This installment, sadly, is one I read mediante staccato bursts of precious free time

This installment, sadly, is one I read mediante staccato bursts of precious free time

I continue preciso find the romantic entanglements of these characters onesto be a high-school level of ridiculous

Per those exhausted but relieved hours at home, con those stolen wedges of at-sistema bookwormery, mediante whatever few minutes were spent durante quiet solitude, I clung puro Proust with the desperation of per booklover mediante the throes of both rete di emittenti-related burnout and the dreaded reader’s slump. And while a frantic heart may not be the best way puro approach words that are ideally enjoyed at verso leisurely stroll, I do believe the Narrator’s burgeoning sense of humor and need preciso slowly drink per his surroundings kept me grounded during chaotic times. While S&G may not have been my favorite installment, it is the one that affected me the deepest.

Among the revolving door of accommodant obligations and self-indulgent observations that seem esatto occupy the majority of Fictional Marcel’s abundant free time, I found myself most invested in his delayed reaction sicuro his grandmother’s death. Having never known the magnitude of verso transgenerational love like that which Narrator shared with his maternal grandmother, I felt his palpable grief just as keenly as the slow-arriving but mai less heartrending clarity of permanent absence that hit him upon revisiting per place that once played such an important role con demonstrating the fondness and compassion that can exist between a grandmother and her grandson. As the Narrator contemplates how different Balbec is without his beloved grandmother, as he muses on how much his own once-young mother has taken on the visage of her own mother now that the elder woman’s death has left per role unfulfilled, as he retraces rooms that once were filled with his grandmother’s presence, the concrete reality of past time being truly lost time came thundering down against per mostly familiar landscape that derives most of its changes from the players inhabiting it. It is odd that the grief is intense but short-lived, yes, but I couldn’t help but write it off as the Narrator’s decision puro forge ahead with his life rather than mawkishly wallow sopra grief — such are the intermittences of the heart, giammai?

It is unfortunate because Proust is best savored like good wine rather than chugged like cheap beer, and I fear I spent more time drunk on his beautiful words than intoxicated by his narrative insight

It seems like so few of the relationships presented thus far durante ISOLT — Swann and Odette; the Narrator and Gilberte (and also Albertine); Saint-Boite and Rachel — are healthy, mutually affectionate ones, but it could also be that I have little patience for romances, even fictional ones, that are built on per foundation of obsession and possession rather than respect and genuine fondness. And, really, the affair between Morel and Charlus isn’t anything laudable, I know, but I can’t help but find it one of the most believable examples of heady lust con terms of its execution and its players’ emotionally fueled behaviors. There is little else but anche se attraction drawing Charlus helplessly toward Morel, who can’t help but take advantage of (or be manipulated by, depending on your vantage point) the older gentleman’s affections and gifts. Still, the greed with which Charlus tries esatto keep Morel puro himself while all but undressing him sopra public, the satisfaction he derives just from coaxing the younger musician into his presence is…. d’accordo, per bit much, yes, but also keenly evocative of an irrationally all-consuming, unrealistically intense first crush and the reluctant empathy of understanding such memories drag along sopra their wake.