Upon completing the “Combray” section of Proust’s groundbreaking story “In Search of Lost Time” I am struck with a feeling I would assume many modernist writings would have reveled, namely, the fact that Proust’s work elicits a feeling of both familiarity and confusion, an almost paradoxical joy and unease that in a way represent the mantra of many pieces of modernist art.

Part of this is due to the structure and style of Proust’s writing. Proust’s prose sings in a way that makes even the most benign elements of the story feel herculean in their various meanings, interpretations, and representations. Proust blends similes, metaphors, allusions, and vivid descriptions into his work in a way that makes the narrator’s remembrances of Combray feel dreamlike. This is apt as it serves the narrative of the narrator’s memory being fragmented and dreamlike, as many experiences in the narrative are recounted almost like vignettes or remembrances that are coloured in a way that is at once familiar while also brimming with nuance and embellishment on the part of the narrator. In a way, this serves the narrative beautifully, as the embellished prose in simple descriptions of a kiss goodnight or a drink of tea serve to illustrate how the memory and perspective of our narrator is what decides the meaning of events and constructs what we the readers perceive as well

I found that this fragmentation of the narrative contributed to a sense of uneasiness in me as the narrative structure is incredibly different from modern novels or the genre fiction I’ve grown accustomed to. The text, as beautifully written as it is, can still seem to meander about as our narrator recounts events and places past through long tangents that build the world we’re inhabiting, while slowing the plot’s pacing to a crawl. This pacing does contribute to the fragmentary nature of the narrative, as the moments deemed meaningful by the narrator are given incredible weight through their length of description, while the narrator notes that all that isn’t recounted is easily destroyed.

This interplay between perspective and perception, to me, forms the heart of Proust’s work here. The narrator’s struggle to hang onto fleeting memories, all the while deriving meaning in the ways art and love may accentuate the mundane, fuel a sense of beauty in perception that I perceived from the story. Combray’s narrator, thrown into various recollections through the unknowing emulation of past events, creates a tapestry of events in which the beauty and meaning of life is seen as both monumental and fleeting. In a way my feelings towards this work are perfectly captured by the modernist ideal of making things new. The narrator, in his recollections of the past, uncovers the beauty of reading with his mother and in observing the lives of others. In a similar vain, I uncovered in my reading of part of Proust’s magnum opus, both a deeper understanding of the power of perspective as well as the ways representation can shape what we see, how we see it, and what it means to us.

A question I have for discussion would be in what ways do our perceptions and memories actively shape the way we understand the world around us? How can small, seemingly inconsequential moments elicit deep emotion?