Proust…zzzzz

I’m currently on the 7th page of Proust’s Combray and it’s making me feel quite sleepy. All this talk of sleep is making me wish I was in my bed instead of at school. Now I’m on page 11, and considering having a little nap. I feel I should be grateful for the ability to sleep after reading how this fellow struggles. Surely I should make the most of the opportunities I have.

The mother kissing business… At first I thought it was sweet, this kid really loves his mother. Then it became a little excessive/obsessive. But I can understand this kid does not get much affection so he craves this small act and it holds a lot of meaning for him.

The way the first passages were written created a sense of connection with the character for me. I could really imagine I was him in those moments, yearning for affection; his desperation was palpable and infectious. In the first few pages, I felt small like him in those moments and the experience of gradual growth as we progressed through his memories of childhood relieved me.

Now on page 110, I’m getting into the book. There are moments where I feel very engaged, and I enjoy these but also moments where I feel I’m drifting in and out. Some passages that drew me in more than others were the following: Francoise not liking or sympathizing with people, unless they are far away, I kinda get that. Some things are easier to appreciate or pity from a distance as when a connection is made it can feel too real and reality is not always where we want to be. Incomplete pictures and viewings from far away always seemed better, until we are close enough to recognize flaws. We prefer to imagine, experience fantasies of our feelings. The goodbye to the hawthorns section was beautiful and one of my favourites, as I feel a similar, if slightly less descriptive connection to my Nain’s (that’s grandma in Welsh, I don’t speak Welsh but I still call her that) hydrangeas. Our family home on Anglesey is similar to what I imagine Combray to look like and I feel a similar fondness for the place. I like to imagine them walking as that is also pretty much all I used to do when I was back home as a child and while in the moment I was not thinking such elaborate thoughts, looking back those times seem to hold much greater meaning to me. I think in the midst of all these descriptions of a world I am not familiar with, when I could relate to the content, it drew me in a little more. The scene of Francoise killing a chicken and the shock of little Marcel made me not laugh but feel a little sense of humour because I saw someone kill a chicken once and then I ate it pretty happily. Maybe I was hungrier than him. He seems like he would be a fussy eater.

Beginning to understand the character, as he gets older and makes sense of his thoughts more, the less abstract the text feels.  I was really wishing I could read this on paper but unfortunately I can’t be dropping 25 or so dollars on a book every week 🙁

This text doesn’t feel like a story in the sense that to be honest I didn’t feel like anything actually happened but after reading I feel an appreciation of the mental journey of Marcel, roaming his own thoughts and memories. Looking back on memories, fondly, with fragrances, sensations jumping out, only fragments yet creating the sense of a whole.