perspective

Paris Peasant – A novel that is not a novel? How novel!

Louis Aragon’s Paris Peasant was certainly an easier read for me than Proust’s Swann’s Way was. I imagine it is to do with the translation, though of course the writing style of the original author. In fact, I found myself thinking about translation a lot while reading this book. There were parts that had very interesting metaphors and jokes that I would love to see in the original language. I especially noticed this in the F.M.R. section where even the translator made a note that the original pun worked so much better. I suppose this is one of the weaknesses of translation; you can never conserve all the layers of meaning within a word or a phrase because you always have to choose one. If you can find a way to make it work with more than one meaning then you’re lucky.

Before starting the book, I knew that Aragon was part of the surrealist, avant-garde movement and you can tell. Paris Peasant has been described as a “novel-that-[is]-not-a-novel” and I agree with that description because there isn’t really a story that I could pick up on. Truthfully, it felt more like Aragon’s personal musings than a novel, but it was interesting nonetheless. 
That said, some of his musings aren’t particularly savoury, especially those about women. The way he describes women struck me as being a bit… weird… to say the least. Numerous paragraphs on women’s hair, their bodies, how much he likes blondes… let’s just say that he wouldn’t pass the 2022 vibe check. But we kind of knew that already, and I think he did too. After all, he did say that it “matters very little to me whether or not I have reason on my side. I do not seek to be right. I seek the concrete.” 
So I don’t think he’d be particularly bothered about our opinions. Or anyone’s opinions. Because he said some things about religion that would be controversial today, let alone the 1920s. As a communist, you can see the threads of Karl Marx’s ideas in his writing, especially in the parts about religion. He comments that religion is a sign of “mental laziness” and notices that religion is becoming replaced with a sense of human morality. Certainly, we can see that religiosity has declined over the past century or so, so his prediction wasn’t completely inaccurate.
In fact, some of his predictions were funnily accurate. One of the first quotes that really caught my attention was about how young people will eschew work, marriage, and children (or something along those lines, unfortunately I can’t find the exact quote anymore, try as I might). I thought it was a very interesting observation, especially since nowadays the “Child-free by choice” and “I don’t dream of labour” movements are increasing in popularity, especially among young adults.
In all, I’m not entirely sure that I managed to glean every message from the book and I think I’d have to read it a second time to better understand it, but what I did pick up was definitely thought-provoking. The question I’d like to present is; What makes a novel a novel, if this is a “novel-that-is-not-a-novel”?

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Swann’s Way – making my ability to read feel like Proust without the Po

 Let me preface all this by saying that I did not understand what I was reading, and this was further emphasised to me when I read the sparknotes pages after finishing “Combray“.

I really wanted to fall in love with this text. In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust has an almost revered place in my home; my stepdad, who is at the beloved centre of our family first read Swann’s Way when he was my current age (20), albeit in the Persian translation. Since then, he has read it in English too, and is learning French for the sole purpose of being able to read all seven volumes of this masterful novel in the original language. I’m not kidding, Proust is the reason why he is learning French, and why the act of language-learning is a constant for us all.

I didn’t understand what was going on at all. I didn’t even realise that things were going on. I didn’t pick up a plot, I couldn’t follow the paragraph-long sentences—may I refer to a 192-word long sentence about buttercups—I was just lost. I remember asking my stepdad, who is a very intelligent man, if he understood what was going on when he was reading it for the first time at my age. He said that he didn’t, and that felt a little validating, to be honest.

Nonetheless, I did pick up a few small things. Now obviously, Marcel Proust and the narrator come from an affluent, upper-class background and, as with many writings from the early 20th century, there’s going to be some analysis about social class. I really liked the part of the story where he speculates about the appearance of the Duchess. He has all these theories and ideas about what she’s going to look like, before actually seeing her and being disappointed by her mundane-ness. She just looks like any other person in his social circle. She just looks like a person.

I’m sure that people have idolised the appearances of the upper class for many, many years. I think of European monarchs in the 1500s who would have portraits commissioned with their flaws concealed and their youth exaggerated, just to have the paintings taken around the country for their subjects to see what they supposedly looked like. I imagine there’s always been this notion that higher class automatically means more beauty, so it’s thought-provoking to see that notion shatter before the narrator’s eyes.

Also, I didn’t like that he pretends that Gilberte and the Duchess’ eyes are blue, just because he associates blue eyes with beauty. Sure, go on about beauty standards and all that but let it be known that I stand with my fellow brown-eyed people and would like to make it clear that brown eyes are also very beautiful and they deserve as much hype as blue eyes.

My question upon reading this part of the novel is that to what extent is the narrator’s relationship with each of his parents normal and/or healthy? Because I’m seeing some Oedipal subtexts and I can’t say I enjoy it.

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Swann’s Way – making my ability to read feel like Proust without the Po

 Let me preface all this by saying that I did not understand what I was reading, and this was further emphasised to me when I read the sparknotes pages after finishing “Combray“.

I really wanted to fall in love with this text. In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust has an almost revered place in my home; my stepdad, who is at the beloved centre of our family first read Swann’s Way when he was my current age (20), albeit in the Persian translation. Since then, he has read it in English too, and is learning French for the sole purpose of being able to read all seven volumes of this masterful novel in the original language. I’m not kidding, Proust is the reason why he is learning French, and why the act of language-learning is a constant for us all.

I didn’t understand what was going on at all. I didn’t even realise that things were going on. I didn’t pick up a plot, I couldn’t follow the paragraph-long sentences—may I refer to a 192-word long sentence about buttercups—I was just lost. I remember asking my stepdad, who is a very intelligent man, if he understood what was going on when he was reading it for the first time at my age. He said that he didn’t, and that felt a little validating, to be honest.

Nonetheless, I did pick up a few small things. Now obviously, Marcel Proust and the narrator come from an affluent, upper-class background and, as with many writings from the early 20th century, there’s going to be some analysis about social class. I really liked the part of the story where he speculates about the appearance of the Duchess. He has all these theories and ideas about what she’s going to look like, before actually seeing her and being disappointed by her mundane-ness. She just looks like any other person in his social circle. She just looks like a person.

I’m sure that people have idolised the appearances of the upper class for many, many years. I think of European monarchs in the 1500s who would have portraits commissioned with their flaws concealed and their youth exaggerated, just to have the paintings taken around the country for their subjects to see what they supposedly looked like. I imagine there’s always been this notion that higher class automatically means more beauty, so it’s thought-provoking to see that notion shatter before the narrator’s eyes.

Also, I didn’t like that he pretends that Gilberte and the Duchess’ eyes are blue, just because he associates blue eyes with beauty. Sure, go on about beauty standards and all that but let it be known that I stand with my fellow brown-eyed people and would like to make it clear that brown eyes are also very beautiful and they deserve as much hype as blue eyes.

My question upon reading this part of the novel is that to what extent is the narrator’s relationship with each of his parents normal and/or healthy? Because I’m seeing some Oedipal subtexts and I can’t say I enjoy it.

Posted in Blogs, Proust | Tagged with , , , ,