Giuseppe
Hey now
Valentin Louis Georges Eugène Marcel Proust (Auteuil, 10 de julho de 1871 — Paris, 18 de novembro de 1922) foi um escritor francês, mais conhecido pela sua obra À la recherche du temps perdu (Em Busca do Tempo Perdido), que foi publicada em sete partes entre 1913 e 1927.
Filho de Adrien Proust, um célebre professor de medicina, e Jeanne Weil, alsaciana de origem judaica, Marcel Proust nasceu numa família rica que lhe assegurou uma vida tranquila e lhe permitiu frequentar os salões da alta sociedade da época. Após estudos no Liceu Condorcet, prestou serviço militar em 1889. De volta à vida civil, assistiu na École Libre des Sciences Politiques aos cursos de Albert Sorel e Anatole Leroy-Beaulieu; e na Sorbonne os de Henri Bergson (1859-1941) cuja influência sobre a sua obra será essencial.
Em 1900, efectuou uma viagem a Veneza e se dedica às questões de estética. Em 1904, publicou várias traduções do crítico de arte inglesa John Ruskin (1819-1900). Paralelamente a artigos que relatam a vida mundana publicados nos grandes jornais (entre os quais Le Figaro), escreveu Jean Santeuil, uma grande novela deixada incompleta, e publicou Os Prazeres e os Dias (Les Plaisirs et les Jours), uma reunião de contos e poemas. Após a morte dos seus pais, a sua saúde já frágil deteriorou-se mais. Ele passou a viver recluso e a esgotar-se no trabalho. A sua obra principal, Em Busca do Tempo Perdido (À la Recherche du Temps Perdu), foi publicada entre 1913 e 1927, o primeiro volume editado à custa do autor na pequena editora Grasset, ainda que muito rapidamente as edições Gallimard recuaram na sua recusa e aceitaram o segundo volume À Sombra das Raparigas em Flor pela qual recebeu em 1919 o prêmio Goncourt.
A homossexualidade é tema recorrente em sua obra, principalmente em Sodoma e Gomorra e nos volumes subsequentes. Trabalhou sem repouso à escrita dos seis livros seguintes de Em Busca do Tempo Perdido, até 1922. Faleceu esgotado, acometido por uma bronquite mal cuidada.
Obras
Les Plaisirs et les Jours (Calmann-Lévy, 1896)
La Bible d'Amiens (Mercure de France, 1904)
La mort des cathédrales (Le Figaro, 1904)
Sésame et les lys (1906)
Pastiches et mélanges (NRF, 1919)
Chroniques (1927)
Jean Santeuil (1952)
Contre Sainte-Beuve (1954)
Chardin et Rembrandt (Le Bruit du temps, 2009)
Em Busca do Tempo Perdido
No Caminho de Swann (Grasset, 1913)
Parte 1 : Combray
Parte 2 : Um Amor de Swann - no original Un amour de Swann
Parte 3 : Nome de Terras: o Nome
À Sombra das Raparigas em Flor, (NRF, 1918, prix Goncourt)
Parte 1 : Em Torno da Sra. Swann
Parte 2 : Nome de Terras: a Terra
O Caminho de Guermantes (NRF, 1921-1922)
Sodoma e Gomorra (NRF, 1922-1923)
A Prisioneira (NRF, 1923)
A Fugitiva ou (Albertine Desaparecida, 1925)
O Tempo Redescoberto (NRF, 1927)
Fonte: Wikipédia
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Deixa eu falar pra vocês o que foi que eu aprendi lendo Marcel Proust. Eu aprendi a sentir a vida. Essa é a palavra chave: sentir. Sabe como o Machado de Assis focava nas ideias, planos e intenções dos personagens? Então... Proust focava nas sensações. É complicado, não é? Sensações são algo muito abstrato, difícil de se colocar em palavras. No seu notável livro No Caminho de Swann, primeiro da série Em Busca do Tempo Perdido, o foco não é a trama. Não são grandes revelações ou reviravoltas na história que fazem o livro ser o que é. Proust reflete muito sobre o tempo, a memória, a arte, e principalmente, as emoções associadas a tudo.
A história se passa no final do século XIX na França. O narrador chamado Marcel ou apenas "M", agora adulto, reflete sobre sua infância na pequena cidade de Combray. A forma como ele descreve a pequena cidade, suas ruas, seu riozinho, suas interações com seus familiares e amigos é fascinante, apesar de nem sempre ser fácil de se ler. Prepare-se para muitas frases inacabáveis. Além disso, o autor entrelaça uma ideia com outra e às vezes você nem lembra mais qual era o assunto original. Essa grande teia ligando uma coisa à outra na narrativa me parece um reflexo da própria vida, eu acho. Tudo que existe, tudo que acontece, todo ser humano que existe está ligado a tudo, direta ou indiretamente. E também os inúmeros episódios de nossas vidas não ocorrem de maneira singela e especial, sendo a vida em si ordinária e maravilhosa em toda a sua plenitude?
Uma das principais partes do livro se chama Um Amor de Swann. Trata-se de Charles Swann, um amigo da família do protagonista, amigo este que é aristocrata mas a família não sabe disso. Nem imaginam que o sujeito que lhes traz frutas, dá dicas de receitas e fofoca sobre os eventos da pacata cidade, também chega a almoçar com o presidente! Há um curioso episódio na vida de Swann. Ele conhece uma mulher chamada Odette. Inicialmente ele não se interessa por ela e não vê nada de especial na moça. Mas chega um momento em que ele por acaso percebe que Odette é idêntica à pintura de Séfora, presente no afresco As Provações de Moisés, de Sandro Botticelli. Essa "descoberta" faz com que Swann passe a olhar para Odette com outros olhos. Ele fica absolutamente fascinado pela moça, como se a pintura tivesse ganhado vida e estivesse interagindo com ele, se apaixonando mesmo.
"He stood gazing at her; traces of the old fresco were apparent in
her face and limbs, and these he tried incessantly, afterwards, to
recapture, both when he was with Odette, and when he was only thinking
of her in her absence; and, albeit his admiration for the Florentine
masterpiece was probably based upon his discovery that it had been
reproduced in her, the similarity enhanced her beauty also, and rendered
her more precious in his sight. Swann reproached himself with his
failure, hitherto, to estimate at her true worth a creature whom the
great Sandro would have adored, and counted himself fortunate that his
pleasure in the contemplation of Odette found a justification in his own
system of aesthetic. He told himself that, in choosing the thought of
Odette as the inspiration of his dreams of ideal happiness, he was not,
as he had until then supposed, falling back, merely, upon an expedient
of doubtful and certainly inadequate value, since she contained in
herself what satisfied the utmost refinement of his taste in art. He
failed to observe that this quality would not naturally avail to bring
Odette into the category of women whom he found desirable, simply
because his desires had always run counter to his aesthetic taste. The
words 'Florentine painting' were invaluable to Swann. They enabled him
(gave him, as it were, a legal title) to introduce the image of Odette
into a world of dreams and fancies which, until then, she had been
debarred from entering, and where she assumed a new and nobler form. And
whereas the mere sight of her in the flesh, by perpetually reviving his
misgivings as to the quality of her face, her figure, the whole of her
beauty, used to cool the ardour of his love, those misgivings were swept
away and that love confirmed now that he could re-erect his estimate of
her on the sure foundations of his aesthetic principles; while the kiss,
the bodily surrender which would have seemed natural and but moderately
attractive, had they been granted him by a creature of somewhat withered
flesh and sluggish blood, coming, as now they came, to crown his
adoration of a masterpiece in a gallery, must, it seemed, prove as
exquisite as they would be supernatural."
her face and limbs, and these he tried incessantly, afterwards, to
recapture, both when he was with Odette, and when he was only thinking
of her in her absence; and, albeit his admiration for the Florentine
masterpiece was probably based upon his discovery that it had been
reproduced in her, the similarity enhanced her beauty also, and rendered
her more precious in his sight. Swann reproached himself with his
failure, hitherto, to estimate at her true worth a creature whom the
great Sandro would have adored, and counted himself fortunate that his
pleasure in the contemplation of Odette found a justification in his own
system of aesthetic. He told himself that, in choosing the thought of
Odette as the inspiration of his dreams of ideal happiness, he was not,
as he had until then supposed, falling back, merely, upon an expedient
of doubtful and certainly inadequate value, since she contained in
herself what satisfied the utmost refinement of his taste in art. He
failed to observe that this quality would not naturally avail to bring
Odette into the category of women whom he found desirable, simply
because his desires had always run counter to his aesthetic taste. The
words 'Florentine painting' were invaluable to Swann. They enabled him
(gave him, as it were, a legal title) to introduce the image of Odette
into a world of dreams and fancies which, until then, she had been
debarred from entering, and where she assumed a new and nobler form. And
whereas the mere sight of her in the flesh, by perpetually reviving his
misgivings as to the quality of her face, her figure, the whole of her
beauty, used to cool the ardour of his love, those misgivings were swept
away and that love confirmed now that he could re-erect his estimate of
her on the sure foundations of his aesthetic principles; while the kiss,
the bodily surrender which would have seemed natural and but moderately
attractive, had they been granted him by a creature of somewhat withered
flesh and sluggish blood, coming, as now they came, to crown his
adoration of a masterpiece in a gallery, must, it seemed, prove as
exquisite as they would be supernatural."
Ainda envolvendo Swann: há um episódio em que ele está num determinado lugar e ouve uma música sendo tocada. Ele não sabia de quem era a composição, mas fica encantado com a melodia; porém, ele não lembrou de perguntar quem era o compositor. Mais tarde ele descobre quem escreveu a música e durante alguns encontros entre amigos, um desses amigos sempre toca a tal melodia quando Swann e Odette estão presentes juntos. A forma como Proust descreve a tal melodia é tão especial que é quase como se você pudesse ouvi-la; toda a expressividade, todas as nuances dela são colocadas em palavras de forma tão única que realmente é quase como se você pudesse sentir o motivo por Swann ter ficado tão fascinado por ela.
"After the pianist had played, Swann felt and shewed more interest in him
than in any of the other guests, for the following reason:
The year before, at an evening party, he had heard a piece of music
played on the piano and violin. At first he had appreciated only the
material quality of the sounds which those instruments secreted. And it
had been a source of keen pleasure when, below the narrow ribbon of the
violin-part, delicate, unyielding, substantial and governing the whole,
he had suddenly perceived, where it was trying to surge upwards in a
flowing tide of sound, the mass of the piano-part, multiform, coherent,
level, and breaking everywhere in melody like the deep blue tumult of
the sea, silvered and charmed into a minor key by the moonlight. But at
a given moment, without being able to distinguish any clear outline,
or to give a name to what was pleasing him, suddenly enraptured, he had
tried to collect, to treasure in his memory the phrase or harmony--he
knew not which--that had just been played, and had opened and expanded
his soul, just as the fragrance of certain roses, wafted upon the moist
air of evening, has the power of dilating our nostrils. Perhaps it was
owing to his own ignorance of music that he had been able to receive so
confused an impression, one of those that are, notwithstanding, our only
purely musical impressions, limited in their extent, entirely original,
and irreducible into any other kind. An impression of this order,
vanishing in an instant, is, so to speak, an impression sine materia.
Presumably the notes which we hear at such moments tend to spread out
before our eyes, over surfaces greater or smaller according to their
pitch and volume; to trace arabesque designs, to give us the sensation
of breadth or tenuity, stability or caprice. But the notes themselves
have vanished before these sensations have developed sufficiently to
escape submersion under those which the following, or even simultaneous
notes have already begun to awaken in us. And this indefinite perception
would continue to smother in its molten liquidity the motifs which now
and then emerge, barely discernible, to plunge again and disappear and
drown; recognised only by the particular kind of pleasure which they
instil, impossible to describe, to recollect, to name; ineffable;--if
our memory, like a labourer who toils at the laying down of firm
foundations beneath the tumult of the waves, did not, by fashioning for
us facsimiles of those fugitive phrases, enable us to compare and to
contrast them with those that follow. And so, hardly had the delicious
sensation, which Swann had experienced, died away, before his memory
had furnished him with an immediate transcript, summary, it is true,
and provisional, but one on which he had kept his eyes fixed while
the playing continued, so effectively that, when the same impression
suddenly returned, it was no longer uncapturable. He was able to picture
to himself its extent, its symmetrical arrangement, its notation, the
strength of its expression; he had before him that definite object which
was no longer pure music, but rather design, architecture, thought,
and which allowed the actual music to be recalled. This time he had
distinguished, quite clearly, a phrase which emerged for a few moments
from the waves of sound. It had at once held out to him an invitation to
partake of intimate pleasures, of whose existence, before hearing it, he
had never dreamed, into which he felt that nothing but this phrase could
initiate him; and he had been filled with love for it, as with a new and
strange desire.
With a slow and rhythmical movement it led him here, there, everywhere,
towards a state of happiness noble, unintelligible, yet clearly
indicated. And then, suddenly having reached a certain point from which
he was prepared to follow it, after pausing for a moment, abruptly it
changed its direction, and in a fresh movement, more rapid, multiform,
melancholy, incessant, sweet, it bore him off with it towards a vista
of joys unknown. Then it vanished. He hoped, with a passionate longing,
that he might find it again, a third time. And reappear it did, though
without speaking to him more clearly, bringing him, indeed, a pleasure
less profound. But when he was once more at home he needed it, he
was like a man into whose life a woman, whom he has seen for a moment
passing by, has brought a new form of beauty, which strengthens and
enlarges his own power of perception, without his knowing even whether
he is ever to see her again whom he loves already, although he knows
nothing of her, not even her name."
than in any of the other guests, for the following reason:
The year before, at an evening party, he had heard a piece of music
played on the piano and violin. At first he had appreciated only the
material quality of the sounds which those instruments secreted. And it
had been a source of keen pleasure when, below the narrow ribbon of the
violin-part, delicate, unyielding, substantial and governing the whole,
he had suddenly perceived, where it was trying to surge upwards in a
flowing tide of sound, the mass of the piano-part, multiform, coherent,
level, and breaking everywhere in melody like the deep blue tumult of
the sea, silvered and charmed into a minor key by the moonlight. But at
a given moment, without being able to distinguish any clear outline,
or to give a name to what was pleasing him, suddenly enraptured, he had
tried to collect, to treasure in his memory the phrase or harmony--he
knew not which--that had just been played, and had opened and expanded
his soul, just as the fragrance of certain roses, wafted upon the moist
air of evening, has the power of dilating our nostrils. Perhaps it was
owing to his own ignorance of music that he had been able to receive so
confused an impression, one of those that are, notwithstanding, our only
purely musical impressions, limited in their extent, entirely original,
and irreducible into any other kind. An impression of this order,
vanishing in an instant, is, so to speak, an impression sine materia.
Presumably the notes which we hear at such moments tend to spread out
before our eyes, over surfaces greater or smaller according to their
pitch and volume; to trace arabesque designs, to give us the sensation
of breadth or tenuity, stability or caprice. But the notes themselves
have vanished before these sensations have developed sufficiently to
escape submersion under those which the following, or even simultaneous
notes have already begun to awaken in us. And this indefinite perception
would continue to smother in its molten liquidity the motifs which now
and then emerge, barely discernible, to plunge again and disappear and
drown; recognised only by the particular kind of pleasure which they
instil, impossible to describe, to recollect, to name; ineffable;--if
our memory, like a labourer who toils at the laying down of firm
foundations beneath the tumult of the waves, did not, by fashioning for
us facsimiles of those fugitive phrases, enable us to compare and to
contrast them with those that follow. And so, hardly had the delicious
sensation, which Swann had experienced, died away, before his memory
had furnished him with an immediate transcript, summary, it is true,
and provisional, but one on which he had kept his eyes fixed while
the playing continued, so effectively that, when the same impression
suddenly returned, it was no longer uncapturable. He was able to picture
to himself its extent, its symmetrical arrangement, its notation, the
strength of its expression; he had before him that definite object which
was no longer pure music, but rather design, architecture, thought,
and which allowed the actual music to be recalled. This time he had
distinguished, quite clearly, a phrase which emerged for a few moments
from the waves of sound. It had at once held out to him an invitation to
partake of intimate pleasures, of whose existence, before hearing it, he
had never dreamed, into which he felt that nothing but this phrase could
initiate him; and he had been filled with love for it, as with a new and
strange desire.
With a slow and rhythmical movement it led him here, there, everywhere,
towards a state of happiness noble, unintelligible, yet clearly
indicated. And then, suddenly having reached a certain point from which
he was prepared to follow it, after pausing for a moment, abruptly it
changed its direction, and in a fresh movement, more rapid, multiform,
melancholy, incessant, sweet, it bore him off with it towards a vista
of joys unknown. Then it vanished. He hoped, with a passionate longing,
that he might find it again, a third time. And reappear it did, though
without speaking to him more clearly, bringing him, indeed, a pleasure
less profound. But when he was once more at home he needed it, he
was like a man into whose life a woman, whom he has seen for a moment
passing by, has brought a new form of beauty, which strengthens and
enlarges his own power of perception, without his knowing even whether
he is ever to see her again whom he loves already, although he knows
nothing of her, not even her name."
Há ainda outros episódios memoráveis no livro, mas não posso deixar de citar o mais famoso: em uma cena, é oferecido ao protagonista já adulto um bolinho chamado petite madeleine. Inicialmente ele recusa, mas aí acaba aceitando. Ele mergulha o bolinho no chá, e no momento em que o coloca na boca, ele tem mil sensações e lembranças de uma época da infância em que ele comia o mesmo bolinho; uma sensação traz outra, uma lembrança puxa outra, e esse é um dos assuntos do livro: o conceito de memória involuntária, assim como a forma como o tempo muda tudo e todos.
"And suddenly the memory returns. The taste was that of the little crumb
of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those
mornings I did not go out before church-time), when I went to say good
day to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it
first in her own cup of real or of lime-flower tea. The sight of the
little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it;
perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the interval, without
tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks' windows, that their image
had dissociated itself from those Combray days to take its place among
others more recent; perhaps because of those memories, so long abandoned
and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was scattered; the
forms of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry,
so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds, were either
obliterated or had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of
expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my
consciousness. But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after
the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still,
alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more
persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a
long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their
moment, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering, in the
tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of
recollection."
of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those
mornings I did not go out before church-time), when I went to say good
day to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it
first in her own cup of real or of lime-flower tea. The sight of the
little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it;
perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the interval, without
tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks' windows, that their image
had dissociated itself from those Combray days to take its place among
others more recent; perhaps because of those memories, so long abandoned
and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was scattered; the
forms of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry,
so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds, were either
obliterated or had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of
expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my
consciousness. But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after
the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still,
alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more
persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a
long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their
moment, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering, in the
tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of
recollection."
Eu poderia divagar por um século aqui como o próprio Proust provavelmente faria, mas espero que eu possa ter lhes dado ao menos uma pequena ideia de como é ler algo dele. O resultado de se ler Proust é que você aguça os seus sentidos e passa a entender o quanto o que é comum pode ser precioso, único, atemporal. Quando eu leio Proust, eu me lembro de que sentir é viver, e se eu prestar atenção nas coisas tão insignificantes e maravilhosas que acontecem o tempo todo, talvez eu possa entender que, nas palavras do compositor Townes Van Zandt, viver é voar. Quando eu leio Proust, eu me lembro de que a vida é mágica.
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Todas as citações são do livro Swann's Way, Remembrance of Things Past, Volume One, traduzido por C. K. Scott Moncrief e disponível em domínio público no Project Gutenberg.
Eu gostaria de fazer citações no nosso próprio idioma, mas infelizmente não há versão alguma em português disponível em domínio público, então lamento por colocar só citações em inglês, espero que vocês não se incomodem muito com isso.
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