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The third and final volume includes THE CAPTIVE, THE FUGITIVE, and TIME REGAINED.
- Sales Rank: #342794 in Books
- Published on: 1982-08-12
- Released on: 1982-08-12
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 7.99" h x 1.61" w x 5.14" l, 2.30 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 1152 pages
From the Inside Flap
The third and final volume includes THE CAPTIVE, THE FUGITIVE, and TIME REGAINED.
About the Author
Marcel Proust was born in 1871 in Auteuil, near Paris, France. His seven-volume novel, À la recherche du temps perdu (known in English as In Search of Lost Time), which explores themes of memory, became one of the most famous and influential works of twentieth-century literature. Proust continued to work on the novel until his death in 1922.
Most helpful customer reviews
6 of 6 people found the following review helpful.
The young French lad's guide to successfully making the girl fall in love with you even when you'd rather be in Venice
By Michael Battaglia
By this point, if you've made it this far into the wacky world of one hundred and fifty page scenes of rich French parties, you pretty much have an idea of what you're in for and in theory the remainder of the novel should be smooth sailing. The interesting thing about the last three parts of the novel is that they were published posthumously (if you've ever looked at the novel and thought "This must have taken a lifetime to write", you're not too far off as it turns out) and so it's an open question as to whether this would have been the final form the novels would have taken if Proust had been around to perform all the corrections and deletions his little heart desired ("The Fugitive" section at one point had several different "authoritative editions floating around). Perhaps he never would have finished the novel at all and it would have been published after he died an old man anyway, there's no way to really tell. Fortunately he did actually finish the novel so you're not reading over three thousand pages of convoluted sentences that fail to come to any sort of ending.
Not being a scholar of French literature, I have no idea how definitive these volumes are, or how closely they claim to hew to his original vision, such as it was. Each one of the three volumes that comprise this edition has additional passages as an appendix they were left out, either by Proust or later editors believing that this was what Proust wanted . . . the ambitious could always cut those passages out of the back and paste them in to where they think they should go and see if it enhances the reading experience. But I'm okay with letting actual scholars decide what deserves to be in there since Proust isn't around to give his opinion.
And whether it's just me being used to it or the snazzy job that the editors did, but I found these parts to be the easiest to read of any of them thus far. Maybe it's because they seem to have more of a driving plot, maybe because the swings of emotion are more relatable, maybe all the snarky French nobles had better one-liners. It could also be the giddy high from being in the home stretch. But there's more of a sense of the narrator actually living his life and not wandering about observing snooty party after snooty party, thinking about how maybe he should get around to doing some of that writing thing some day, gosh. The characters seem more defined as well, again, that could just be familiarity after spending more time reading about them than I see my family. But despite the potential patchwork pitfalls of trying to be a psychic and figure out which of Proust's corrections he really meant and were the final ones, in these volumes the themes really come into focus and you can start to see why he spent so much time on what a lot of people may consider the world's most erudite paperweight.
For me it helped that the chunk of the first two parts are focused on his incredibly weird relationship with girlfriend Albertine. When we last left our self-obsessed hero he was convinced that dear Albertine had an eye for the ladies and thus had to marry her to keep her from straying to the ladies. He doesn't get around to marrying her but convinces her to live in his house with him, where he comes up with excuses all the time for her to stay home and not go anywhere, while he spends his time hanging out with her or going off on his own to wallow in misery since because of her he can never go anywhere fun, like Venice. Their relationship, if you want to call it that, remains one of the oddest things I've ever read in literature. She's absolutely agreeable to pretty much anything, seems pleasant and eager to listen, likes hanging around him, while he spends most of his time thinking about how he doesn't love her, which is why he can't break up with her. It drives him to almost hilariously weird obsessions, like interrogating all her friends as to whether she may be a secret lesbian and assuming they're all lying when they tell him that isn't the case, or seizing on any scrap of her even looking at another woman as proof that she loves women, which is why he can't break up with her. When he's with her he obsesses over how much he doesn't really like her and when she's not around he obsesses over what she might be doing and contrives reasons to keep her from going anywhere. The fact that the narrator seems completely oblivious as to how odd this all is makes for some interesting reading, and that's before you even consider how much the fabulously crotchety M. de Charlus adds to the proceedings, with his equally bizarre relationship with a much younger man livening up the proceedings as well (especially an honest to goodness tense scene where some people actively try to turn his lover against him). Along the way there's hint of everyone getting older, as we lose at least one character we started out with, but it all culminates in perhaps the most ridiculous argument a couple could have and an ending that is probably the most logical thing about it.
"The Fugitive" deals with the aftermath of those events, with Albertine off for better pastures, and the narrator alternating between scheming to get her back and glorying in how much better his life is without her. However, his constant ruminating over his memories of an affair with her are surprisingly moving and showcase how Proust could get to the heart of how our memories inform our emotions and vice versa. All of that gets kicked up a notch when it turns out that Albertine definitely isn't coming back and while you have to deal with the narrator venturing boldly down the rabbit hole of questioning every single person she came into contact with if she was a lesbian (and not taking no for an answer) there's a definite sense of grace and elegance to the internal deliberations, trying to sketch out the exact outlines of a loss, seeing where the cracks touch and how that affects not only your life going forward, but how you reflect on what's gone by. It's a poignant dive into the heart of grief and just because it comes from a utterly self-absorbed dilettante doesn't make the honesty any less real.
Meanwhile, every other male character turns out to be gay. The fact that Proust himself appears to have been a closeted homosexual (how closeted and how homosexual seems to be depend on who you ask) may or may not have a bearing on this. It does make for a theme you don't really see coming and while you want to assume the narrator is just projecting his own paranoias on events, after the third or fourth character (gentlemen or lady) turns out to be gay you have to agree that it's really happening.
It all comes together in the last volume, "Time Regained". While it starts out more or less like the other parts do, eventually a sense of finality begins to creep in, with time passing faster and faster in between the paragraphs and you get a sense that he's starting to put together what his whole has been telling him. And just to remind you that you're still reading Proust, a lot of these revelations come within one last massive French party for the rich, as he runs into nearly every character that hasn't yet died and marvels at how old they've gotten and the changes that have occurred in the years that seemed to have passed so quickly. This section winds up being the most memorable simply because of how existentially terrifying it is, having lived with these characters for many, many hours of reading time, to see them suddenly grow old (even if at times the book makes you feel like you're experiencing the events in real-time) is a shock in itself, a reminder that time isn't on your side at all, it's not even on a side so much as the referee and is determined to make sure that none of the calls go your way. It makes the weight of all that's gone before feel like a culmination of sorts and despite the book going meta in its last sections as the narrator decides to write a novel about all he's experienced, it feels like the end of a journey, with the narrator's ponderings reaching a new poignancy and even beauty as he strives to keep everyone he's known alive by describing them fully, even as he seems to admit that time is going to grind down all memory of the book until it's lost entirely. But the suggestion is that it's worth doing anyway.
Is reading three thousand pages of all this worth that conclusion? I think so. I think the attempt is always worth it and while not every sequence is probably essential to the work as a whole, it's that aggregation of events that give it whatever force it has, much like our lives are the additions that we and life contribute to ourselves, and how we deal with the inevitable subtractions. It takes a time that is long enough gone that not a single living person today can describe having lived in it, and make it come alive for us and more than just relating an endless series of genteel parties, it can speak to us about deeper themes, about what we remember and what we carry with us, and what lies beneath memory that we don't realize we carry. It's not for the people who live for the big events in life, that live to study where history is made and the changing course of human events, but for those people who how standing by a certain fence can bring back the memory of the taste of an ice cream cone on a certain hot day, who can remember not only her smile but the dizzy sick elated feeling that came with and the tiny melancholy buzz that couldn't be identified until years later, the notion that a moment can be singular and be forever and be over all too quick, that our lives can be a series of those moments if we learn just how to look, and how we don't get enough of them even if we live to be two hundred.
5 of 5 people found the following review helpful.
a super-good, cheap Proust
By Caraculiambro
This is the second volume in a two volume set that contains the entire REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST, unabridged. It's from the U.K., which is why you don't see it for sale much in the U.S. (You can get it no problem on Amazon's U.K. site, though: use ISBN-10: 1840221461 or ISBN-13: 978-1840221466 to find it.)
It's much cheaper than those silver ones that you do see, published by Vintage.
But there's something you should know about the translation. This is the translation by C. K. Scott-Moncrieff and Stephen Hudson (the latter completing the job after the former croaked midway through it). This translation was later reworked by Terence Kilmartin to the approval of many (which translation was in turn reworked by D. J. Enright). That is the translation offered in those silver ones you see everywhere, but IS NOT THE TRANSLATION YOU'RE GETTING HERE from the Wordsworth Editions. This is just the unreworked 1922-1930 job.
It doesn't offer any footnotes or anything else like that.
The entire thing is also available in one volume in French from Amazon here: A LA Recherche Du Temps Perdu (French Edition)
29 of 32 people found the following review helpful.
Worthwhile, but be prepared...
By A Customer
I set myself the challenge of reading this monumental work, and am still in the process of slogging through Volume 3, which I hope to finish sometime before death.The book has moments of transcendant beauty and insight that have made it worthwhile, but also some deeply tedious sections that seem to drag on endlessly. My main problem has been the exasperation I feel with Proust himself. It is frankly difficult at times for modern readers to identify with this supremely self-involved aesthete of the early 20th century. Often I just want to reach out and smack him and tell him to quit whining and obsessing and get on with his life, already. Currently, I am dealing with his jealousy and need to control Albertine and her lesbianism, when I have to restrain myself from screaming "Go ahead and break up with her, you dolt!" The minute details of his emotional life spread out over 3,000 plus pages are sometimes overwhelming. On the other hand, I have to admit that he is ruthlessly honest and makes no attempt to render himself in a glowing light, which is admirable. And there are occasionally those deeply profound insights into human nature that strike a chord in everyone, along with a valuable documentation of a time and a life so unlike my own and fascinating in its own way. Take the challenge, and good luck!
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