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Teenage romance: we've all been through it but no-one has ever described what it feels like as lovingly and minutely as Marcel Proust. By the same token he does go on a bit.
There are two masters of this sort of thing. The other is Henry James. Together they represent the end of the line. No-one since has wanted to take things any further.
Nothing happens in Proust. Nothing by way of action. He's like Jane Austen only more so, beavering away with a camel hair brush at his little square of ivory. Except that "little" is hardly the right word. One begins to wish for a touch of melodrama. Towards the end of the sequence the Great War- unplanned for when Proust began- imposes itself upon the cushioned life of his characters and I'm rather looking forward to it.
There are two masters of this sort of thing. The other is Henry James. Together they represent the end of the line. No-one since has wanted to take things any further.
Nothing happens in Proust. Nothing by way of action. He's like Jane Austen only more so, beavering away with a camel hair brush at his little square of ivory. Except that "little" is hardly the right word. One begins to wish for a touch of melodrama. Towards the end of the sequence the Great War- unplanned for when Proust began- imposes itself upon the cushioned life of his characters and I'm rather looking forward to it.
