I am the only one in ecstasy inhaling, through the noise of the falling rain, the smell of invisible, enduring lilacs.--Marcel ProustLet's face it. We're not in college anymore. (I should have faced that fact two decades ago. But better late than never, as they say.) Since adult life doesn't generally provide a grassy quad to stretch out on all afternoon as you make margin notes in the classic literature you're required to read for some survey course you're required to take, reading time is at a premium. Even the most earnest adult readers among us have to fight for the time to read the newspaper on a daily basis. That given, who has the time to read a novel, let alone a novel of epic proportions like Proust's In Search of Lost Time? The numerous volumes span more than 13,000 pages! If you line all the pages up top to bottom they would stretch around the world three times! Well, probably not. But still. You get the picture.
One would have to be overcome with a fit of optimism to consider purchasing even Swann's Way the first volume of Proust's mammoth collection. For all it's beautiful epiphanies, the book is slow moving--not much happens in terms of plot. From everything I've heard, the highlight of these four hundred some pages is an incident involving a tea-soaked madeleine. Who has time for this?
At this point in my life, my eleven-month-old daughter barely naps long enough for me to take a shower. If I want to bathe properly, I have to plop the baby in a high chair, sprinkle Cheerios on her tray, and drag her and the chair into the bathroom with me--all the while playing peekaboo behind the shower curtain as I shave my legs. Who has time for Proust?
People (and by people I mean nerdy people) have to start support groups to finish In Search of Lost Time, as if the task is tantamount to overcoming an addiction to narcotics. And even then, most group members relapse and pick up a copy of Us Weekly at the grocery check out counter. The modern American lifestyle just doesn't seem to lend itself to reading great works of literature outside of college. These books were written for people who had servants, and drank tea with their neighbors at four o'clock, and spent their mornings strolling through hedged gardens behind their estates.
So what I'm trying to say is: nobody would give me a hard time for never having read Proust. And yet, there I was last Friday night in the West Village handing the woman at the bookstore a twenty for Lydia Davis' most recent translation of Swann's Way. Perhaps I should have just taken that twenty and lit it on fire. But then again, nobody has ever accused me of being a realist.
Realist or not, here's what I'm learning as I grow older: time not only speeds up, but also gets scarcer. It may just be that this aptly-titled book, In Search of Lost Time, is just what I need. After all, this is the book that stopped Virginia Woolf in her tracks by its breathtaking imagery. After reading Proust, Woolf, a genius in her own right, wondered what was left to write?
Clearly, there was plenty.
With a new daughter in tow, I'm learning too that if I'm going to embark on anything worthwhile at all (in addition to the uber-meaningful job of parenting,) I have to just simply do it--whether I have the time or not.
So I'm reading Proust. I don't expect to be blown away by the story line or riveted by every sentence. I don't even expect to finish it. I've decided to proceed in a willy nilly fashion. Every evening I open up Swann's Way to a random page and dig around in hopes of finding the beautiful gems of insight. So far I haven't been disappointed, and I don't think Proust would be either.


