A few years ago I read the first volume which makes up Proust's epic: 'A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu', Swann's Way. I found it incredibly hard work and extremely unrewarding. Since then I have been tempted to give this modern masterpiece another go, and have resolved to finish the rest of the volumes by the end of this year. I have just finished volume 2: Within a Budding Grove. I had hoped that time and age and possibly more breadth of reading on my part since volume 1, might have made things easier.
Sadly, for me at least, this is not the case. I appreciate the beauty of Proust's descriptions of the minutiae of his protagonist's day to day life. I see that each facet of his existence is rendered like an exquisite miniature painting. And yet. And yet, his book fails absolutely, at every level to elicit the kind of reverie, awe and yearning for a past I never knew that I think it is supposed to.
Mostly it makes me want to hit things with a hammer.
The main problem, for me, is that I cannot warm to the protagonist at all. He is vacuous and self obsessed. He shows a singular lack of empathy with anyone and anything whilst purporting to feel every last nuance and particle of every experience to the depths of his soul. He is shallow and vain. He is unbelievably tedious, and although I am sure that Proust deserves some sort of prize for ekeing out about half a dozen desultory, unthrilling incidents to over 600 pages of luminous prose, it irks me beyond belief.
Still, only four more volumes to go.