All about the English-language editions of Marcel Proust's great novel, À la recherche du temps perdu, once known as Remembrance of Things Past but now more accurately titled In Search of Lost Time
"... the girl who really stood out for me this time had red hair, light-colored, superior eyes that rested on me, nostrils that quivered in the wind, and a hat that resembled the open wings of a seagull flying in the wind that ruffled her red cutls."
Isn't that pretty? The words appears in the New Yorker double issue of July 12/19, in a short story titled "Young Girls," more than a century after Marcel Proust wrote them. The translator was Deborah Triesman, and I hope she or somebody soon gets around to rendering the entire "seventy-five pages" of Proust's earliest stab at À la recherche du temps perdu.
At the moment, the book exists only in the French edition published this spring by Gallimard as Les soixante-quinze feuillets: Et autres manuscrits inédits (The Seventy-five Pages: And Other Unpublished Manuscripts). The link is to the US Amazon store; the book is available of course at Amazon.fr as well. The editor was Nathalie Mauriac, with a preface by the Proust biographer Jean-Yves Tadié.
Wrote one reviewer: "We can finally access the real 'first draft' of the The Search ... this immense and mysterious work like a cathedral that never ceases to hold surprises for us! This collection is a must for lovers of Proust, and at the same time, an opportunity for neophytes or for all those who think, wrongly, that the Search is a work for specialists." And another: "Strictly reserved for fans of "Petit Marcel", but they will be delighted! They will discover, for example, that, in the first version, the famous madeleine was a toast!"
In addition to the eponymous seventy-five pages, the paperback is generously padded out with Proust's early drafts, including successive versions as he honed a sentence or paragraph.
I peeked into Swann's Way two or three times before a pal challenged me to read the entire novel with him. Every Wednesday on his way to the law office where he was a low-level attorney, he stopped by my rented room (it had a kitchen and bath but wasn't really an apartment). We drank coffee, smoked(!), and talked about the week's reading. Egging each other on in this fashion, we both finished Remembrance of Things Past before the year was out.
Ten years later, I read it again — and aloud — to my wife over the course of two winters. (One of the French deconstructionists, arguing that one can't just study a novel by itself, because it's a collaborative venture between author and reader, cinched his case by saying: "After all, who has read every word of À la recherche du temps perdu?" It pleased me hugely to be able to think, "I did!")
That was the handsome, two-volume Random House edition of the novel, the first six books rendered into English by C K Scott Moncrieff and the seventh by Frederick Blossom. (Scott Moncrieff died before finishing his task, which is probably why Penguin decided to employ seven different translators for its 21st century Proust.) When Terence Kilmartin's reworking came out in the 1990s, I bought that three-volume edition, but read only pieces of it — notably Andreas Mayor's translation of The Past Recaptured, greatly improved over the rather lame Blossom version. Otherwise, Remembrance of Things Past seemed mostly unchanged from Scott Moncrieff's translation.
Then came the Penguin editions, the first four volumes of which were published in the US by Viking. After reading a rave review of vol. 2 — In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower — I decided that I would have to read it. On second thought, I decided to start from the beginning with the new Swann's Way. It was a good decision. Lydia Davis did a wonderful job with the first volume, and by the time I'd lulled Little Marcel to sleep (on page 43 in the Viking edition), I knew that I was once again in for the long haul. I set out to acquire a complete set of hardcover books — not so easy, as matters turned out! I read them in sequence, and I reported on them in what was a sort of blog. And now I'm adding the elegant Yale University Press editions as they are published.
Beyond that, I've seen it argued that literary French has changed little over the past hundred years, while English most certainly has, under the battering of such writers as James Joyce and Ernest Hemingway. (Whatever you say about C K Scott Moncrieff, he probably never read Ulysses, and he certainly was unfamiliar with the noisy young journalist who stormed into Paris in 1921.) However that may be, it's nice to have a freshened version of Proust's prose, and one that arguably is closer to the original than the one rendered by Scott Moncrieff in the 1920s.
(Proust, Joyce, and Hemingway! It's pleasant to think that my three favorite writers once breathed the same air in Paris. Indeed, Joyce and Proust once met at a party ... and had little or nothing to say to one another.)
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Posted July 2021. © 2006-2021 Fallbook Press; all rights reserved.