by Marcel Proust طﺮف ﮔﺮﻣﺎﻧﺖ {Read Ebook {PDF EPUB .در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ – ٧ ﺟﻠﺪی In Search of Lost Time Proust’s masterpiece is one of the seminal works of the twentieth century, recording its narrator’s experiences as he grows up, falls in love and lives through the First World War. A profound reflection on art, time, memory, self and loss, it is often viewed as the definitive modern novel. ﭼﺸﻤﮕﯿﺮﺗﺮﯾﻦ وﯾﮋﮔﯽ ﻧﻮﺷﺘﮫ ھﺎی ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ در ﺗﻮاﻧﺎﯾﯽ او ﺑﺮای ﺗﻮﺻﯿﻒ اﺣﺴﺎﺳﺎت و ﻋﻮطﻒ اﻓﺮاد اﺳﺖ. ھﺮ ﮐﺴﯽ اﯾﻦ ﺟﻤﻠﮫ را ﺷﻨﯿﺪه اﺳﺖ ﮐﮫ «ﯾﮏ ﺗﺼﻮﯾﺮ ﺑﮭﺘﺮ از ھﺰاران ﮐﻠﻤﮫ .اﺳﺖ». اﯾﻨﺠﺎ ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ ﺑﺎرھﺎ ﻧﺸﺎن ﻣﯽ دھﺪ ﮐﮫ ﭼﮕﻮﻧﮫ ﺑﺎ ھﺰاران ﮐﻠﻤﮫ ﻣﯽ ﺗﻮاﻧﺪ ﭼﯿﺰھﺎﯾﯽ را ﺑﮫ ﺗﺼﻮﯾﺮ ﺑﮑﺸﺪ ﮐﮫ ﯾﮏ ﻋﮑﺲ ﻧﻤﯽ ﺗﻮاﻧﺪ ﺑﮫ ﻣﺎ ﻧﺸﺎن دھﺪ .دوﺑﺎره آوردﯾﺪ ﺑﺎﺧﺒﺮم ﮐﻨﯿﺪ - Email me when it is available again Weight 6.200 kg ادﺑﯿﺎت ﻓﺮاﻧﺴﮫ, داﺳﺘﺎنھﺎی ﻗﺮن ﺑﯿﺴﺘﻢ :Tags ﻣﺮﮐﺰ - Brand: Markaz داﺳﺘﺎنھﺎی ﺧﺎرﺟﯽ - SKU: B0002231 Category: Fiction: World :زﺑﺎن - Language :ﻣﺘﺮﺟﻢ - Dimensions 18 × 21 × 30 cm Translator .دﯾﺪﮔﺎهھﺎ و ﻧﻈﺮات Description Additional information Reviews In Search of Lost Time Author: Marcel Proust. Translator: Sahabi, Mahdi Publisher: Nashr-e Markaz Language: Persian (Parsi / Farsi) Size: 5½ x 8½ Publication Year: 2017 Published in: Tehran – Iran ISBN: 978-964-305-897-5 Edition: 13 Volume 1: 601 pages Volume 2: 669 pages Volume 3: 803 pages Volume 4: 633 pages Volume 5: 501 pages Volume 6: 354 pages Volume 7: 443 pages. In Search of Lost Time (French: À la recherche du temps perdu )—previously also translated as Remembrance of Things Past —is a novel in seven volumes, written by Marcel Proust (1871–1922). It is considered to be his most prominent work, known both for its length and its theme of involuntary memory, the most famous example being the “episode of the madeleine” which occurs early in the first volume. It gained fame in English in translations by C. K. Scott Moncrieff and Terence Kilmartin as Remembrance of Things Past , but the title In Search of Lost Time , a literal rendering of the French, has gained usage since D. J. Enright adopted it for his revised translation published in 1992. In Search of Lost Time follows the narrator’s recollections of childhood and experiences into adulthood during late 19th century to early 20th century aristocratic France, while reflecting on the loss of time and lack of meaning to the world. [1] 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 only in draft form at the death of the author; the publication of these parts was overseen by his brother Robert. .در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ – ٧ ﺟﻠﺪی ﻧﻮﯾﺴﻨﺪه : ﻣﺎرﺳﻞ ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ ﻣﺘﺮﺟﻢ: ﻣﮭﺪی ﺳﺤﺎﺑﯽ ﻧﺎﺷﺮ: ﻧﺸﺮ ﻣﺮﮐﺰ زﺑﺎن ﮐﺘﺎب: ﭘﺎرﺳﯽ ﺷﺎﺑﮏ: 9789643058975 ﻗﻄﻊ ﮐﺘﺎب: وزﯾﺮی ﺟﻠﺪ ﮐﺘﺎب: ﮔﺎﻟﯿﻨﮕﻮر – ﺟﻠﺪ ﺳﺨﺖ ﺗﻌﺪاد ﺻﻔﺤﮫ: 1171 ﺻﻔﺤﮫ وزن: .6216 ﮔﺮم ﭼﮑﯿﺪه ﮐﺘﺎب / در ﺑﺎره ﻧﻮﯾﺴﻨﺪه : ﭘﺲ از ﭼﻨﺪ ﭼﺎپ ﺟﺪاﮔﺎﻧﮫ ﺳﺮ اﻧﺠﺎم ھﻤﮫ ی ﻣﺠﻠﺪات در “ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ “ﯾﮑﺠﺎ و ھﻤﺰﻣﺎن ﺑﮫ ﺻﻮرت ﯾﮏ ﻣﺠﻤﻮﻋﮫ ﺗﻔﮑﯿﮏ ﻧﺎﭘﺬﯾﺮ ﻣﻨﺘﺸﺮ ﻣﯿﺸﻮد .ﺗﺪارک اﻧﺘﺸﺎر اﯾﻦ ﻣﺠﻤﻮﻋﮫ ﻓﺮﺻﺘﯽ ﺑﮫ دﺳﺖ داد ﺗﺎ ﻣﺘﻦ اﺛﺮ ﺑﮫ طﻮر ﮐﺎﻣﻞ از ﺟﻨﺒﮫ ھﺎی وﯾﺮاﯾﺸﯽ و ﻓﻨﯽ ﺑﺎز ﺑﯿﻨﯽ و ھﻤﺎھﻨﮓ ﺷﻮد .ﺧﻼﺻﮫ از داﺳﺘﺎن ھﺮ ﺟﻠﺪد ,ﻧﻤﺎﯾﮫ ھﺎﯾﯽ از ﻧﺎم اﺷﺨﺎص و ﻣﮑﺎن ھﺎ ﺑﮫ ھﺮ ﮐﺪام از ﻣﺠﻠﺪات اﻓﺰوده ﺷﺪه اﺳﺖ . “طﺮف ﺧﺎﻧﮫ ﺳﻮان”ﮐﺘﺎب اول از ﻣﺠﻤﻮﻋﮫ ھﻔﺖ ﮐﺘﺎﺑﯽ اﺳﺖ ﮐﮫ رﻣﺎن “در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ” را ﻣﯿﺴﺎزد ﮔﺬﺷﺘﮫ از ﺧﻄﻮط ﮐﻠﯽ داﺳﺘﺎﻧﯽ ﮐﮫ اﯾﻦ ﮐﺘﺎب ھﺎ را ﺑﮫ ھﻢ ﻣﯽ ﭘﯿﻮﻧﺪد,ھﺮ ﮐﺪام از ھﻔﺖ ﮐﺘﺎب از ﺑﺴﯿﺎری دﯾﺪﮔﺎه ھﺎ در ﺧﻮد ﮐﺎﻣﻞ و ﻣﺴﺘﻘﻞ اﻧﺪ.در واﻗﻊ آﻧﭽﮫ داﺳﺘﺎن ﻧﺎﻣﯿﺪه ﻣﯿﺸﻮد ﺗﻨﮭﺎ رﺷﺘﮫ ای اﺳﺖ ﺑﺮای ﺑﮫ ھﻢ ﭘﯿﻮﺳﺘﻦ ﻟﺤﻈﮫ ھﺎﯾﯽ ﮐﮫ ھﺮ ﮐﺪام ﺑﮫ ﺗﻨﮭﺎﯾﯽ از “ﻣﮑﺎن”ھﺎ و ﺷﺨﺼﯿﺖ ھﺎی اﺻﻠﯽ ﮐﺘﺎب اﻧﺪ:ﮐﺘﺎﺑﯽ ﺳﺘﺮگ ﮐﮫ ﺑﺲ ﺑﯿﺶ از آﻧﮑﮫ ﺗﻮﺻﯿﻒ ﮐﻨﻨﺪه ﺣﺎﻟﺖ ھﺎی ﺑﯿﺮوﻧﯽ ﺑﺎﺷﺪ ژرﻓﺎی دروﻧﯽ را ﻣﯿﭙﻮﯾﺪ و ﻣﯿﮑﺎود .از ھﻤﯿﻦ روﺳﺖ ﮐﮫ اﻏﻠﺐ درﺑﺎره اﯾﻦ اﺛﺮ ﮔﻔﺘﮫ ﻣﯿﺸﻮد ﮐﮫ ﻣﯿﺘﻮان آن را از ھﺮ ﺻﻔﺤﮫ ای ﮐﮫ ﺑﺎﺷﺪ آﻏﺎز ﮐﺮد و ﯾﺎ ﮔﮭﮕﺎه ﭼﻨﺪ ﺻﻔﺤﮫ ای از ھﺮﮐﺠﺎی آن را ﺧﻮاﻧﺪ و از ژرﻓﺎ و ﮔﺴﺘﺮه ی اﻧﺪﯾﺸﮫ ی ﻧﻮﯾﺴﻨﺪه و ظﺮاﻓﺖ و ﺣﺴﺎﺳﯿﺖ ھﻨﺮش ﮐﮫ ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮ را ﯾﮑﯽ از ﺑﺰرگ ﺗﺮﯾﻦ آﺛﺎر ادﺑﯿﺎت .ﻣﻌﺎﺻﺮ ﺟﮭﺎن ﻣﯿﮑﻨﺪ ﻟﺬت ﺑﺮد ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ ﺑﺮ اﺛﺮ ﺑﯿﻤﺎری از ﻣﺮدم ﮐﻨﺎره ﮔﺮﻓﺖ و در ﺗﻨﮭﺎﯾﯽ ﺑﮫ ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻧﺪﮔﯽ ﮔﺬﺷﺘﮫ ﻣﺸﻐﻮل ﺷﺪ. او ﻣﯽﺧﻮاﺳﺖ ﻋﻤﻖ ﺣﺎﻓﻈﮫی ﺧﻮد را ﺑﮑﺎود، از اﯾﻦ رو ﺗﻤﺎم وﺟﻮد ﺧﻮد را در اﯾﻦ ﺳﻔﺮ اﮐﺘﺸﺎﻓﯽ ﺑﮫ ﮐﺎر ﮔﺮﻓﺖ. . اﯾﻦ رﻣﺎن ﭼﻨﺪان ﺑﮫ ﺗﺸﺮﯾﺢِ ﮐﻼﺳﯿ ِﮏ ﯾﮏ «داﺳﺘﺎن» ﻧﻤﯽﭘﺮدازد، ﺑﻠﮑﮫ از ورا ِی داﺳﺘﺎ ِن اﺻﻠﯽ ﯾﮏ ﺗﺤﻠﯿ ِﻞ ﻋﻤﯿ ِﻖ ادﺑﯽ، ھﻨﺮی، ﻓﻠﺴﻔﯽ و اﺟﺘﻤﺎﻋ ِﯽ از ی اواﺧﺮ ﻗﺮن 19 ﻓﺮاﻧﺴﮫ ﺑﮫ دﺳﺖ ﻣﯽدھﺪ. ھﻤﭽﻨﯿﻦ ﻧﺤﻮهی اﺳﺘﻔﺎده ﻣﺎرﺳﻞ ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ از زﺑﺎ ِن ﻓﺮاﻧﺴﮫ و ﺟﻤﻠﮫ ﺳﺎزی او ﮐﮫ ﺷﮑﻠﯽ ﺑﺪﯾﻊ و ﻧﻮ در ادﺑﯿﺎت ﻓﺮاﻧﺴﮫ ﺑﻮد آن را ﺑﮫ ﮐﻠ ﯽﺟﺎﻣﻌﮫ از ﺳﺎﯾﺮ آﺛﺎ ِر ادﺑﯽ ھﻢ زﻣﺎﻧﺶ ﻣﺘﻤﺎﯾﺰ ﻣﯽﮐﻨﺪ. . ﮔﺬﺷﺘﮫ از ﺧﻄﻮط ﻛﻠﯽ داﺳﺘﺎﻧﯽ ﻛﮫ اﯾﻦ ﻛﺘﺎبھﺎ را ﺑﮫ ھﻢ ﻣﯽﭘﯿﻮﻧﺪد، ھﺮ ﻛﺪام از ھﻔﺖ ﻛﺘﺎب از ﺑﺴﯿﺎری دﯾﺪﮔﺎهھﺎ در ﺧﻮد ﻛﺎﻣﻞ و ﻣﺴﺘﻘﻞاﻧﺪ. در واﻗﻊ آﻧﭽﮫ داﺳﺘﺎن ﻧﺎﻣﯿﺪه ﻣﯽﺷﻮد ﺗﻨﮭﺎ رﺷﺘﮫای اﺳﺖ ﺑﺮای ﺑﮫ ھﻢ ﭘﯿﻮﺳﺘﻦ ﻟﺤﻈﮫھﺎﯾﯽ ﻛﮫ ھﺮ ﻛﺪام ﺑﮫ ﺗﻨﮭﺎﯾﯽ از ﻣﻜﺎنھﺎ و ﺷﺨﺼﯿﺖھﺎی اﺻﻠﯽ ﻛﺘﺎباﻧﺪ، ﻛﺘﺎﺑﯽ ﺳﺘﺮگ ﻛﮫ ﺑﺲ ﺑﯿﺶ از آﻧﻜﮫ ﺗﻮﺻﯿﻒﻛﻨﻨﺪه ﺣﺎﻟﺖھﺎی ﺑﯿﺮوﻧﯽ ﺑﺎﺷﻨﺪ ژرﻓﺎی دروﻧﯽ را ﻣﯽﭘﻮﯾﺪ و ﻣﯽﻛﺎود. از ھﻤﯿﻦ روﺳﺖ ﻛﮫ اﻏﻠﺐ درﺑﺎرهی اﯾﻦ اﺛﺮ ﮔﻔﺘﮫ ﻣﯽﺷﻮد ﻛﮫ ﻣﯽﺗﻮان آن را از ھﺮ ﺻﻔﺤﮫای ﻛﮫ ﺑﺎﺷﺪ آﻏﺎز ﻛﺮد و ﯾﺎ ﮔﮭﮕﺎه ﭼﻨﺪ ﺻﻔﺤﮫای از ھﺮ ﻛﺠﺎی آن را ﺧﻮاﻧﺪ و از ژرﻓﺎ و ﮔﺴﺘﺮهی اﻧﺪﯾﺸﮫی ﻧﻮﯾﺴﻨﺪه و ظﺮاﻓﺖ و ﺣﺴﺎﺳﯿﺖ ھﻨﺮش ﻛﮫ ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮ را ﯾﻜﯽ از ﺑﺰرگﺗﺮﯾﻦ آﺛﺎر ادﺑﯿﺎت ﻣﻌﺎﺻﺮ ﺟﮭﺎن ﻣﯽﻛﻨﺪ ﻟﺬت ﺑﺮد. . طﺮف ﺧﺎﻧﮫ ﺳﻮان، در ﺳﺎﯾﮫ دوﺷﯿﺰﮔﺎن ﺷﮑﻮﻓﺎ، طﺮف ﮔﺮﻣﺎﻧﺖ، ﺳﺪوم و ﻋﻤﻮره، اﺳﯿﺮ، آﻟﺒﺮﺗﯿﻦ ﮔﻤﺸﺪه، زﻣﺎن ﺑﺎزﯾﺎﻓﺘﮫ .ﻋﻨﺎوﯾﻦ ﺗﺸﮑﯿﻞ دھﻨﺪهی اﯾﻦ ﻣﺠﻤﻮﻋﮫ ھﺴﺘﻨﺪ (طﺮف ﺧﺎﻧﮫ ﺳﻮان (در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ 1# طﺮف ﺧﺎﻧﮥ ﺳﻮان در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ ١ در ﺳﺎﯾﮫ دوﺷﯿﺰﮔﺎن ﺷﮑﻮﻓﺎ در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ ٢ طﺮف ﮔﺮﻣﺎﻧﺖ: ﮐﺎﻣﻞ در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ ٣ ﺳﺪوم و ﻋﻤﻮره در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ ٤ اﺳﯿﺮ در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ ٥ ﮔﺮﯾﺨﺘﮫ در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ ٦ زﻣﺎن ﺑﺎزﯾﺎﻓﺘﮫ در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از .دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ ٧ وﯾﺮاﺳﺖ ٧ ﺟﻠﺪی (وﯾﺮاﺳﺖ دوم) ﮐﮫ اوﻟﯿﻦ ﺑﺎر در زﻣﺴﺘﺎن ٨٦ ﭼﺎپ ﺷﺪ طﺮف ﺧﺎﻧﮥ ﺳﻮان در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ ١ در ﺳﺎﯾﮫ دوﺷﯿﺰﮔﺎن ﺷﮑﻮﻓﺎ در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ ٢ طﺮف ﮔﺮﻣﺎﻧﺖ: ﮐﺎﻣﻞ در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ ٣ ﺳﺪوم و ﻋﻤﻮره در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ ٤ اﺳﯿﺮ در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ ٥ ﮔﺮﯾﺨﺘﮫ در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ ٦ زﻣﺎن ﺑﺎزﯾﺎﻓﺘﮫ در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از .دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ ٧ Who's afraid of Marcel Proust? In autumn 1912, a writer best known for pastiches and society columns took a manuscript to the Nouvelle Revue Française, recently founded by Gaston Gallimard. It was passed to a reader who opened it randomly at page 62 and found what he decided was a boring and overwritten description of a cup of herbal tea. The manuscript was politely declined. The novelist was Marcel Proust, the novel was Swann’s Way, the first volume of A la recherche du temps perdu, and the reader was André Gide. Proust took the book to Grasset, a few streets away in the septième arrondissement, who published it at the author’s expense 100 years ago this week. The following year Proust received one of the best-known apologies in literary history: “Turning down your book,” wrote Gide, “remains one of the greatest regrets of my life.” After some knotty negotiations with Bernard Grasset, Gallimard managed to win Proust back, buying up the last 200 unsold copies of Swann’s Way. Proust won the Prix Goncourt in 1919, and from then the novel became what we now think it to be: a book so famous that we don’t need to have read it to talk about it. Do we expect our classics to be misunderstood? Is that how we measure their path-breaking greatness? Ten years after Swann’s Way, Gallimard received a long Irish novel which one of their most distinguished writers dismissed as “obscene” and “blighted by a diabolical lack of talent”. The Irish novelist was James Joyce, and disgusted of the septième was Paul Claudel. Even geniuses can misunderstand one another: when Proust met Joyce, his most radical successor, the two men barely spoke except to compare ailments. If we really want to understand how art works, how books and paintings and symphonies and buildings get made, survive and become part of our lives, we need to understand the role misunderstanding plays in culture. Gide got Proust wrong, but what he said was half-true. Proust, he thought, was a snob, a society writer who dealt in trivia, a nostalgist who evoked the lost days of belle époque France, and whose obsession with memory didn’t just avoid the present but actually denied it. Proust, born in Paris in 1871 to an upper-class family and Jewish on his mother’s side, wrote the obituary of 19th-century France. Born in his great-uncle’s house during the violent crisis that resulted from the Franco-Prussian war and the Paris Commune, he made himself the elegist of the fin de siècle. An anglophile with imperfect English, he admired and translated Ruskin, whom he claimed to know by heart. After a first novel, Jean Santeuil (unpublished until 1952), in which we find many of the themes and characters that emerge in A la recherche, and a poorly received book of poetic prose and sketches, Les Plaisirs et les jours (1896), Proust set to work on the novel that would take him 20 years and which he completed hours before his death. Proust wrote obsessively, turning all he had internalised in culture, social observation and vicarious living – through art, music, books – into a moving architecture of words. A la recherche is a vast novelistic panorama with a cast of thousands, with hundreds of interwoven plot strands. Part comedy of manners (the book is often very funny), part quest (for love, for self, for identity), and part anatomy of desire and sexual awakening, it captures a world that is both universally recognisable and unique to its historical moment. Proust’s characters, from the outrageous Baron de Charlus to the composer Vinteuil and the artist Elstir, are amalgams of people he knew and met and products of his fictional imagination. Proust’s people and places seem rooted in reality even as they float free of it. Even his narrator, a dilettante in search of a vocation, writes the book we are reading in order to find out whether he can write the book we are reading. No other novel includes and enacts so much, and yet, for all its profligate length, we feel as we read that we are dealing in essence and distillation. Proust’s novel grew and deepened into over 3,000 pages of everything and nothing: a Möbius strip of profundity twisting into mundanity, mundanity twisting into profundity. The two are not opposites in Proust: it is when we break the usual habits of mind and body that we see their continuity. We see this in part one of “Combray”, the first volume of Swann’s Way, in the narrator’s famous tea-and-cake epiphany: “But, when nothing subsists of an old past, after the death of people, after the destruction of things, alone, frailer but more enduring, more immaterial, more persistent, more faithful, smell and taste still remain for a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, on the ruin of all the rest, bearing without giving way, on their almost impalpable droplet, the immense edifice of memory.” One of its first reviewers called Swann’s Way a “treasure-trove of documents about our modern hypersensitivity”, and the novelist Charles Dantzig described Proust as the “radiologist of a dying world”. Henry James described reading the book as “inconceivable boredom associated with the most extreme ecstasy which it is possible to imagine” – a coupling James himself knew all about. He chose his words carefully: the boredom is not “broken by”, and does not “alternate with”, the ecstasy – it is “associated with” it. Everything in Proust is connected; more than that, like the madeleine dipped in tea, everything is infused; or always infusing. We organise our lives in terms of past, present and future, and we have three tenses with which to speak of them. Our bodies live according to them: we have come from, we are going to, and we are currently in. We spatialise time because time is so elusive. We have clocks, which segment time, calendars which look “full” or “empty” (spatial terms again), turns of phrase (“my day was filled with…”) and proverbs about time “flying” when we’re having fun. We can play with these tenses, splice and subdivide them, insert them into each other to make subtler points about how they nestle together when we look backwards or forwards: “I will have done”, “I was later to know”, “I would, by then, have discovered”… Like paints or cooking ingredients, it is a matter of mixing and combining, of learning to use what we’ve got in order to communicate the inside of our lives, which are often richer and more complicated than we can express. It is the borders between tenses that interest Proust, because that is where living gets done. Proust is a novelist of borders: between inner and outer, self and other, individual and society, feeling and thought. The difference between the narrator in Swann’s Way going to bed and finding an entire world of memory and experience dislodged by a madeleine dipped in tea, and us as readers, is not to do with his richness of feeling and perception and our poverty of it. He is not cleverer or more brilliant or more sensitive than we are. It is to do with what happens next, and what Proust as a writer gives us: language coming to grips with variations of thought and feeling, remembering and misremembering, fullness and emptiness of emotion, that we all have but which we cannot find a language for. This is why Proust – despite being a genuinely ill hypochondriac (not a contradiction) writing about aristocrats, chamber music, church steeples, Parisian high life, long meals, trinkets, insomnia, snobbery and interior design – conveys something universal. We all have our madeleine and our tisane. With the tenses come the senses: taste, smell, touch, all of them helping us to navigate our bodies, but also lying in wait to trigger and be triggered by great truths. What we forget about this famous scene of dislodged memory and regained life is that it is a one-off – this is its beauty but also its sorrow: the narrator tries to regain a second and third time that sense of expansion and plenitude by repeating his madeleine-dipping. But it doesn’t work; the law of diminishing returns shows us that real memory is involuntary memory, that to regain time you must wait for time to regain you. Often – mostly – it does not. It is also a tragedy: how much of our inner lives lie dormant, untriggered, unprovoked? How much of what we are lies under the surface, simply because our routines and habits keep us from taking possession of them, however briefly? A la recherche is about loss as well as gain, and for all its richness it has a darker tale to tell: we are only ever a fraction of ourselves because most of what we are continues under or alongside our consciousness, unseen, unknown and unexplored. Other writers go to exotic places or take long journeys, drink or take drugs or lose themselves in sex. Proust goes inwards: the terra incognita, the unknown world, is inside us. His book, which came out in seven volumes and whose last instalment, Time Regained, appeared in 1927, five years after his death, is also sufficiently long to make any reader experience, in miniature, something of the book’s obsession: the way he plays with foreshadowing events to come, or triggers our memory of something we may have read almost 1,000 pages ago, is itself a way of enacting our relationship to time. Forgetting, or half-remembering, what happened in the book is part of the experience of the book, part of living with it. In this respect, it’s an oddly realistic novel too, in that it uses what it writes about – time – as a material as well as subject. We read in time, with time, about time, and time is the substance or the condition in which we live. This is what makes it, despite its frightening length, its overload of detail and its relentlessly intricate style, a profoundly truthful book. It is made of what it describes. Teaching Proust to students from backgrounds so different from his (and from each other’s) that we can without too much exaggeration say that reader and writer are worlds apart, I find that we always finish with a sense of the profound normality and ordinariness of what Proust so extraordinarily conveys: the lining of our experience as it is lived, recalled, examined, lost and found, and how everything that happens to us both disappears and yet remains – if we can find it. Past, present and future are not checkpoints, but porous membranes where one tense washes into another. Time is ruthless and deadly, living is all loss, and the paradox of memory is that it gives you back what you had on condition that you know it has been lost. To regain it, you need to know it has gone; to remake the world, you need first to understand that it has ended. HG Wells had published The Time Machine in 1895. Proust showed that we are the Time Machines, though we are rarely at the controls. Patrick McGuinness is professor of French and Comparative Literature at Oxford. His new book, Other People’s Countries: A Journey into Memory, is published next year by Jonathan Cape. Proust and the Joy of Suffering. One recent Monday evening, I scanned through our bookshelves for an unread classic—I had one last piece to write in this series on revisiting the canon. I considered writing about Moby-Dick , but did not seriously consider reading Moby-Dick . I want to, very much in fact, but I rarely read long books, and moreover feel that I’m saving Moby-Dick for an unclear future experience, some contained and isolating context it deserves—a long sea voyage, my deathbed. Perhaps I could write about not reading Moby-Dick . Then I thought about In Search of Lost Time , another novel people, especially writers, almost brag about not having read, as though admitting you haven’t read Proust suggests you’ve read everything else. I pulled Swann’s Way off the shelf, read the first paragraph, and was astonished. Its obsessive attention to memory, time, and the minutiae of experience as it occurs through thinking—it was not just good. It was, as they say, extremely my shit. Everyone says you should read Proust, but no one had ever told me that I, specifically, should read Proust. Over the next couple of nights I read the “Overture” chapter. I had the sense, while I was reading Proust, that I was “reading Proust,” having a packaged experience like a tour of the Louvre. When friends asked what I was reading, I said, “I’m reading Proust, actually,” acknowledging the improbability. “Wow,” said my friend Kathleen, who knows me well. “Do you think you’ll finish it?” “I highly doubt it,” I said. It was more readable than I’d expected, but it wasn’t exactly light reading. That first paragraph was deceptive, in part by virtue of being a paragraph. Later I read that Proust hadn’t wanted In Search of Lost Time to have paragraphs at all. He wanted it to appear as one volume, with no sections, chapters, or even margins. It’s as though he wanted it to be unreadable, more a gesture than a text. That Friday night, my husband and I stayed in to read, but I was tired and didn’t feel up for Proust. Instead I read My Name Is Lucy Barton , by Elizabeth Strout, which is the kind of book you can tear through in a couple of hours, and I did, only afterward realizing that thematically, it is not unlike Swann’s Way . Lucy Barton recalls a time when she was very sick and had to stay in the hospital for over two months. Her mother, who she hasn’t seen in years, comes to visit and stays in her room, sitting at the foot of Lucy’s bed and rarely sleeping, only dozing in her chair. Their conversations are often disturbing—Lucy grew up in poverty, with an abusive father, and she is not sure how much her mother knows, remembers, or has willfully forgotten. Their talks stir up the sediment of their grim past, but they are also often joyful: “I was so happy. Oh, I was happy speaking with my mother this way!” The overture to Swann’s Way revolves around a memory or series of memories—the narrator’s difficulty with going to sleep without the benediction of a kiss from his mother—so overwhelming they seem to encompass the whole of his childhood. These memories, amalgamated in a single scene, come back to him each time he falls asleep: For a long time afterwards, when I lay awake at night and revived old memories of Combray, I saw no more of it than this sort of luminous panel, sharply defined against a vague and shadowy background … the hall through which I would journey to the first step of that staircase, so painful to climb, which constituted, all by itself, the slender cone of this irregular pyramid; and, at the summit, my bedroom, with the little passage through whose glazed door Mamma would enter; in a word, seen always at the same evening hour, isolated from all its possible surroundings, detached and solitary against the dark background, the bare minimum of scenery necessary (like the décor one sees prescribed on the title-page of an old play, for its performance in the provinces) to the drama of my undressing; as though all Combray had consisted of but two floors joined by a slender staircase, and as though there had been no time there but seven o’clock at night. One night, when the family has been entertaining M. Swann—on such occasions our narrator was routinely sent to bed without his kiss—the boy decides he simply cannot go without it, and contrives to summon his mother by a ruse. He sends a note via Françoise, the cook. The ruse fails. He knows he has already angered his parents—they consider the ritual a silly indulgence and do not wish to coddle his delicate nerves—but having gone this far, he is committed to self-destruction: “I had formed a resolution to abandon all attempts to go to sleep without seeing Mamma, had made up my mind to kiss her at all costs … the calm which succeeded my anguish filled me with an extraordinary exhilaration, no less than my sense of expectation, my thirst for and my fear of danger.” He waits in the hall for his mother to come up to bed, his heart throbbing “with terror and joy.” She is shocked and tries to send him back to bed before his father sees him, but in an unexpected turn of events, an amoral whim, his father rules in the boy’s favor, sending her in to stay with the child all night: “Go along with him then … you can see quite well that the child is unhappy. After all, we aren’t gaolers.” Alone at last with her he dissolves into sobs. The cook asks, “But, Madame, what is young master crying for?” “Why, Françoise, he doesn’t know himself: it’s his nerves.” His mother cries a little, too, and it seems to be a mutual admission, a giving up: they cannot scare the child out of his fear; he will be delicate forever. He knows this event is “a rare and artificial exception,” it can never happen again: “To-morrow night my anguish would return and Mamma would not stay by my side.” So the night, and its memory, which cannot be separated, are impossibly precious. In retrospect, “the present” is just a memory in real time. “We aren’t gaolers,” Proust’s father (if we take the narrator to be a stand-in for Proust) had said, but the child did feel like his bedroom was a cell, a place for time to be borne. In the winter of 1940, the Polish artist and writer Józef Czapski was in a Soviet prison camp, and he was thinking about Proust. He was among a small group of officers and soldiers who survived the war; thousands of others were executed. In Czapski’s words —he writes it twice—those others “disappeared without a trace.” To occupy themselves, to keep their intellects sharp, to give “proof that we were still capable of thinking and reacting to matters of the mind,” Czapski and his comrades in the camp delivered a series of lectures to one another. “Each of us spoke about what we remembered best,” be it architectural history or mountain climbing. For Czapski, who had studied painting in France and been friendly with some of Proust’s old friends, that subject was In Search of Lost Time . As the painter and translator Eric Karpeles writes in his introduction to Lost Time: Lectures on Proust in a Soviet Prison Camp , “A prisoner’s constant state of vigilance was surprisingly conducive to the reclamation of memories.” It came back to Czapski there, in the freezing ruins of a bombed convent, the way Combray came back to “Proust” when he was dozing off or when he tasted the madeleine dipped in linden tea. He delivered the talks in French because he’d read the novel in French—they say you should study for a test at the same time of day you’ll be taking the test, should suck a peppermint during both, so the taste brings the knowledge back. “What Czapski remembered best was the quintessential book of remembering,” Karpeles writes. In preparation for his lecture, Czapski made a series of elaborate diagrams, like crib notes in tiny, neat print, drawn over with lines and circles in different shades of ink. Several are reproduced in Lost Time , and these too are translated, meticulously re-created in color by Karpeles. On one spread of the insert, we see Czapski’s notes on the right, partially in Polish, partially in French. In the middle of the page is a yellow oval with lines around it, a crude sun. Inside, in all caps, underlined in red: “A MORT INDIFFERENTE.” In Karpeles’s version on the left, the same yellow sun, the same thick red line: “INDIFFERENT DEATH.” Some pale script to the lower right of Czapski’s sun circle is almost unintelligible to me; in the translation, it looks like this: x PRECIOUS WOUND x A BIT MIRED IN THE FLESH. These strange visual poems, “a hybrid of writing and drawing” as Karpeles describes them, were meant to serve as an aide-mémoire. The cheat sheets were all Czapski had because, of course, he could not check his quotes, could not fact-check any of his notes. This makes the errors more touching. Karpeles notes a couple: Czapski replaces the word madeleine , the most iconic detail of the novel and one of the most iconic in all of modern literature, with the word brioche . He calls an unnamed character Jeanne. “He has not misremembered her name,” Karpeles writes, “he has simply provided her with one, which Proust had failed to do.” I found a mistake, too. Czapski speaks of finding Proust to be “almost Pascalian,” then refers to a night in Blaise Pascal’s life “that will always remain known as Pascal’s mystery,” a night yielding an intense vision of a super-terrestrial world which caused him forever after, until his death, to wear around his neck a small scrap of paper on which was inscribed these few words: “Tears, tears of joy.” I was reminded of Percy Shelley’s corpse washing ashore with a volume of Keats in his breast pocket. Wanting to know more about this story, I googled the phrase “Pascal’s mystery” and found nothing. Had Czapski confused Pascal’s experience with the paschal mystery, or le mystère pascal —no relation? (It’s from the Greek pascha , as in Easter, meaning “passing over.”) It seems likely; he’d also gotten the inscription wrong. It was not just a few words but a longer prayer or poem, a transcription of his vision, that Pascal wrote out on a piece of parchment and sewed into the lining of his coat. Here’s the passage in question: FIRE. GOD of Abraham, GOD of Isaac, GOD of Jacob not of the philosophers and of the learned. Certitude. Certitude. Feeling. Joy. Peace. GOD of Jesus Christ. My God and your God. Your GOD will be my God. Forgetfulness of the world and of everything, except GOD. He is only found by the ways taught in the Gospel. Grandeur of the human soul. Righteous Father, the world has not known you, but I have known you. Joy, joy, joy, tears of joy. I’ve seen it rendered differently; sometimes “Fire” is underlined, sometimes it’s “Fire!” But always, the “tears” line is “Joy, joy, joy, tears of joy”— the word joy is repeated, not tears . Earlier, in his own footnote to the lecture, Czapski notes that he is quoting Goethe from memory, “perhaps distorting his text.” He then quotes (or misquotes?) the Russian writer Vasily Rozanov: “There’s nothing easier than to quote a text precisely, you just have to check the books. It’s far more difficult to assimilate a quotation to the point where it becomes yours and becomes part of you.” “Pascal’s mystery,” those “tears, tears of joy” around his neck, were not Pascal’s but Czapski’s, a semi-invention, a collaborative memory. In a brief introduction to the lecture, written in 1944, Czapski speaks of “the joy” of that time in the prison camp, the “rose-colored light” of those hours spent giving and listening to lectures, “where a world we had feared lost to us forever was revived.” Others in the camps were having similar, peculiarly happy experiences, somehow between or inside their sufferings. The Polish writer Aleksander Wat, while in Lubyanka, lucked into a Russian translation of Swann’s Way with a Marxist critical introduction. Reading Proust in Lubyanka, Wat writes in his memoir My Century , was “one of the greatest experiences of my life … from then on I had a completely new understanding, not only of literature, but of everything.” Czapski had only dabbled in Proust until bedridden with illness: “I only have typhoid fever to thank for rendering me so helpless over a whole summer that I was able to read his work in its entirety.” I feel a small, perverse twinge of envy—not for the fever or torture or persecution, obviously, but for the life-altering encounter with a book that can happen in a season of despair. I am always struck by depictions of happiness in wartime, in the darkest conditions—in Chernobyl, in concentration camps. In Family Lexicon , a memoir of life under fascism in Mussolini’s Italy, Natalia Ginzburg writes: “Lola used to remember with great longing the time she spent in prison. ‘When I was in jail,’ she’d often say. She would recount how in jail she finally felt tremendously at ease, finally at home and at peace with herself.” She considered it the “noblest time of her life.” Ginzburg’s father, during bombings, “wouldn’t go down into the shelters … Under the roar and whistle of planes, he ran hugging the walls with his head down, happy to be in danger because danger was something he loved.” When his father returns from a stint in prison, he seems “happy” to have been there. The people in her life treasure their worst experiences; the worst is the best. It’s a form of resistance, to refuse to have pleasure taken away from you. But I think, too, there’s something fundamentally life-affirming about proximity to death. We grow nostalgic for our pain, once it’s safely in the past, because pain’s intensity makes regular life look banal. Part of Czapski’s lecture concerns Proust’s self-actualization as a writer. In this section he intentionally conflates Proust and the “hero” of the novel, which is probably what we’d now call autofiction, a novelization of the author’s real life. On his way to a reception at the Hotel de Guermantes, Proust has “the sudden conviction of a book existing within him, with all its details, only waiting to be realized.” He enters “a state of feverish clarity.” As Czapski recounts it, He observes the assembled group of friends from his earlier life, already deformed by age, growing older, bloated or withering away, and then sees young people there emerging among them, a new generation who seem to harbor so poignantly the same hopes his old or dear friends once held. All this he sees with new eyes, lucidly, detached, and from a distance; finally, he knows what he is meant to do with his life. The force of the realization is such that “death has become a matter of indifference to him.” Czapski uses the phrase once more, at the end of the lecture, this time clearly in reference to Proust, the author, the living (or dying) man. He spent his last years mostly in bed, finishing and revising the novel of his life. Czapski writes: “It’s not possible that he did not understand, given the state of his health, that the enormous and feverish effort required to keep on with his work would precipitate his end. But he had made up his mind, he would not take care of himself; death had become truly a matter of indifference to him.” “INDIFFERENT DEATH,” as the diagram said. Around that yellow sun, there are echoing paradoxical phrases: “GRANDEUR + MISERY.” “PRECIOUS WOUND.” “DECADENCE OF FORMS OF JOY.” “BLESSED SUFFERING.” “HIS TRIUMPH HIS DEATH.” A question, encircled: “DEAD FOR GOOD?” And under “HIS TRIUMPH”: “THEY WILL LIVE.” Along with his comrades, Czapski found meaning and beauty in the prison camp (“the hours spent with memories of Proust, Delacroix, Degas seemed to me the happiest of hours”), and they survived. Czapski lived to the age of ninety-six. But he had assimilated Proust’s indifference to death, which is not the same as an indifference to living. It is, rather, an apprehension of existence so luminous that the threat of death recedes into dim corners. Elisa Gabbert, a poet and essayist, is the author, most recently, of The Word Pretty (Black Ocean). .ﺗﻠﻔﯿﻖ ادﺑﯿﺎت ﺑﺎ ﻧﻘﺎﺷﯽ ﺑﮫ ﺷﯿﻮة ﻣﺎرﺳﻞ ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ ﻣﻄﺎﻟﻌﺔ ﭘﯿﻮﻧﺪ ادﺑﯿﺎت ﺑﺎ ﻧﻘﺎﺷﯽ در رﻣﺎن در ﺟﺴﺘﺠﻮی زﻣﺎن از دﺳﺖ رﻓﺘﮫ اﺛﺮ ﻣﺎرﺳﻞ ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ ﺑﺎ ﺗﺄﮐﯿﺪ ﺑﺮ ﻣﺠﻠﺪ طﺮف ﺧﺎﻧﮫ ﺳﻮان اﺧﺒﺎریﻓﺮ، ﻣﻮﻧﺎ و ﻣﺰاری، ﻧﮕﺎر، 1393، ﻣﻄﺎﻟﻌﺔ ﺧﻮاب ادﺑﯽ و ﻧﻘﺶ روﯾﺎ و روﯾﺎﭘﺮدازی درﺧﻠﻖ ﮐﺘﺎب «از ﻣﺴﯿﺮ ﺧﺎﻧﮫ ﺳﻮان» اﺛﺮ ﻣﺎرﺳﻞ ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ ، ﭘﺎﯾﺎنﻧﺎﻣﮫ ﮐﺎرﺷﻨﺎﺳﯽ ارﺷﺪ، .داﻧﺸﮕﺎه ﻓﺮدوﺳﯽ ﻣﺸﮭﺪ، داﻧﺸﮑﺪة ادﺑﯿﺎت و ﻋﻠﻮم اﻧﺴﺎﻧﯽ .ﭘﺎﮐﺒﺎز، روﯾﯿﻦ، 1386، داﺋﺮه اﻟﻤﻌﺎرف ھﻨﺮ ، ﮐﺘﺎب، اﻧﺘﺸﺎرات ﻓﺮھﻨﮓ ﻣﻌﺎﺻﺮ، ﺗﮭﺮان - .ﭘﺎﯾﺎنﺑﻨﺎم، ﺳﻤﯿﺮا و دﻻور، اﺳﺮاﻓﯿﻞ، 1387، ﯾﺎدآوری ﻧﺎﺧﻮدآﮔﺎه ﺧﺎطﺮات ﻧﺰد ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ ، ﭘﺎﯾﺎنﻧﺎﻣﮫ ﮐﺎرﺷﻨﺎﺳﯽ ارﺷﺪ، داﻧﺸﮕﺎه ﺗﺒﺮﯾﺰ - .ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ، ﻣﺎرﺳﻞ، 1386، طﺮف ﺧﺎﻧﮫ ﺳﻮان ، ﮐﺘﺎب، ﺗﺮﺟﻤﮫ ﻣﮭﺪی ﺳﺤﺎﺑﯽ، وﯾﺮاﺳﺖ دوم، ﻧﺸﺮ ﻣﺮﮐﺰ، ﺗﮭﺮان - .ﭘﻮﻟﮫ، ژرژ، 1390، ﻓﻀﺎی ﭘﺮوﺳﺘﯽ ، ﮐﺘﺎب، ﺗﺮﺟﻤﮫ وﺣﯿﺪ ﻗﺴﻤﺘﯽ، اﻧﺘﺸﺎرات ﻗﻘﻨﻮس، ﺗﮭﺮان - ﺣﺎﺟﯽ زاده، ﭘﺮوﯾﻦ و اﺳﺪاﻟﻠﮭﯽ، ﷲ ﺷﮑﺮ، 1390، ﻣﻄﺎﻟﻌﮫ ﺗﺠﻠﯽ ھﻨﺮھﺎی ﺗﺼﻮﯾﺮی و ھﻨﺮ ﻣﻮﺳﯿﻘﯽ در رﻣﺎن ﻣﺎرﺳﻞ ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ ﺗﺤﺖ ﻋﻨﻮان «طﺮف ﺳﻮان» ، ﭘﺎﯾﺎنﻧﺎﻣﮫ ﮐﺎرﺷﻨﺎﺳﯽ - .ارﺷﺪ، داﻧﺸﮕﺎه ﺗﺒﺮﯾﺰ .ﺣﺎﺋﺮی، ﺷﮭﻼ، 1384، در ﺳﺎﯾﺔ ﻣﺎرﺳﻞ ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ ، ﮐﺘﺎب، ﻧﺸﺮ ﻗﻄﺮه، ﺗﮭﺮان - .دوﻟﻮز، ژﯾﻞ، 1389، ﻣﺎرﺳﻞ ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ و ﻧﺸﺎﻧﮫھﺎ ، ﮐﺘﺎب، ﺗﺮﺟﻤﺔ دﮐﺘﺮ ﷲﺷﮑﺮ اﺳﺪاﻟﻠﮭﯽ ﺗﺠﺮق، ﻧﺸﺮ ﻋﻠﻢ، ﺗﮭﺮان - .ﻋﺒﺎﺳﭙﻮر، ﻣﺮادﺣﺴﯿﻦ، 1385، ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ ﮐﻠﯿﺪدار ﮐﺘﺎبﮐﻠﯿﺴﺎی زﻣﺎن ، ﮐﺘﺎب، ﻧﺸﺮ رﺳﺶ، اھﻮاز - ﻣﺮادیﻣﺮام، اﻣﯿﻨﮫ و اﺳﺪاﻟﻠﮭﯽ، ﷲ ﺷﮑﺮ، 1390، ﻣﻄﺎﻟﻌﺔ ﺑﯿﻨﺎﻣﺘﻨﯽ ھﻨﺮ ﭼﮭﺮه و ﺷﺨﺼﯿﺖ در اﺛﺮی از ﻣﺎرﺳﻞ ﭘﺮوﺳﺖ ﺗﺤﺖ ﻋﻨﻮان «طﺮف ﮔﺮﻣﺎﻧﺖ» ، ﭘﺎﯾﺎنﻧﺎﻣﮫ ﮐﺎرﺷﻨﺎﺳﯽ - .ارﺷﺪ، داﻧﺸﮕﺎه ﺗﺒﺮﯾﺰ .ﻧﺎﻣﻮرﻣﻄﻠﻖ، ﺑﮭﻤﻦ، 1394، درآﻣﺪی ﺑﺮ ﺑﯿﻨﺎﻣﺘﻨﯿﺖ: ﻧﻈﺮﯾﮫھﺎ و ﮐﺎرﺑﺮدھﺎ ، وﯾﺮاﺳﺖ دوم، ﻧﺸﺮ ﺳﺨﻦ، ﺗﮭﺮان -