love memories present no exception to the general rules of memory, which in turn are governed by the still more general rules of Habit. And as Habit weakens every impression, what a person recalls to us most vividly is precisely what we had forgotten, because it was of no importance, and had therefore left in full possession of its strength. That is why the better part of our memory exists outside ourselves, in a blatter of rain, in the smell of an unaired room or of the first crackling brushwood fire in a cold grate: wherever, in short, we happen upon what our mind, having no use for it, had rejected, the last treasure that the past has in store, the richest, that which when all our flow of tears seems to have dried at the source can make us weep again. Outside ourselves, did I say; rather within ourselves, but hidden from our eyes in an oblivion more or less prolonged. It is thanks to this oblivion alone that we can from time to time recover the creature that we were, range ourselves face to face with past events as that creature had to face them, suffer afresh because we are no longer ourselves but he, and because he loved what leaves us now indifferent. In the broad daylight of our ordinary memory the images of the past turn gradually pale and fade out of sight, nothing remains of them, we shall never find them again. Or rather we should never find them again had not a few words (such as this ‘Secretary to the Ministry of Posts’) been carefully locked away in oblivion, just as an author deposits in the National Library a copy of a book which might otherwise become unobtainable. Continue reading

Within a Budding Grove: Madame Swann at Home

Marcel Proust

A break in the narrative: old friends in new aspects — The Marquis de Norpois — Bergotte — How I cease for the time being to see Gilberte: a general outline of the sorrow caused by a parting and of the irregular process of oblivion.

My mother, when it was a question of our having M. de Norpois to dinner for the first time, having expressed her regret that Professor Cottard was away from home, and that she herself had quite ceased to see anything of Swann, since either of these might have helped to entertain the old Ambassador, my father replied that so eminent a guest, so distinguished a man of science as Cottard could never be out of place at a dinner-table, but that Swann, with his ostentation, his habit of crying aloud from the housetops the name of everyone that he knew, however slightly, was an impossible vulgarian whom the Marquis de Norpois would be sure to dismiss as — to use his own epithet — a ‘pestilent’ fellow. Now, this attitude on my father’s part may be felt to require a few words of explanation, inasmuch as some of us, no doubt, remember a Cottard of distinct mediocrity and a Swann by whom modesty and discretion, in all his social relations, were carried to the utmost refinement of delicacy. But in his case, what had happened was that, to the original ‘young Swann’ and also to the Swann of the Jockey Club, our old friend had added a fresh personality (which was not to be his last), that of Odette’s husband. Adapting to the humble ambitions of that lady the instinct, the desire, the industry which he had always had, he had laboriously constructed for himself, a long way beneath the old, a new position more appropriate to the companion who was to share it with him. In this he shewed himself another man. Since (while he continued to go, by himself, to the houses of his own friends, on whom he did not care to inflict Odette unless they had expressly asked that she should be introduced to them) it was a new life that he had begun to lead, in common with his wife, among a new set of people, it was quite intelligible that, in order to estimate the importance of these new friends and thereby the pleasure, the self-esteem that were to be derived from entertaining them, he should have made use, as a standard of comparison, not of the brilliant society in which he himself had moved before his marriage but of the earlier environment of Odette. And yet, even when one knew that it was with unfashionable officials and their faded wives, the wallflowers of ministerial ball-rooms, that he was now anxious to associate, it was still astonishing to hear him, who in the old days, and even still, would so gracefully refrain from mentioning an invitation to Twickenham or to Marlborough House, proclaim with quite unnecessary emphasis that the wife of some Assistant Under-Secretary for Something had returned Mme. Swann’s call. It will perhaps be objected here that what this really implied was that the simplicity of the fashionable Swann had been nothing more than a supreme refinement of vanity, and that, like certain other Israelites, my parents’ old friend had contrived to illustrate in turn all the stages through which his race had passed, from the crudest and coarsest form of snobbishness up to the highest pitch of good manners. But the chief reason — and one which is applicable to humanity as a whole — was that our virtues themselves are not free and floating qualities over which we retain a permanent control and power of disposal; they come to be so closely linked in our minds with the actions in conjunction with which we make it our duty to practise them, that, if we are suddenly called upon to perform some action of a different order, it takes us by surprise, and without our supposing for a moment that it might involve the bringing of those very same virtues into play. Swann, in his intense consciousness of his new social surroundings, and in the pride with which he referred to them, was like those great artists — modest or generous by nature — who, if at the end of their career they take to cooking or to gardening, display a childlike gratification at the compliments that are paid to their dishes or their borders, and will not listen to any of the criticism which they heard unmoved when it was applied to their real achievements; or who, after giving away a canvas, cannot conceal their annoyance if they lose a couple of francs at dominoes. Continue reading

The Great Ideas Today (1964) Bibliography of Literature

This bibliography accompanied Stanley Kauffmann’s review essay (pp. 181-221) in The Great Ideas Today 1964.

Aiken, Conrad. The Morning Son of Lord Zero. New York: Oxford University Press, 1963.

Amis, Kingsley. One Fat Englishman.  New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, Inc., 1964. (google books)

Antonioni, Michelangelo. Screenplays of Michelangelo Antonioni. New York: The Orion Press, 1963.

Baker, Elliott.  A Fine Madness. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, Inc., 1964.

Burgess, Anthony. Honey for the Bears.  New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1964. (google books)

Camus, Albert. Notebooks 1935-1942, trans. Philip Thody. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1963.

Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus, trans. Justin O’Brien. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1955. (google books)

Cheever, John. The Wapshot Scandal. New York: Harper & Row, 1964. (google books)

Cleland, John. Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, Inc., 1963.

cummings, e.e.  73 Poems. New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, Inc., 1963.

Deutsch, Babette. Collected Poems 1919-1962.  Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1963.

Donleavy, J. P.,  A Singular Man.  Boston: Atlantic Monthly Press-Little, Brown & Co., 1963. (google books)

Genet, Jean. Our Lady of the Flowers, trans. Bernard Frechtman. New York: Grove Press, 1963.

Harris, Frank. My Life and Loves. New York: Grove Press, 1963.

Hemingway, Ernest. A Moveable Feast. New York: Charles Scirbner’s Sons, 1964. (google books)

Hochhuth, Rolf. The Deputy, trans. Richard and Clara Winston. New York: Grove Press, 1964.

Howe, Irving. A World More Attractive. New York: Horizon Press, Inc., 1963.

Kermode, Frank.  “The Prime of Miss Muriel Spark.” In New Statesman, September 27, 1963.

Lessing, Doris. A Man and Two Women. New York: Simon and Schuster Inc., 1963.

Malamud, Bernard. Idiots First.  New York: Farrar, Straus & Co., Inc., 1963. (google books)

McCarthy, Mary.  The Group. New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, Inc., 1963. (google books)

Miller, Arthur. After the Fall. New York: The Viking Press, Inc., 1964.  (google books)

Oates, Joyce Carol. By the North Gate. New York: The Vanguard Press, Inc., 1963.

Pritchett, V.S.  “The Harlot’s Progress.” In New York Review of Books, October 31, 1963.

Ransom, John Crowe. Selected Poems. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1963.

Rawicz, Piotr. Blood from the Sky. New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, Inc., 1964. (google books)

Richler, Mordecai. Stick Your Neck Out. New  York: Simon & Schuster, Inc., 1963.

Sartre, Jean-Paul.  Existentialism. New York: The Philosophical Library, Inc., 1947.

Sartre, Jean-Paul. Saint Genet. New York: George Braziller, Inc., 1963. (google books)

Spark, Muriel.  The Girls of Slender Means. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1963. (google books)

Styron, William. “An Elegy for F. Scott Fitzgerald.” In New York Review of Books, November 28, 1963.

Turnbull, Andrew (ed.) The Letters of F. Scott Fitzgerald. New York: Charles Scirbner’s Sons, 1963.

Van Doren, Mark. Collected and New Poems 1924-1963. New York: Hill & Wang, Inc., 1963.