A new Proust-related blog is to launch next Monday:

You know you’ve been meaning to. You’re pretty sure that you’ve got a dusty copy of Swann’s Way sitting around somewhere. You’ve probably even read the book’s famous opening line, “For a long time I would go to bed early,” and thought to yourself, well, not now, maybe some other time.

That time has finally come. Next Monday, Publishing Perspectives is launching The Cork-Lined Room, a blog devoted to the reading, discussion and study of Proust’s masterpiece of 20th century literature, In Search of Lost Time.

Readers Comments

  1. Seeing as the post you link to was written on September 28, "next Monday" has already passed.

    And the famous opening line is the original translation: "For a long time I *used* to go to bed early".

    For anyone tempted to blog about this book they "keep meaning" to read: please shut up.

  2. Hiya Steve,

    The post may have been written late September, but the press release that brought my attention to it only came through this morning, so I'm presuming they didn't quite realise the blog was time-stamped and that the Monday they refer to is October 26th...

  3. Actually, in the revised translation by Moncrieff, Kilmartin and Enright, the opening line is "For a long time I would go to bed early."

  4. But that isn't the "famous" opening, it's the "revised" opening. That was the distinction I was making. Inaccuracy or out-of-datedness are beside the point.

  5. Lennox Raphael, (Copenhagen, Denmark) Wednesday 04 November 2009

    Marcel Proust understands time as a capsule of indifference, that one's time is no different from any other time and (that) time itself is a waif pierced by memory as a reminder of the emptiness of structure ( & literature) as a salted tongue used as a pair of pliars to wrest memory from experiences wrapped in sentences that are both sinuous & disjunctive. When I read Proust I read the palm of my own hand and walk across lifelines to an understanding (and acceptance) of writing & language as diminishing factors of the self as absence in the grip of time melting on the quip of meaning.
    Proust is a great cook. He work wears the apron of restraint & surrender (to recapturing a lost future disguised as the past; and knows that hunger supercedes ingredient: that writing, coming from sacred, invisible spaces of (curiosity & affirmation) boiling over a pot of details, is always a quest after the lost imagined self: life turned inside out as memory whose truths are punctuated by the noise of silence as one is sucked into the mirror only to have, later, its reflections, as though poured out of the holes of a watering can, re-invent the art of seeing thru feelings to the good earth that is the human condition: and indestructible as memories of a nowness of future: the sponge that is writing ordered to the making of time: to its very birth & ressurection as endless & pleasurable complaints against taking the self for granted.

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