[ 3 / biz / cgl / ck / diy / fa / ic / jp / lit / sci / vr / vt ] [ index / top / reports ] [ become a patron ] [ status ]
2023-11: Warosu is now out of extended maintenance.

/lit/ - Literature

View post   
File: 116 KB, 728x1000, 4729132.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
22807208 No.22807208 [Reply] [Original]

>The Proustian equation is never simple.

>> No.22807262

>>22807208
Wdhmbt?

>> No.22807323
File: 138 KB, 900x900, The Waldunian Dialectic.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
22807323

>The Waldunian Dialectic of the Semantic Similarity Matrix of a text is an important textual structure.

>> No.22807901

>>22807323
I reverse searched the image and results are lit. a thread from 3 years ago is talking about it.

who the fuck is this guy? what type of meme is this?

>> No.22807940

>>22807901
he's some self posting irish faggot

>> No.22808682

>>22807262
The linguistic style of Proust is quite difficult I imagine.

>> No.22808689

Honestly if I heard someone say this IRL I'd burst out laughing. You're mentally weak if you let book nerds dominate your mind like this.

>> No.22808708

>>22808689
I dont know much abut Beckett but is he not just saying "Proust is hard" but in obtuse language?

>> No.22809449

>>22807262
It's the first sentence from an essay on Proust. Not sure if anybody knows what exactly it means.

>> No.22809512

>>22808689
Whatever you say bottom G

>> No.22809542

>>22807208
It goes on:
>The Proustian equation is never simple. The unknown, choosing its weapons from a hoard of values, is also the unknowable. And the quality of its action falls under two signatures. In Proust each spear may be a spear of Telephus. This dualism in multiplicity will be examined more closely in relation to Proust's 'perspectivism.' For the purposes of this synthesis it is convenient to adopt the inner chronology of the Proustian demonstration, and to examine in the first place that double-headed monster of damnation and salvation – Time.
>The scaffolding of his structure is revealed to the narrator in the library of the Princesse de Guermantes (one-time Mme. Verdurin), and the nature of its materials in the matinée that follows. His book takes form in his mind. He is aware of the many concessions required of the literary artist by the shortcomings of the literary convention. As a writer he is not altogether at liberty to detach effect from cause. It will be necessary, for example, to interrupt (disfigure) the luminous projection of subject desire with the comic relief of features. It will be impossible to prepare the hundreds of masks that rightly belong to the objects of even his most disinterested scrutiny. He accepts regretfully the sacred ruler and compass of literary geometry. But he will refuse to extend his submission to spatial scales, he will refuse to measure the length and weight of man in terms of his body instead of in terms of his years. In the closing words of his book he states his position: ‘But were I granted time to accomplish my work, I would not fail to stamp it with the seal of that Time, now so forcibly present to my mind, and in it I would describe men, even at the risk of giving them the appearance of monstrous beings, as occupying in Time a much greater place than that so sparingly conceded to them in Space, a place indeed extended beyond measure, because, like giants plunged in the years, they touch at once those periods of their lives separated by so many days – so far apart in Time.’
>Proust's creatures, then, are victims of this predominating condition and circumstance – Time; victims as lower organisms, conscious only of two dimensions and suddenly confronted with the mystery of height, are victims: victims and prisoners. There is no escape from the hours and the days. Neither from tomorrow nor from yesterday. There is no escape from yesterday because yesterday has deformed us, or been deformed by us. The mood is of no importance. Deformation has taken place. Yesterday is not a milestone that has been passed, but a daystone on the beaten track of the years, and irremediably part of us, within us, heavy and dangerous. We are not merely more weary because of yesterday, we are other, no longer what we were before the calamity of yesterday. A calamitous day, but calamitous not necessarily in content. The good or evil disposition of the object has neither reality nor significance.

>> No.22809549

>>22809542
That’s a neat little essay but it really just gives a general overview of what Proust was about (time is le bad) and doesn’t offer any sort of new insight.