*The Captive
The Captive -Marcel Proust
There is breadth, care, and beauty to every word of this book. Though atimes rather a sob-sister, Proust nevertheless has me drooling over Fortuny gowns, the fluency of M. de Charlus, dreams of Venice, the neckline of Albertine, and the ubiquitous “little phrase” of Vinteiul’s sonata. His best work comes in flashes of complete, airy plotlessness. When he ramps onto the he-said-she-said circuit, I only long for the return to the prismatic, oleaginous, philosophizing eyes of our dear Marcel, the protagonist. The end of this novel brought back a simplicity that I haven’t seen since Marcel was a little boy, yawning and fretting for his mother to come kiss him goodnight.
There is breadth, care, and beauty to every word of this book. Though atimes rather a sob-sister, Proust nevertheless has me drooling over Fortuny gowns, the fluency of M. de Charlus, dreams of Venice, the neckline of Albertine, and the ubiquitous “little phrase” of Vinteiul’s sonata. His best work comes in flashes of complete, airy plotlessness. When he ramps onto the he-said-she-said circuit, I only long for the return to the prismatic, oleaginous, philosophizing eyes of our dear Marcel, the protagonist. The end of this novel brought back a simplicity that I haven’t seen since Marcel was a little boy, yawning and fretting for his mother to come kiss him goodnight.
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