Marcel Proust has written a truly in-depth and meticulously detailed story with Swann’s Way. When I first began reading the chapter Combray, I honestly resented it a bit. This is because every sentence seemed to be enriched with too much detail. It was confusing to read or fully immerse myself in the next. More frustratingly, I was flip-flopping between thoughts of “this is impossible to understand” and “this is amazingly written.” From describing the long sequence of his sleeping environment or his odd but endearing obsession with kisses, I could not figure out my genuine opinion of the story. 

What confused me (besides the confusing phrasings at times) was my resentment while reading this. I think these feelings arose because I do not think I could recall my own childhood to the same degree. I had my own fair mix of happy, sad, traumatic, and goofy moments growing up, but it would be more than difficult if I tried to pinpoint a specific example or day right now. Simply trying to recall my past memories is hard, but Proust had the ability to write and share his recollections elegantly — thus making me feel resentful and aggravated. 

Despite this, I did encounter multiple times where I could not put down the text. I became fully engrossed in the story, imagining what he wrote out. It was lovely. You can wholeheartedly feel the nostalgia and yearning for his childhood days through the texts. From the descriptions of the warmth of the fireplace, the cold air of the summer, and the nights and streets of Combray, I felt like I was in his shoes. It is an impressive feat when the writer can make the reader feel an ounce of nostalgia, especially when it is not their own memories or experiences. Proust has a special skill with detail. His entire monologue about flowers (an occurring theme) left me in awe. What is extraordinary is that it is not a simple description of the number of petals or colours; it mixes elements that occur outside of the visual sense. For example, he associates it with adolescents, a season you can never return to, or a “bouquet sent from a traveller that will never return.” Feelings are mixed into his descriptions: awe, longing, yearning, reflection, and nostalgia. 

As a result, I both feel resentment and awe towards Proust’s story and writing abilities. Still, it is not unfair to say some of his sections are overexplained or disconcerting to read. This is credited to his sexist viewpoints about women at certain times — that they are only for men’s pleasure. Additionally, his detailed recall of asking for more kisses from his mother was a little…odd. Primarily when he briefly discussed his father’s resentment. At the same time, I am reminded of Freud’s Oedipus complex while trying to disagree it is more about wanting more of his mother’s love or attention. Either way, I do not want to let Freud win this time, so I’ll continue in ignorance bliss. 

Memorable quotes: “Summer bedrooms where you delight in become one with the soft night, where the moonlight leaning against the half-open shutters casts in the enchanted ladder at the foot of the bed, where you almost sleep in the open air.”

“May the sky remain forever blue for you, my young friend; and even at the hour which is now approaching for me, when the woods are dark already, when the night is falling fast, you will console yourself as I do by looking up at the sky.”

My question to you is: Did you feel nostalgic reading this text? Did it move you in any way?

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