Name: The Red Badge of Courage
Rating: 3.95662100456621 (219 reviews)
ISBN: 9780883434185

Stephen Crane

Jerome Axelrod

The Red Badge of Courage

Marcel Proust

Swann's Way (Penguin Modern Classics)

marlisa

Swann's Way is one of the preeminent novels of childhood: a sensitive boy's impressions of his family and neighbors, all brought dazzlingly back to life years later by the taste of a madeleine. It also enfolds the short novel "Swann in Love," an incomparable study of sexual jealousy that becomes a crucial part of the vast, unfolding structure of In Search of Lost Time. The first volume of the work that established Proust as one of the finest voices of the modern age — satirical, skeptical, confiding, and endlessly varied in its response to the human condition — Swann's Way also stands on its own as a perfect rendering of a life in art, of the past re-created through memory. 

In Search of Lost Time, Vol. 1 (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition)

Swann's Way

charles swann has obsessive compulsive disorder :)

lucy rosenthal

The narrator interrupts reminiscences about his childhood spent in late-nineteenth-century France to recall the affair which a friend of the family carried on with young Odette de Crecy.

In Search of Lost Time, Volume 1

Sarah Sammis

When I finished my weekly posts of my reading of Ulysses I asked on Twitter which book I should do next. The answer was a resounding In Search of Lost Times by Marcel Proust. It seemed to me like the perfect choice. It took me 19 weeks to finish the first volume, Swann's Way.

In Search of Lost Times is like Don Quixote, written and published over a number of years and revised and translated. In the case of Don Quixote the book is manageable with onionskin paper to be squeezed into one thick volume (even with all the illustrations). Not Proust's work though. It's massive. It makes The Lord of the Rings look like a short story. The Modern Library edition that I'm reading offers the seven volumes in six. As there are seven distinct titles, I will treat Proust's oeuvre as seven separate books instead of one massive novel. I'm not doing this for scholarly reasons, just convenience.

In Swann's Way there are two stories. There's the one of a young boy growing up among important and well known adults, aristocrats, artists and other celebrities. As a young child he is in awe of the adults around him. When the book closes and he has grown into young adulthood he sees his heroes with a better understanding of human nature. The person who brings about the end of his hero worship is Charles Swann.

Most of this six hundred page volume is centered on Charles Swann and his courtship with Odette. She though isn't the idealized vision of beauty and sophistication he thinks she is. She is his equal in temperament, vanity and vices. She is best and worst thing that could possibly happen to Swann.

I have a brand new copy of Within a Budding Grove which I am now working my way through. I suspect it will be another five months to finish this volume.

See full list of posts on my blog.

A cura di Paolo Pinto e Giuseppe Grasso Edizione integrale • Dalla parte di Swann • All’ombra delle fanciulle in fiore • I Guermantes • Sodoma e Gomorra • La Prigioniera • Albertine scomparsa • Il Tempo ritrovato Alla ricerca del tempo perduto è uno dei grandi capolavori della letteratura del Novecento. Attraverso le pagine di quest’opera monumentale, articolata in sette romanzi (Dalla parte di Swann, All’ombra delle fanciulle in fiore, I Guermantes, Sodoma e Gomorra, La Prigioniera, Albertine scomparsa e Il Tempo ritrovato), ci viene rivelata un’intera società, nell’arco di tempo che va dal 1880 al 1920. Protagonista assoluta è l’aristocrazia, colta nel momento in cui si conclude la sua splendida parabola. Tutti i personaggi sono sostanzialmente dei vinti, a ognuno il tempo ha sottratto qualcosa. Soltanto la memoria sembra sopravvivere alla sua tirannia e solo nell’arte è possibile trovare un compenso al disordine del mondo. Marcel Proust nacque a Parigi nel 1871 da famiglia borghese. Esordì come scrittore su alcune riviste legate al simbolismo. Nel 1893 il poeta Robert de Montesquiou lo introdusse nell’ambiente aristocratico che gli fornì molti modelli per i suoi personaggi. Si interessò di architettura, pittura, scultura. Nel 1902 morì il padre; quando, nel 1905 perse la madre, cui era legato da tenerezza morbosa, l’asma da fieno di cui soffriva fin da bambino divenne cronica. Nel 1906 si trasferì in un appartamento di boulevard Haussmann, dove fece applicare alle pareti della stanza un rivestimento di sughero per proteggersi dal rumore: qui, isolato dal mondo, scrisse Alla ricerca del tempo perduto, il monumentale ciclo di sette romanzi cui lavorò fino agli ultimi giorni della sua vita.

Alla ricerca del tempo perduto

Virginia L

(in realtá ho finito solo il primo libro)

#2013/2014 - Dalla parte di Swann#
 
Ho iniziato a leggere Proust perché é Proust. 
Perché La Recherche du Temps Perdu mi sembra un titolo delicato e misterioso.
Perché A. Baricco ne ha fatto una lezione bellissima.

Nel suo andare in profondità complica la sintassi nel modo piú lontano al nostro pensare. Ti stupisci di come magistralmente delinei qualcosa alla lontana per sette righe, e solo in conclusione con una grande sterzata ti restituisca il senso globale. 
Leggi confuso, barcollante, dove sta andando a parare? e solo quando finisci ti restituisce un intero pensiero nella testa. Prima no. Se lo interrompi prima non hai nulla. 
É come una spirale, finché non vai fino alla fine, al centro, non puoi capire di essere dentro una spirale. 

E non mi è risultato sempre accattivante.
A volte persino noioso, specie nella sfera bucolica che é una delle tematiche che peggio tollero (con le dovute eccezioni).
Poi, improvvisamente, diveniva piú vicino di ogni altro. Piú irresistibile dell'ultimo bestseller chiacchierato da tutti.
Perché prima o poi la acchiappa una tematica che ti interessa, qualcosa che non ti saresti mai sognato di vedere scritto da qualcuno. Perché la trovavi forse troppo singolare o poco degna di nota perché qualcun altro potesse esprimerla con questa eleganza di cui lui é capace.

Ed eccomi lí, rapita dal personaggio di Charles Swann, la cui somiglianza con il mio migliore amico mi ha quasi destabilizzato.
Ed ancora, ecco un episodio della mia vita, dipinto lí. Uno di quelli che mi ha fatto piú male e per questo uno dei piú utili. Troppo singolare perché qualcun altro possa ricevere le stesse impressioni, gli stessi avvenimenti? No. Eccolo lá.
E con questo mi ha stregato. 

Siamo profondamente egoisti anche in questo.
Davanti a un genio letterario, che ha scritto ogni riga con la medesima intensità e ricercatezza, ho applaudito quando fungeva da specchio e sbuffato quando non vi erano punti di contatto.

The red badge of courage

Dimitris Papastergiou

Great story and overall I liked it, even though halfway through the main character was making me frustrated with all of his choices and whatnot, but overall a solid story about war and how you choose to live your life, and also, a realistic story of what it's like to be a hero, to try to be, and to be ok when you're not or you're simply scared.

I liked it!

What a book to make it through. Swann’s Way takes some perseverance and faith to read completely, not to mention patience. To appreciate this book I had to read it in small bits, and even reading 10 pages may only describe one or two visual scenes. But I focused on appreciating the imagery provided by SUCH in depth descriptions, as well as relating to the narrators ideas or memories. Sometimes the way he speaks of home, how he relates to it and his family, it’s easy to understand from your own point of view.

The first part of this book doesn’t exactly have a plot, and is more just about the narrators time spent as a child in Combray- and boy do you get a picture of what he loves in Combray. The narrator finds beautiful connections between what he sees and art he admires so deeply, and this them is seen a lot throughout the book.

The second part of the book is a very drawn out and agonizing love story that is at times frustrating but also kind of hilarious. I can appreciate the slow-moving love story involving, at times, unrequited love from afar, which is what happened with Swann’s love at times. I think you have to dig in to appreciate the literary beauty in the descriptions of this book, and figure out how to love a story that isn’t all story, even. I hit a wall during this book towards the end, although maybe someday I’d like to reread the whole book so I could comprehend more.

Grace Mekkes-Nyboer

What a book to make it through. Swann’s Way takes some perseverance and faith to read completely, not to mention patience. To appreciate this book I had to read it in small bits, and even reading 10 pages may only describe one or two visual scenes. But I focused on appreciating the imagery provided by SUCH in depth descriptions, as well as relating to the narrators ideas or memories. Sometimes the way he speaks of home, how he relates to it and his family, it’s easy to understand from your own point of view.

The first part of this book doesn’t exactly have a plot, and is more just about the narrators time spent as a child in Combray- and boy do you get a picture of what he loves in Combray. The narrator finds beautiful connections between what he sees and art he admires so deeply, and this them is seen a lot throughout the book.

The second part of the book is a very drawn out and agonizing love story that is at times frustrating but also kind of hilarious. I can appreciate the slow-moving love story involving, at times, unrequited love from afar, which is what happened with Swann’s love at times. I think you have to dig in to appreciate the literary beauty in the descriptions of this book, and figure out how to love a story that isn’t all story, even. I hit a wall during this book towards the end, although maybe someday I’d like to reread the whole book so I could comprehend more.

Sodoma e Gomorra

Nelson Zagalo

O quarto volume, “Sodoma e Gomorra”, foi o que mais me custou ler, nomeadamente pela repetição de conversas de vários personagens, ainda que apresentados de novos ângulos mas sempre muito focados na comédia de costumes, que não é o meu forte, sendo que no miolo deste volume entrei mesmo em saturação, com o tédio a apoderar-se da leitura, contudo no final Proust abre um pequeno capítulo que fecha de forma tão sublime e deliciosa, impossibilitando-me desgostar deste volume.

Neste volume Proust dá largas ao tratamento da homosexualidade fazendo-o com profundidade e recorrendo às teorias da psicologia de então, tudo surge com bastante naturalidade o que deve ter gerado forte impacto na época, contudo hoje é algo que se lê sem choque, dada a modelação entretanto ocorrida na sociedade. Proust não diferencia o género, tendo tanto homossexualidade masculina (Sodoma), como feminina (Gomorra), às quais vai juntando para intensificar o choque no leitor, o tratamento dado aos judeus em França na época.

"Raça [os homossexuais] sobre a qual pesa uma maldição e que tem de viver o seu desejo na mentira e no perjúrio, visto que o sabe ser considerado punível e vergonhoso, inconfessável; (...) excluídos até, salvo nos dias de grande infortúnio em que a grande maioria se une em torno da vítima, como os Judeus em torno de Dreyfus, da simpatia - e às vezes do convívio - dos seus semelhantes, aos quais causam repugnância de verem o que são pintado num espelho..."

Mas para mim o melhor continua sendo os momentos de introspeção, de análise profunda dos estados internos do narrador, quando se interroga de si para si. Como já tinha dito antes, a epopeia "Em Busca do Tempo Perdido" vai-se alternando entre estes momentos e os diálogos e apontamentos de crítica da alta-sociedade, e é interessante verificar nas várias análises online, como as pessoas se dividem entre os dois registos, existindo os que apenas aguentam a leitura pelo lado da comicidade e outros, em que me incluo, que seguem Proust mais pelas suas escalpelizações do Eu. Deixo dois dos melhores registos deste livro:

“Mas mal consegui adormecer, naquela hora, mais verídica, em que os meus olhos se fecharam para as coisas do exterior, o mundo do sono (em cujo o limiar a inteligência e a vontade momentaneamente paralisadas já não me podiam disputar à crueldade das minhas impressões verdadeiras), reflectiu, refractou a dolorosa síntese da sobrevivência e do nada na profundidade orgânica e agora translúcida das vísceras misteriosamente iluminadas. Mundo de sono em que a consciência interna, colocada sob a dependência das perturbações dos nossos órgãos, acelera o ritmo do coração ou da respiração, porque uma mesma dose de pavor, de tristeza, de remorso, actua, com um poder centuplicado se for assim injectada nas nossas veias; mal, para percorrer as artérias da cidade subterrânea, embarcámos nas ondas negras do nosso próprio sangue como um Letes interior de sêxtuplos meandros, logo nos aparecem grandes figuras solenes, que nos abordam e nos abandonam, deixando-nos desfeitos em lágrimas.” p.168 

“Mas o que é uma recordação de que não nos lembramos? Ou então vamos mais longe. Não nos lembramos das nossas recordações dos últimos trinta anos; mas estamos mergulhados inteiramente nelas; porquê então ficar pelos trintas anos, porque não prolongar para além do nascimento essa vida anterior? Uma vez que não conheço toda uma parte das recordações que estão atrás de mim, uma vez que elas me são invisíveis, que não tenho a faculdade de as chamar a mim, quem me diz que nessa massa para mim desconhecida não haverá umas que remontem a muito para além da minha vida humana? Se posso ter em mim e em torno de mim tantas recordações de que não me lembro, esse olvido (pelo menos, olvido de facto, visto que não tenho a faculdade de ver o que quer que seja) pode conduzir a uma vida que vivi no corpo de outro homem, e até noutro planeta. Um mesmo olvido apaga tudo (..) O ser que eu serei depois da morte não tem mais razões para se recordar do homem que sou desde que nasci do que este para se recordar do que fui antes de nascer.” p. 388

blog link: http://virtual-illusion.blogspot.pt/2...

A LA Recherche Du Temps Perdu

Read in Portuguese, complete for the first time between April and June of 2015.

All volumes reviewed in my blog, in Portuguese, while reading:

Vol I - https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.pt/...
Vol II - https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.pt/...
Vol III - https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.pt/...
Vol IV - https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.pt/...
Vol V - https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.pt/...
Vol VI - https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.pt/...
Vol VII - https://virtual-illusion.blogspot.pt/...

Meredith Boster

I LOVED THIS BOOK!!!! It was such a good book that provided so much insight into what the war is like. Stephen Crane, though he never fought in a war, wrote as if he knew exactly what it was like to fight alongside an army and to see death and destruction. I loved this book and will most definitely read it again.

In the standard English translation of the second volume, first published in 1920, of the classic French novel, the narrator is introduced to the characters of Parisian high society thanks to the Duc and Duchesse de Guermantes. Original. 12,500 first printing.

The Guermantes Way

Simon Elliott Stegall

As I sat, Proust's third book open before me, in the concrete open-air portico of the 6th Street McDonald's, oppressed by the irony of nourishing my mind while poisoning my intestines, the two homeless men to whom I had a few minutes ago refused a dollar (not out of pinch-fistedness, mind you, but for the practical reason that I had on my person no cash but only my wife's credit card, which I could not be expected to loan out, however briefly, however charitably, to just anyone) sat down on either side of me and dumped out an assortment of fresh and delicately wrapped McChickens onto the table, previously the stool for the French master, but now a bizarre smörgåsbord of cuisine de l'intellect and dead American poultry. Taken aback, I examined the two men's faces, hoping to ascertain whether they had chosen to sit so uncomfortably close to me out of spite, as if to emphasize their awareness of the discomfort their black nails, sore-ridden arms, patchy facial hair, sour breath, and half-formed babble-talk gave me, or whether they were simply drawn, as people who live in social worlds whose strictures are less unspoken than yours or mine, less intuited, not communicated through minutiae of body language and ironic tones but through harsh words and even fists, and in a world more rife with pain, to another person's company, regardless of that person's apparent class or hygiene, just as strangers in a snowstorm might huddle together for warmth, the preponderance of their suffering having erased the arbitrary separations of their flesh which in fact only prevent their internal warmths from colluding to save them from an icy death. Their faces, however, were as blank as that snowstorm, and I could not discern their motive. 

Nevertheless, it could not have been, as I feared, a malicious motivation, for they did not speak to or even glance at me, but continued a conversation in which they had been immersed before my appearance as, apparently, a new piece of scenery. 

"She'll be back," said the first man, possessed of wildly curly hair and a mangy beard. "And if she ain't, I won't." 

The other man nodded in agreement with this meaningless construction.

"She's just pissed off," the mangy one continued, "because I won't do her damn drugs with her." He unwrapped his first McChicken. "I ain't a drug user, I'm an alcoholic."

"I like marijuana, to be honest," said the other man.

"I only drink vodka," said the mangy one. "But she's crazy. She just wants me to do the methamphetamines with her. She's all pissed off. She's probably still walkin'." He shaded his eyes and peered down 6th Street as if seeking her faint figure.

"She'll be back," he said again, conclusively. "And if she ain't, I won't."

The other man spoke up. "Hell, at Target some guy asked me to wear a wire."

"Yeah?" said the mangy one, impressed.

"Oh yeah. He wanted to know about the homeless population of Lawrence. How they're doin', you know? So I'm wearing a wire right now. I told him, though, I said 'the homeless population of Lawrence is a-ok.' But he still wanted me to wear it. See?"

He pulled up his shirt to show us a mottled chest bisected by a thin black wire which, by its presence, seemed to lend a sort of feudal dignity to the tiny black wires of his chest hair, as if it were a king among peasants. 

"Hell," said the mangy one in admiration. 

I reflected as they spoke that I ought to feel empathy for these men, but I found myself only thinking of the meth-addicted girlfriend, and was surprised to find myself sympathetic to her. I imagined the woman's desire, fueled by the transcendence and consequent misery of her own dalliance with chemical pleasures, to have her "man" join her in a similar state to the one which afforded her such ecstasy and agony. To be coming up, rising like Everest through every layer of fog and condensation which obscure the senses and finally to emerge, a rarefied peak of crystal clarity and frozen sensation, above all moisture and atmosphere, and to see your only partner, meanwhile, in the inverse trajectory of the alcoholic - slumping down into the valley of warm blackness and moist comfort, crowded in by the dense jungle of intoxication, glaucomic, blinded, numb - was to lack some vital validation which would have been afforded by a simultaneity between your experiences. It may be, I mused, that that validation of shared experience was the only comfort she sought from him, and in fact that any person seeks from their lover, whether their "Everest" is the white hell of chemical bliss or something more substantial.... 

.... And then something caught my eye in a small patch of grass next to the portico: it was a shock of dandelions, silver heads lit like glass in the morning sun, bowing before the procession of a stately breeze. Hard upon, I felt the breeze on my own face. I smiled - I forgot the suffering of the two men on either side of me. I thought of how good it was to be alive and young with robust credit; and to be clean and free from addiction, and to have regularly distributed facial hair; and I saw the gates of superiority and understanding, of nobility and free will, towering over me like the Golden Arches themselves, and I entered in.

Swann's way

Definitely the hardest (portion of a) book I've ever read, but well worth it. Proust's prose is labyrinthine and dizzying, like trying to follow a single leaf in a torrent of wind, but when one catches glimpse of the leaf it is achingly beautiful. Not sure I could ever in good faith recommend this to anyone because taking on a behemoth of a novel like this one has to be a personal decision. The experience will certainly be an intensely personal one, and if one doesn't find it rewarding or find one's own life echoed in the spiraling paragraphs, one won't make it past the first 20 pages. But to anyone who wants to take a deep-dive into a thousand pages of a lonely French boy's frantic imagination, I say, be brave! You won't regret it.

Now for the next six volumes. We'll see if my review is premature or not.

Based on the definitive edition and translation of the classic French novel, the second volume, which won the Prix Goncourt in 1919, follows the narrator's transition from childhood to adolescence and first love on the beaches of Normandy. Original. 12,500 first printing.

Within a Budding Grove

His genius meditations on Time, Love, and Society as well as the incandescent descriptions of natural beauty more than make up for Proust's occasional tendency to jabber.

Jeremy Anderberg

“At times he regarded the wounded soldiers in an envious way. He conceived persons with torn bodies to be peculiarly happy. He wished that he, too, had a wound, a red badge of courage.”

Hemingway called this work “one of the finest books of our literature.” His praise, along with my own Civil War obsession, made this novel an easy choice for me to pick up.

Broadly, it’s about a young man’s experience as a volunteer soldier for the Union. Our protagonist has a name — Henry Fleming — but is most often referred to as just “the youth” or some other slightly derisive label. While many Civil War novels are rife with detail (sometimes, it seems, as a way for an author to show off their knowledge), Red Badge doesn’t even give specific place names let alone detailed troop movements or casualty numbers. Rather, Crane writes an intense psychological portrait of what it’s like to be a soldier. Henry wrestles with his conscience almost constantly; primarily, will he win honor by earning a visible “red badge of courage” (a battle wound), or would he shrink in the heat of battle and acquire a scar of dishonor on his soul?

There are plenty of battle scenes to be had, but the reader spends a lot of time in Henry’s head. Rather than the overly valorous stories you often read about war, this is a realistic account of the battles that soldiers have within their own psyche. Will they display bravery in the gravest of circumstances? Or will they shrivel in the bigness of the moment? Many critics even today call it one of the most realistic war novels ever written (despite that lack of given detail). That should tell you how much of a probe it is into the headspace of a soldier.

As for my own reading experience: I enjoyed the first half immensely and breezed through it rather quickly. After that, it was a little slower going. Henry got a little bit annoying (rather than just interesting) and the story felt somewhat repetitive. Ultimately, though, it was a rewarding story and I enjoyed the ending. Certainly worth it for any Civil War buff.

Swann's Way (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (Barnes & Noble Classics)

Jeni Enjaian

Looks like this is simply aren't my cup of tea. I love to read quickly and books like these take way too much time to digest. On top of that, the author used so many words that the main point got lost in the overabundance. The effusive narrative flows well making it easy to read. That being said it was hard to care about any of the characters or even tell how old, approximately, the narrator is.

The Red Badge of Courage

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