Paramètres
- 1216pages
- 43 heures de lecture
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Marcel Proust whiled away the first half of his life as a self-conscious aesthete and social climber. The second half he spent in the creation of the mighty roman-fleuve that is Remembrance of Things Past, memorializing his own dandyism and parvenu hijinks even as he revealed their essential hollowness. Proust begins, of course, at the beginning--with the earliest childhood perceptions and sorrows. Then, over several thousand pages, he retraces the course of his own adolescence and adulthood, democratically dividing his experiences among the narrator and a sprawling cast of characters. Who else has ever decanted life into such ornate, knowing, wrought-iron sentences? Who has subjected love to such merciless microscopy, discriminating between the tiniest variations of desire and self-delusion? Who else has produced a grief-stricken record of time's erosion that can also make you laugh for entire pages? The answer to all these questions is: nobody.
Achat du livre
Remembrance of Things Past, Marcel Proust
- Langue
- Année de publication
- 1989
- product-detail.submit-box.info.binding
- (souple)
Modes de paiement
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- Titre
- Remembrance of Things Past
- Langue
- Anglais
- Auteurs
- Marcel Proust
- Éditeur
- Penguin
- Publié
- 1989
- Format
- souple
- Pages
- 1216
- ISBN10
- 0140182233
- ISBN13
- 9780140182231
- Mots clés
- Fiction, Littérature mondiale, Thématique philosophique, Amour, Relations, Roman social, Souvenirs, Temps
- Évaluation
- 4,4 sur 5
- Description
- Marcel Proust whiled away the first half of his life as a self-conscious aesthete and social climber. The second half he spent in the creation of the mighty roman-fleuve that is Remembrance of Things Past, memorializing his own dandyism and parvenu hijinks even as he revealed their essential hollowness. Proust begins, of course, at the beginning--with the earliest childhood perceptions and sorrows. Then, over several thousand pages, he retraces the course of his own adolescence and adulthood, democratically dividing his experiences among the narrator and a sprawling cast of characters. Who else has ever decanted life into such ornate, knowing, wrought-iron sentences? Who has subjected love to such merciless microscopy, discriminating between the tiniest variations of desire and self-delusion? Who else has produced a grief-stricken record of time's erosion that can also make you laugh for entire pages? The answer to all these questions is: nobody.