Having reached the seventh and last part of Proust’s masterpiece, and in the original French, I am sorely disappointed by the part’s title: Le temps retrouvé. What? Is this a joke of some kind? The title of the entire book beats it by a wide margin. Indeed, it is extraordinary all by itself, as my father wisely remarked late in his life (“By Itself,” February 13, 1997). At any rate, le temps perdu est perdu pour tout le temps. All that remains for the rest of one’s life is good old recherche… La recherche du temps perdu, to be a bit more precise.

Addendum I (November 2, 2019)

Amazingly enough, it has taken me two full months to return to Proust’s masterpiece. The title of its seventh part struck me as so disappointing and even discouraging that I counted the pages yet to go through. As it turned out, there remained two-hundred and seventy unread pages in the Gallimard edition of 1999. Goodness gracious! After a long respite, though, I am back. And in earnest, I dare say. With some luck, it will take me between two and three months to finish the book. If that is the case, I will be well ahead of my guess seven years ago, when I started reading it (“Proust Forever,” July 3, 2012). Back then, I expected that it would take me about twelve years to get to the last page. Hooray!

Addendum II (January 19, 2020)

Having reached the last page of Proust’s book at long last, I am at a loss for words. Le temps retrouvé? This title is not only disappointing or discouraging but also annoying. Actually, irritating. Strangely enough, I have become aware of it only in the original French. It must have struck me as perfectly plausible both in English and Italian translations of the book, which I read many years ago. Besides, the seventh and last part of the book leaves me cold. All Proust’s ruminations about the past, present, and future are in vain this time around on account of the part’s bungled title. Perhaps the only exception is his worry about his ability to explore his recollection in the time allotted to him (“Un riche basin minier,” January 15, 2020). As for his vaunted masterpiece, its days seem to be numbered for me. I cannot imagine returning to it ever again in any language whatsoever. Alas, words mean a lot to me! Le temps retrouvé, my ass.

Addendum III (April 25, 2020)

Having come across this piece of writing entirely by chance, I cannot but cringe a little. By now, Proust is history for me. Amazingly enough, his masterpiece is not in the piles of books on my dining table any longer (“Three Piles of Books,” September 7, 2019). Soon after I finished reading it in the original French, I took it to my study and found an appropriate place for it on one of the bookshelves there. Chances are that I will not touch it for a long time, if ever. Whence my discomfiture upon seeing the mindboggling title of the seventh and last part of the book I was cherishing for such a long time. Eight years, to be exact. The only consolation is the book of old that I share with the French writer: The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night (“Four Years Ahead of Time,” January 19, 2020). The four volumes of this wondrous book are still within my reach. And they will never be removed from the towering piles on my dining table. Of all the books I have read, this is my favorite one without any doubt, which is why I keep rereading it with growing fervor. To Proust’s lasting credit, he was very fond of it, too. Which is why he will forever remain close to my heart.