Today I finished 'The Guermantes Way,' the third volume of Proust (in the newish translation by Mark Treharne published by Penguin).
Although this could no doubt be said of any work of art (or at least any for which you feel any admiration), I think that it's probably impossible to read Proust for a second time -- in my case -- and not reflect upon the differences between your memory of the book and your present perceptions.
When I first read it, almost ten years ago, I was certainly much younger and more idealistic (and naive), so that I was awestruck not only by the usual things we read about Proust -- namely, his powers of description, his lush prose and his extensive knowledge of painting and literature -- but also his infatuation with the aristocracy, with which in this volume he becomes increasingly obsessed and then familiar after being invited to several parties. Is there anyone, I wonder, who has not moved to New York City (or any metropolis) and not been seduced by wanting to belong to a group you perceive (rightly or wrongly) as more powerful or glamorous than what you have ever known, so that you can imagine that their approval and acceptance will somehow serve to better justify your existence than if you had just spent your years alone?
What I did not remember, however -- and this again, no doubt a reflection on myself -- was the cruel hilarity in the book, not only present in the aristocrats and their narcissistic behavior, but moreover in Proust's cutting portraits of these people, so that once you scratch beneath the surface of his admiration -- one rooted mostly in a sense of nostalgia and history present in the names the upper classes possess, but in a completely unconscious manner, i.e., they wield their titles and privilege the way most people use our lungs -- you find a scathing portrait of what are really the most miserable and soulless collection of people you could imagine.
To give just one example, the book ends with the duchess the narrator has admired most -- and it is true that she displays a cunning wit and vast knowledge, so that we understand Proust's infatuation for her -- learning about the imminent death of one of her closest friends; but rather than comfort him, however, she basically ushers him out the door so that she will not be more than a few minutes late to a dinner party.
It is certainly true, as Richard Rorty pointed out, that in this work, Proust effectively takes his revenge on those who were undoubtedly snobby and cruel to him by framing them within the context of his narrative; it is also to his (eternal) credit that he doesn't portray them as simply inhuman or monstrous (although the word does appear a few times), the way we have grown accustomed to seeing say, bankers in the current era, but rather makes those who appear in his book all the more tragic by endowing them (or at least some of them) with intelligence and impeccable manners and grace, so that their ultimate failures come across as that much more tragic, i.e., as if they were people we have known and loved but who have disappointed us. Ultimately, Proust seems to tell us that in this life, we have nobody on whom we can rely except for ourselves. (He takes a particularly dim view of 'friendship.')
To read this book is to get the sense that Proust experienced the most society could offer, and at the same time is to understand why -- in the end -- he turned completely away from it with such vehemence.
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