Читать книгу Marcel Proust, an English Tribute. The Portrait of the Man written by the People Who Knew him the Best онлайн

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In reply to a letter in which, expressing my disappointment at not seeing him on a certain occasion, I went on to say that, much as I loved his books, I would rather see him and hear him talk than read them, he wrote me:

Entre ce qu’une personne dit et ce qu’elle extrait par la méditation des profondeurs où l’esprit nu gît, couvert de voiles, il y a un monde. Il est vrai qu’il y a des gens supérieurs à leurs livres mais c’est que leurs livres ne sont pas des Livres. Il me semble que Ruskin, qui disait de temps en temps des choses sensées, a assez bien exprimé une partie au moins de cela.... Si vous ne lisez pas mon livre ce n’est pas ma faute; c’est la faute de mon livre, car s’il était vraiment un beau livre il ferait aussitôt l’unité dans les esprits épars et rendrait le calme aux cœurs troubles.

His immersion in the subject of conversation or inquiry was complete; nothing else existed until he had got to the bottom of it. But his world was echoless; the voice never repeated itself, and banality could not enter in, because neither formula nor classification existed for him. Just as in his eyes one particular water-lily in the Vivonne was different from any other water-lily, so each fresh experience was an isolated unit complete in itself and unlike all other units in the world of his consciousness. His mind, so far from being overlaid by obliterating layers of experience, was as a virgin soil which by some magic renews itself after each fresh crop has been harvested. This power of mental renewal pervades and gives a peculiar freshness to all that he has written. It is in essence a youthful quality which was very marked in his personality. He was penetrated with boyish eagerness and curiosity, asked endless questions, wanted always to know more. What had you heard, what did you think, what did they say or do, whatever it was and whoever they were. And there was no denying him this or anything he wanted; he must always have his way—he always did have it, till the end of his life. And the great comfort to those who loved him is that till the last he was a glorious spoilt child. As Céleste says in Sodome: