(In June 2009, Michael Norris began a series of explorations of long masterpiece by Marcel Proust in search of lost time that ends with a coda staff today.) Thanks to Mike Norris and artist David Richardson for this vast work! A page devoted to the entire series has been created here. (- Levi)
I awakening to hell noises. Bells! Light filtered in by streams. I changed gradually sleep awareness, and like me, I remembered where I was. Combray. EH well, Illiers-Combray. French village which was inspired by Marcel Proust. The city began its life as Illiers and was renamed Illiers-Combray on occasion of the 100th anniversary of birth of Proust in 1971.
Bells continued unabated. Of course! It is Sunday morning. It was the bells of the Church of Saint James, Saint-Hilaire in Lost In Search of) convene people in mass. My wife still sleeping, forgetting the commotion. I slid my clothes and low.
The hotel where we stayed, the image is the only accommodation in the Centre of the city. The only other hotel is near the railway station. Image hotel is located on the commune of squares, sandwiched between a grocery store and a pharmacy, a few steps from the Church. There is a unique coffee place. Hotel bar serves as an alternative to coffee for those who want to escape from the warm morning sun.
I took a seat at the end of the bar and ordered an espresso. It was wonderfully fresh indoors and a breeze blew the door open to the street. Outside, I could see the sun shining already beaten on outdoor coffee tables.
A man dressed in period costume walk in and accelerated at the helm. He ordered a cup of coffee and stood the conversation with the guard of the hotel, which was also the bartender, Cook and carrier. The custodian of the hotel was great, thin and very sociable as Theodore boy novel, if Theodore grocer grew up and returned to the hotel.
Another man came and came to the bar. He was wearing clothing work, perhaps a local farmer. He nodded Hello dressed man shook hands all around, and the guardian of the hotel pays him a glass of wine without a word being traded. All three were in a deep discussion of something that much that I couldn't take my pole at the end of the bar.
I have completed my espresso and headed back to the floor. On the second floor, he began to warm. Far from Paris, in the middle of the France summer days are sunny and warm. Air conditioning is non-existent. You learn to appreciate the shade and cool, Breezes to savour the evening when sets of Sun and in the world cools.
My wife and I had been to Illiers-Combray before. This time we were passing by, on our way to Britain in Paris. Illiers-Combray was a good place to stop for the night. We had a rental car, and we decided to drop the car at Chartres, 28 km and take the train to Paris, thus avoiding stressful Parisian traffic.
We had breakfast at a table in the hotel, bar, coffee and croissants and then go to explore the city. The square was animated with people and traffic. The grocery store and a few other stores were open until noon, and the villagers and the people of the surrounding countryside were pressed to lay into provisions before the closed city midday and visited his deep sleep Sunday afternoon. We purchased a few fruits and some sandwiches - kind French, with half a rod and composed of ham, cheese platter and ementhal: lettuce, tomatoes and sliced hard egg. This could serve breakfast later. Also, we bought a few bottles of water and a bottle of wine from the Côtes du Rhône.
We walked to the coffee and decided to take another coffee and sitting for some time before the day became too hot. A couple chatted to a nearby table. Two small children walked holding the hand of their mother.
Illiers-Combray is a typical French village. The streets are narrow and lined with houses and shops, which the other State, forming a grey limestone wall broken only by the old wooden doors. The window at the time of the day are protected against heat coming.
And yet after reading Proust, the city has a familiar tone. Many of the daily rhythms have not changed since the Belle Époque, even though we are now a decade into the 21st century. The shops close at noon and reopen to two hours. Coffee and the Church are the focal points of village life.
Combray is a thread through constantly in search of lost time. Even in the last volume, Mr. is able to convene a clear picture of this place of childhood. This is the starting - point at the dawn of his conscience of the world.
My conscience proustian started before, when I looked at seven volumes of lost time In Search of these called days of remembrance of Things Past) at rest in the stacks at the Chicago public library. When I read later work, I started the adventure took me in France and beyond. Now, I was still sitting in the hot sun at the source - Combray.
The sense of place is Lost In Search of strong. The way of Guermantes, Swann - how these areas permeate the novel current running through the work as the Vivonne crosses the village. Strange that a work of literature would me to a small French town thousands of miles of my house and the typical attractions that bring in France miles.
Some books leave you with the satisfaction of a complex plot. Others leave you with indelible characters. Certainly in search of lost time contains indelible characters. But there is more. Idea imagination versus experience is something that I never really thought to until I read this work. The hero is constantly facing the events has been established for a dynamic tint in his imagination, only to be disappointed by their reality. And even as time passes it reflects on the event, his imaginary version merges with the real and he is left with an even richer than its original design memory.
It is in search of time lost is subject. Imagination escapism and reconciling then it in memory. Which fades, but which can be called by some external trigger involuntarily memory: the flavour of a madeleine soaked in tea, the raw texture towel, the sound of tapping a spoon plate. We've all experienced it - Proust he brings to the life of RAM.
Sitting at the coffee shop in Combray de Proust, I could imagine M. as a boy - its desire to meet the Duchess of Guermantes, thoughts of Balbec, his conversations with Swann, all wishes and dreams that set him on the great adventure of his life. Everything began in this small village.
I looked at the Church belfry. The bells were ringing again, this time giving an hour. This element of Proust Combray was unchanged indeed "Church design city representative, speaking the same and horizon".
I can never return to Combray, or can I visit several times. But, like Proust, have a memory stored in this location. The Sun in the streets of the village, the resort. Waiting only for some unsuspected cue - Bell Church, perhaps - to bring it back to life.
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