I think the quote, “I find myself unable to place complete confidence in any notion I may have of the universe without first subjectifying that notion to an abstract examination” (8), perfectly summarizes this novel. Paris Peasant‘s narrator either thinks too much, believes he has to share each thought as he experiences them, or a combo of the above. What I’m trying to say is, I like good detail as much as any reader, but this was too much. If I was ready for Combray‘s narrator to stop talking after the first chapter, it took only a few pages for this narrator to run his course with me. Suffice to say, the modernist style is simply not for me.

This isn’t to say I disliked all aspects of this novel; Aragon demonstrates a gorgeous poetic sensibility through his surrealistic prose. A line that especially stuck out to me was, “you are a haunted house, and nothing at all would be achieved by sending a delegation of scientists with all their little bits of apparatus to observe the strange phenomena to which you play martyred host” (178-179). His narration, though seemingly never-ending, has a knack for including the most outrageous of metaphors and similes. He certainly is not afraid to break the traditional structures of fiction. Moreover, this is the first novel I’ve read that follows a narrator with no identifiable qualities; this is likely because Aragon wants his readers to see Paris through the eyes of a mundane observer, and not to get to know the observer himself. However, by the end, the reader has grown accustomed to the unique writing style. In this way, the writing itself is identifiable, but the narrator as an individual is not. Very interesting.

While the portraits of places (eg. Passage de l’Opera and parc Buttes-Chaumont) are extensive and compelling, I particularly identified with the narrator’s attentive observations of the people around him (eg. “the lecturer, after twisting, curling or waving his moustachios, sets off casually along an entirely new track, as he starts reminiscing about those lovely nights” (148); One can gather that Aragon himself places a lot of thought into the lives and characterisation of people, or simply creates ideas or narratives regarding the individuals in his midst at any given moment.

Another similarity to Proust’s Combray is the coming of age quality. Though Paris Peasant doesn’t follow the narrator from childhood to adulthood, nor does it mention anything specific regarding who the narrator is, there is an unmistakable feeling that time is running out throughout the prose. The narrator is observing the deconstruction of the world as he knows it, and there is a palpable fear there. As we grow older, our opinions and perspectives shift into broader understandings, if not entirely different ones. It’s scary watching the universe we built for ourselves in our youth turn into something unrecognisable; that is, until we gather our bearings. Take a few deep breaths. I like this aspect of Paris Peasant; what is new to us can still be appreciated, yet we’re entitled to any feelings that accompany this new viewpoint on life.

The final point I would like to make will be brief, as this is unfortunately common in older literature; the way the narrator talks about women is entirely objectifying (eg. “Instead of concerning yourself with the conduct of men, start watching women walk by. […] I don’t want to die without having first gone up to each one, touched her at least with my hand, felt her weaken, willed that this pressure shall be enough to conquer her resistance” (8). I read this as, ‘Hey! Instead of monitoring men’s behaviour or holding them accountable, let’s freely touch and objectify women! They are objects for my pleasure after all!” Yeah, definitely not my favourite part. The question I ask now is, can you name a single piece of older literature written by a man that passes the bechdel test? 🙂