A Year of Proust: Some Musings

When it’s all said and done, I’ve failed my year of Proust. I’m now only halfway through Within a Budding Grove, the second volume. It’s taken me half the year to get through less than two volumes. Though it’s only the end of July, and there are still five good months left in the year, I have no intention of racing through the remainder of Remembrance of Things Past – nor do I think it’s humanly possible to truly appreciate this masterpiece while ‘racing through it’.

To be fair, I’ve been through a lot of tough personal circumstances this year regarding health, relationships, and career decisions. Reading has been slow as a result. I’ve noticed, sadly, that literature takes a back-seat when the going gets tough. It was one of those years where I felt as though I was watching sequence after sequence of a horror movie, helpless to do anything but watch as my own life fell apart. But I’m slowly picking up the pieces, and with that, my love of literature is slowly recovering itself as well.

At this rate, it’ll probably be more a decade of Proust than a year, but I don’t mind. Why? Because I enjoy delving into that idyllic, dreamy world of his to keep myself in check. Proust allows me to dream, and to hope, and to indulge in a little beauty when life seems grim. It has a pleasant hum that I like to get lost in every once in a while when things wear me down. And so I’ll keep plodding on, without time restrictions and silly deadlines that I try to set for myself.

But I don’t feel all that silly about it, seeing as it’s what got me started in the first place. If I hadn’t set that project earlier this year, I would have continually pushed it back to make way for other books, and I would never have discovered the wonder of  À la recherche du temps perdu.

Booker Booker

Belatedly narrowing down my reading choices from the Booker longlist (I never like to restrict myself to just the shortlist):

• Skios, Michael Frayn – seems like a good read for summer. I’m partial to things set on the Greek islands, and I don’t even mind if they’re twee or or a bit cheesy (like Mamma Mia). The cover does make it look like supermarket chick-lit, but I’m trying to get over my atrocious habit of literally judging books by their covers.
• The Garden of Evening Mists, Tan Twan Eng – fo sho, the type of book I enjoy and adore and will possibly be disappointed by, but I really doubt it at this stage, because it looks wonderful! (I’m already raving)
• Swimming Home, Deborah Levy. Heard some fantastic things about this one. Sounds a bit like a modern Tender is the Night, though perhaps it won’t be as glamorous as the jazz age world Fitzgerald paints.
• Narcopolis, Jeet Thayil – some readers I know have snidely dismissed this as the ‘token’ Indian novel, but come on people! If it’s a good book, it’s a good book so just give it a chance. Perhaps this also applies to this year’s winner, which I’m really just dubious about.

This brings me to my next point. Yes, you may have noticed that a certain prominent book by a certain prominent author is missing; namely, the winner, Bring Up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel. But I’ve decided not to read it, because dear Booker judges, I didn’t like your 2009 choice Wolf Hall that much! And (somewhat childishly, I know) I’ve decided not to even give the second book a chance.

A Trip to the Library

Made a trip to the library today, with something of an informal project in mind: to read some ‘catch up’ books – i.e. books or writers I’ve always meant to read, but have never really gotten round to (sadly, a phrase I repeat fairly often) 

These are anything from:

• Classics I’ve heard a lot about, such as Stella Gibbons’ Cold Comfort Farm
• Readers’ favourites that have just evaded me for some reason or other (Amy Tan’s Joy Luck Club and The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith)
• Writers I’ve been curious about for a while (Saki, Orhan Pamuk, Graham Greene)
• to past Booker favourites/winners/finalists that I just never got around to (Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, Peter Carey’s Parrot and Olivier in America).

You may also notice that most of these books are jolly and jovial and lighthearted. Yes. I’m making an effort to read comforting, pleasant things, because my university readings require me to read a lot of things about drab and dismal things (I’m in a mood for adjectives!)

Can’t wait to dig into these!