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#proust
blackswaneuroparedux · 9 months
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My mother was right: When you've got nothing left, all you can do is get into silk underwear and start reading Proust.
Jane Birkin
...or spend one night in bed with Brigitte Bardot. As a much older male literary friend once said to me , one night with Brigitte Bardot would make up for not reading Proust and answer any existential questions one would have about life and meaning.
Unfortunately most of don't have that luxury and so the next best thing to do is to try and read Proust.
‘À la recherche du temps perdu’ (In Search of Lost Time) is a novel dedicated thoroughly and deeply to love. In a sense, it serves as a compendium of the different ways we can love, do love, and should love. Of course, one of its central insights is into the ways that we shouldn’t love - whether that means loving the wrong person or in the wrong way. If you’ve ever wondered whether Proust is more about love or heartbreak you realise, once you’ve actually read him, you realise you can’t cleanly separate the two. Proust routinely explores the very specific strain of sadness that can only occur in romance. In doing so it is also in part about virtue, vice, prejudice, and folly.
Reading Proust expands your universe and your inner life for at the core is a set of big, wonderful, difficult questions about life.  Here are a few of them: how we can feel at home in the world; how we can find genuine connection with other human beings; how we can find enchantment in a world without God or if indeed is it possible; how art can transform our lives; whether an artist’s life can shed light on her work; what we can know about reality, other people, and ourselves; when not knowing is better than knowing; who we are really, deep down; what memory tells us about our inner world; why it might be good to think of our life as a story; and how we can feel like a single, unified person when we are torn apart by competing desires and change over time.
Moreover to read Proust is to read about ourselves through someone else trying - and ultimately failing, as we all fail - to capture the past. We are interested in our pasts, not least because our past has made us what we are. Our past is filed with treasures and disappointments, missed opportunities, and regrets, all of which fascinate us: the full value of the treasures can never be recovered, but as compensation we have the rest to mull over as we sip our tea and take a bite of a Madeleine.
RIP Jane Birkin (1946-2023)
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Theoretically, we are aware that the earth is spinning, but in reality we do not notice it: the ground we walk on seems to be stationary and gives no cause for alarm. The same happens with Time.
from In Search of Lost Time, Book 2: In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower by Marcel Proust
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lotusyiyen · 5 months
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papillon-de-mai · 2 months
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Proust, Joyce, Faulkner, Rilke, Lawrence, Gide…one could go on citing author after author; the list is endless of those around whom thick encrustations of interpretation have taken hold. But it should be noted that interpretation is not simply the compliment that mediocrity pays to genius. It is, indeed, the modern way of understanding something, and is applied to works of every quality. Thus, in the notes that Elia Kazan published on his production of A Streetcar Named Desire, it becomes clear that, in order to direct the play, Kazan had to discover that Stanley Kowalski represented the sensual and vengeful barbarism that was engulfing our culture, while Blanche Du Bois was Western civilization, poetry, delicate apparel, dim lighting, refined feelings and all, though a little the worse for wear to be sure. Tennessee Williams’ forceful psychological melodrama now became intelligible: it was about something, about the decline of Western civilization. Apparently, were it to go on being a play about a handsome brute named Stanley Kowalski and a faded mangy belle named Blanche Du Bois, it would not be manageable.
— Susan Sontag, from "Against Interpretation"
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korunak · 9 months
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"bir bakışa, bir gülüşe, bir omuza aşık oluruz. bu kadarı yeterlidir; sonra, umutla ya da kederle geçen uzun saatler içinde bir insan uydururuz, bir karakter oluştururuz."
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girafeduvexin · 5 months
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Je suis vachement émue en pensant à Proust aujourd'hui.
C'est un auteur asthmatique, homosexuel et juif, qui a connu l'homophobie, l'antisémitisme (et l'affaire Dreyfus), tout en étant souvent alité car sujet à des crises d'asthme violentes.
Être à part, incompris, hypersensible (peut-être neurodivergent à mon avis), "étranger en terre étrangère", divisé entre différentes identités, et qu'est-ce qu'a été sa réponse face à ce monde qui le rejetait ?
Il a écrit un des livres les plus longs du monde. Il a écrit des phrases interminables, alors qu'il n'avait même pas le souffle pour les lire. La plus longue phrase de Proust est sur les Juifs et les homosexuels, l'antisémitisme et l'homophobie, c'est une phrase qui refuse d'être oubliée, qui refuse de se faire effacer. Je suis Juif, je suis homosexuel, je suis asthmatique et on va m'entendre.
Il a écrit jusqu'au matin de sa mort. Il était alité, affaibli par une bronchite mal soignée et il a écrit jusqu'au bout. Ne m'oubliez pas, ne nous oubliez pas.
Comme l'écrit Sappho, "Quelqu'un plus tard se souviendra de nous."
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dk-thrive · 29 days
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If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? “I would just be content with every moment as it is instead of gnashing my teeth trying to change things all the time.”
— Jodi Foster, from "Jodie Foster Answers the Proust Questionnaire" (Vanity Fair, February 23, 2024)
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loneberry · 1 year
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After I finished making a midterm exam, Molly and I went to a secret Japanese tea house. It appears on no map, has no hours, no sign. It is as though it exists, somehow, outside this world. When you enter, you give your phone to the owner to lock in a box for the duration of your visit.
We stayed for nearly 6 hours—sat reading poems, chatting with the eccentric owner about Sufism and the ocean and his peculiar flower arrangements consisting of a mix of living and dead plant matter.
How can I describe it, the strange sensation of being alive, late at night in those dim lights, surrounded by beauty. I got up to look at the wares, inhaled the hinoki essential oil—Max Richter was playing as I stared at blank notecards and imagined writing someone a heartfelt note, writing bravely, from that bewitched and emotionally authentic space I was in. I felt a sudden pang. It was the moment opening, with all its counterfactuals, what could have been, what will never be—how deeply I could feel, in that instant, the texture of my grief.
When I’m in the hustle and bustle of my busy and now quite ordinary life, I think, if only I could really hear the voice that says,
“Jackie, it was not for this that you were created.”
Then I would give away all my things and spend my days in prayer.
Susan Howe writes that for Sarah Edwards, “all works of God are a kind of language or voice to instruct us in things pertaining to calling and confusion.”
“...each soul comes upon the call of God in his word. I read words but don’t hear God in them.”
Did I pray, how long in supplication, with my inner eye fixed on that phantom, the phantom with her eyes stitched shut, limbs covered in oak moss. A dream of the opening of the eyes, the inert limbs now lithe and moving toward you. Ordinary objects and sounds are suddenly strange. That’s when the phantom slips through, when I hear the birds singing in a tree...
The blooming moment. Retrospectively, I am convinced that its condition of possibility was the confiscation of my phone, that it is only when we are unplugged that we can sense these holy emanations.
How calm we were, leafing through the book of Japanese death poems (jisei) in the tea house. What will be the last words I write before dying? For all I know, it could be this, or this. I remembered the dying words of George Mackay Brown: “I see hundreds and hundreds of ships sailing out of the harbour.” I remember the fragments Kafka wrote while dying, “lemonade everything was infinite,” his concern for the peony, the improvised performance—the incantation—I did at the Zinc Bar in 2015 using Kafka’s dying words, how J wept in the audience, then wrote me about the snow:
I am the guy, by the way, who said hi on the street, in the snow, after your reading. … I did indeed cry after your Kafka-Cixous incantation, partly because that phrase has been magic to me my whole life. I read Cixous' novel by that name when I studied with her and Derrida in my twenties... Her seminars were amazing. One day, funnily enough, she gave a seminar on snow in Proust, simply because snow was on the ground in Paris. For all sorts of reasons your whole reading shook and tenderised me deeply. I suppose, with the snow through the tinted glass outside, it will forever be, my imagination of what you read will forever be blanche niege texte.
(standing on the corner in manhattan with that powdery snow i was looking at the flowers when you walked past actually, turned, swivelled, i had needed to get out of the bar because the reading had touched me so much . . . i then went and wandered in the snow for an hour, till i happened on a subway, and back to my friend's in brooklyn . . . i have been thinking more today about how effective your reading was to me. it sort of made me feel i could only read poetry from now on if i was embodied, since what convinced in your reading beyond the obvious was the adjustments to us, the audience, the interruptions, the ability to break off, and then the actual concentration because of the embodiments . . . at most poetry readings i am constantly thinking 'i am at a poetry reading' and can't really get beyond the poem-as-poem-at-reading. when you read i was suddenly completely focused. the bodily resonation was right, a recuperation of grace, so i could listen. like before the internet or something. it returned me all the way to early cixous and feminine writing and what that could still mean, a writing beyond master-works and over-sociality of tact, agua viva, what korine might call 'mistakist' heaven. it was my first time in new york. my last night. stop. for now. cut the flowers.)
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0rph3u5 · 28 days
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love is a reciprocal torture
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mishimamiravenecia · 15 days
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El legendario Hotel Danieli ofrece vistas a la laguna de Venecia y se encuentra a 200 metros de la plaza de San Marco
(Español / English)
El Hotel Danieli, situado en Venecia, es un lugar cargado de historia y lujo. Su origen se remonta al siglo XIV, cuando fue construido por la noble familia Dandolo. Este emblemático hotel se compone de tres palacios interconectados, cada uno con su propia historia:
Palacio Danieli Excelsior: Data del siglo XX.
Palacio Casa Nuova: Construido en el siglo XIX, fue inicialmente la sede del tesoro.
Palazzo Dandolo: Este edificio de estilo gótico veneciano, que data de finales del siglo XIV, es el corazón del Hotel Danieli. Fue mandado construir por el dux Andrea Dandolo y domina la Riva degli Schiavoni.
El palacio Dandolo, decorado con oro, marfiles y objetos bizantinos, fue considerado "el más noble de la Serenissima" por su arquitectura gótica y su posición privilegiada en la laguna. A lo largo de los siglos, el hotel ha alojado a reyes, príncipes, cardenales, embajadores y personajes famosos. Entre ellos, Charles Dickens, Wagner, Balzac, Proust y Chaplin.
Sin embargo, algunas de las historias más intrigantes están relacionadas con las pasiones amorosas que tuvieron lugar entre sus muros. Por ejemplo, la larga historia de amor entre la famosa actriz Eleonora Duse y el poeta Gabriele d'Annunzio comenzó en el Hotel Danieli en 1895. En 1933, la habitación número 10 fue escenario de un apasionado y escandaloso romance entre George Sand (seudónimo de Amandine-Lucie-Aurore Dupin) y Alfred de Musset.
Además, el hotel fue testigo del encuentro entre Aristóteles Onassis y la famosa soprano Maria Callas en 1957. Su historia de amor, que duró diez años, comenzó aquí mismo, durante un baile organizado por Wally Toscanini.
El Hotel Danieli sigue encantando a los visitantes con su fachada rosa, sus torreones blancos y sus balcones abovedados, símbolos de la riqueza cultural veneciana. Un lugar cargado de historia, lujo y romanticismo en el corazón de Venecia .
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Overlooking the Venice Lagoon, the legendary Hotel Danieli is 200 metres from St Mark’s Square
The Hotel Danieli, located in Venice, is a place steeped in history and luxury. Its origin dates back to the XIV century, when it was built by the noble Dandolo family. This iconic hotel is composed of three interconnected palaces, each with its own unique history:
Danieli Excelsior Palace: Dating back to the XX century.
Palazzo Casa Nuova: Built in the XIXth century, it was initially the seat of the treasury.
Palazzo Dandolo: This Venetian Gothic-style building, dating back to the late 14th century, is the heart of the Hotel Danieli. It was commissioned by Doge Andrea Dandolo and overlooks the Riva degli Schiavoni.
Palazzo Dandolo, decorated with gold, marmi and Byzantine artefacts, was considered "the noblest of the Serenissima" for its Gothic architecture and privileged position on the lagoon. Over the centuries, the hotel has hosted kings, princes, cardinals, ambassadors and famous people. Famous guests include Charles Dickens, Wagner, Balzac, Proust and Chaplin.
However, some of the most intriguing stories are related to the amorous passions that took place within its walls. For instance, the long love affair between the famous actress Eleonora Duse and the poet Gabriele d'Annunzio began at the Hotel Danieli in 1895. In 1933, room number 10 was the scene of a passionate and scandalous affair between George Sand (pseudonym of Amandine-Lucie-Aurore Dupin) and Alfred de Musset.
Furthermore, the hotel witnessed the meeting between Aristotle Onassis and the famous soprano Maria Callas in 1957. Their love affair, which lasted a full ten years, began right here, during a ball organised by Wally Toscanini.
The Hotel Danieli continues to enchant visitors with its pink façade, white turrets and arched balconies, symbols of Venetian cultural richness. A place steeped in history, luxury and romance in the heart of Venice .
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lamarchesacasati · 11 months
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Lady Gaga, transforms into Marisa Berenson in a Paul Poiret dress’ recreation of Marchesa Luisa Casati Stampa for vogue US “Remembrance of things Proust” in January 1972. Photo by Steven Meisel for Vogue UK, December 2021. 
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blackswaneuroparedux · 11 months
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Le véritable voyage de découverte ne consiste pas à chercher de nouveaux paysages, mais à avoir de nouveaux yeux.
- Marcel Proust
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Real beauty is so individual, so unfamiliar at first sight, that it is not recognized as beauty.
from In Search of Lost Time, Book 3: The Guermantes Way by Marcel Proust
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lerefugedeluza · 2 months
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abram-minyard · 9 months
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tw// proust, riko
oh my gosh, i read somewhere in a headcanon that riko describes in detail to neil what's happening between andrew and proust to threaten/torture him. nora also mentioned in her tumblr that proust sent videos to riko of the sessions, so what riko was watching the videos and actually describing what was happening to neil.
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girafeduvexin · 4 months
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J'écoute un podcast sur Proust et une femme qui a écrit un livre sur la Recherche explique qu'elle a compris le vide de la noblesse (étant elle-même extraite de ce milieu) en lisant Proust. Et elle dit "la noblesse dans Proust, c'est le vide, les nobles n'ont aucune culture" ce qui est vrai mais tout le monde est "wahou ! Révolutionnaire !" Et. Hm.
Je ne la critique pas du tout et d'ailleurs, j'ai envie d'acheter son livre parce qu'elle parle de sa propre famille et elle compare avec la Recherche, ce qui doit être fascinant(Proust, un roman familial). Je maintiens néanmoins que seuls les feujs et les homos peuvent comprendre Proust du premier coup parce que c'est évident qu'il n'y que Charlus et Swann qui ont un tant soit peu de culture dans ce bouquin ! La culture vient d'un mondain juif et d'un noble homosexuel et ils sont tous les deux rejetés, ingratitude suprême de la noblesse.
Et c'est tellement agaçant quand des films et des analyses fantasment sur la noblesse chez Proust alors que franchement. C'est une fausse piste. Ils tombent dans le même piège que le narrateur, persuadé que cette élite est à la hauteur de sa réputation. Mais ce n'est que du vent...
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