This was also where he began to take poetry more seriously. He was especially drawn to epic poetry. Despite its many flaws, the translation had many merits, and it did a great deal to establish his poetic reputation. That fall, he headed to southern France, then traveled to Florence, Rome and Naples.
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Shelves: short-stories "I went to bed but found no rest; and as I lay there between sleeping and waking, memories of my childhood thronged about me. In this state, where the mind still resists the fantastic combinations of dreams, the important happenings of a long period of ones life often crowd themselves into a few moments. It was first published in , meaning that it is far out of copyright - and so anyone intrigued by this review, I "I went to bed but found no rest; and as I lay there between sleeping and waking, memories of my childhood thronged about me.
It was first published in , meaning that it is far out of copyright - and so anyone intrigued by this review, I recommend to read the English translation here. A review this now, in the midst of " - the Year in Reading Proust" in the hope that someone will discover this opalescent curio of literature, and that it will add even a small light to their experience of Proust.
Our lover turned narrator is a man with ideals, not moral ideals - no, he is a bit of a rake, though a passionate and romantic one, but rather aesthetic ideals, particularly as they pertain to love and romance. His memories are honeyed with these ideals, and are presented to use under the honeyed patina of nostalgia.
His blending of dream, reality, and memory is something of which he warns us often: "As I set down these words I cannot help wondering whether the events they describe actually took place or whether I have dreamed them. In memory, in a moment, we are transported somewhere else in time, in place; sights, smells, emotions, and sensations return to us slightly altered - we are dually aware in memory, we have two "selves" - the minor self, the actor of our memory, and the major self, our current self who is the critic watching intently from behind the proscenium.
So at one and the same time, it is reality, as it was or appeared to be at the time to our minor self, and dream or reality as a performance as it seems in retrospect to our major self. The remembrance of things as they were, or the appearance of things then as they appear now? He is newly rich by an inheritance, and has been pursuing with ardor a pretty young Parisian actress named Aurelia.
However, when sleep is withheld from him by a "half-dreamed memory," he resolves to return to the sanctuary of his childhood loves, Syvlie and also Adrienne, a young girl he loved but who was sent to a convent. We find in Sylvie the class-founded ideal of the "peasant girl," and idyllic kind of romantic ideal which is completely divorced from the reality of the person.
When the narrator returns to her, he finds her engaged and also, more painful to him, that she has risen in class. Sylvie makes gloves for a living, and as a result has risen in social status beyond the precipice of peasanthood, into something like the working class the sandwich filling between petit bourgeoisie and serfdom.
He is heartbroken to find her so much changed though for herself, she has changed for the better - any change to his ossified ideal image of the past is a blemish to the immutable perfection of the past.
There is a tangible sense of regret, not for loving her, but for returning to her. As Flaubert warns in Madame Bovary: "Never touch your idols: the gilding will stick to your fingers. The true beauty of this work, is not simply the confusion of memory, not simply the treatment of loves and ideals, but the blending of the two into a sort of self-delusion for the narrator. While Sylvie remains unattainable, and so far changed, undesired as her present self, and Aurelia remains coyly distant, Adrienne approaches apotheosis as the ideal which the narrator feels unites his loves, surpasses his loves.
His love turned nun remains the unattainable ideal of his youth and increasingly his present, as other ideals fall by the way. Does he fear they delude him? So I told her how my love had been awakened by that slender figure bathed in mist and moonlight, and how, since then, that love had lived only in my dreams, now to be realized in her. All you want is a drama, and the climax evades you. And we can see this double-grafting of Sylvie and Adrienne in his description of her on the day of the preciously mentioned confrontation: "Dressed in her riding-habit, and with her hair streaming out in the wind, Aurelia rode through the wood like a queen of bygone days, to the great bewilderment of the peasantry.
None of his loves can ever come to fruition because he does not love any of them wholly, but loves small aspects of them, even small illusions or romantic stereotypes of them, and never gets at them completely, never digs deep into himself to discover what he loves, he loves only on the surface.
But in the end it is inconsequential whether he remembers these women exactly, whether he conflates them, or makes them up, because they are not real and he does not really love any of them, but rather loves a phantasmic ideal which glows blindingly behind them: making them mere shadows, silhouettes on the edifice of his passionate desires.
Teremos que ler o livro para saber. O livro foi venerado por Proust,Eco,.
Gérard de Nerval
It was first published in the periodical La Revue des Deux Mondes in , and as a book in Les Filles du feu in , just a few months before Nerval killed himself in January The story begins when a paragraph in a newspaper plunges the narrator into his memories as a younger man. The perspective seems to shift back and forth between the past and present, so the reader is never entirely sure if the narrator is recounting past events from memory, or retelling current events as they happen. Critics have praised the writing for its lucid and lyrical style. The narrator, of noble status and who has recently come into an inheritance, decides to leave Paris, where he is living a debauched life of theater and drink, and return to the love of his youth, a peasant girl named Sylvie who has classic features and brunette hair, a "timeless ideal". She sews gloves for a living and ends up marrying another man more equal to her class. The narrator also loves Adrienne, of noble birth, tall with blonde hair ; she is an "ideal beauty", but she lives in a convent, and dies an early death.