Proustian reflections

Sunday, February 25th., Cadogan Square, London.

The other day I went into a large and beautiful bookshop in Paris. Bookshops, like all other kinds of shops, are more artistically arranged in Paris than they are in London. I went out with six or seven volumes which I have since read, or read 'in'. A striking difference between the two countries, from a publishing point of view, is that the freedom of the press to print anything, and any word whatever, is growing in the Republic. Such rich and complete candour as some of these books display I have never before met with in good modern work openly sponsored by publishers of the highest standing. 

One of the volumes was "Souvenirs sur Marcel Proust" by Robert Dreyfus. Personally I am not an out-and-out Proustian. That is to say, I hesitate to believe that Proust was the greatest novelist that ever lived or ever could live. My admiration has got me into trouble with non-Proustians, and my reserves about him have got me into more serious trouble with Proustians.So that I am compelled to live in a sort of Proustian no-man's land. Not that I mind that!

Proust has enchanted me, and he has bored me. I am however convinced that, taken in the mass (and there is indeed mass) he very considerably 'counts'. I was an early admirer and bought a copy of "Du cote de chez Swann" in 1913, a first edition. Now and then I produce it for a Proustian friend - every time the effect has been all that the snob in me could have wished. If I sense the onset of a question as to whether I have actually read all of Proust, I change the subject as adroitly as possible. The fact is that Proust has more often lulled me to sleep than stimulated my receptive powers.

Out strolling about this morning. A fine, crisp, blood-stimulating winters day. Ground frozen hard underfoot and not a cloud to be seen. I doubt if the temperature got much, if at all, above zero. I am noticing a change this year. Usually by the end of February I have had enough of winter and am longing for warm weather but, so far, I have remained content to tog-up and get on. Is this a symptom of ageing that I had not anticipated?