For quite a long time, 'reading Proust' has ranked as just about the most impressive (= pretentious?) literary feat you can accomplish.
When one of the schoolmasters in Willans & Searle's classic 'Molesworth' series asks the eponymous hero about his holiday reading matter, the answer is an obvious one:
'What hav you read, molesworth?
gulp gulp a rat in a trap.
'Proust, sir. A grate fr. writer. The book in question was swan's way.
'Gorblimey. Wot did you think of it, eh?'
'The style was exquisite, sir, and the characterisation superb. The long evocative passages - '
'SILENCE' thunder GRIMES. There is no such book, impertinent boy. I shall hav to teach you culture the hard way. Report for the kane after prayers.'
Some of you may be more familiar with the Monty Python
'All-England Summarize Proust Competition' sketch:
Harry: Proust's novel ostensibly tells of the irrevocability of time lost, the forfeiture of innocence through experience, the reinstallment of extra-temporal values of time regained, ultimately the novel is both optimistic and set within the context of a humane religious experience, re-stating as it does the concept of intemporality. In the first volume, Swann, the family friend visits...
(Gong goes, chord of music, applause. The meter has hardly risen at all.)
Mee: Well tried, Harry.
Then, of course, there's Steve Carrell's poignant performance as the hapless, suicidal Proustian in Little Miss Sunshine
Dwayne: I wish I could just sleep until I was eighteen and skip all of this, high school, everything.
Frank: Do you know who Marcel Proust is?
Dwayne: He's the guy you teach.
Frank: Yeah. French writer. Total loser. Never had a real job. Unrequited love affairs. Gay. Spent 20 years writing a book almost no one reads. But he's also probably the greatest writer since Shakespeare. Anyway, he, uh, he gets down to the end of his life, and he looks back and decides that all those years he suffered, those were the best years of his life, 'cause they made him who he was. All those years he was happy? You know, total waste. Didn't learn a thing. So, if you sleep until you're 18 - ah, think of the suffering you're gonna miss. I mean high school? High school - those are your prime suffering years. You don't get better suffering than that.
Circling back a little closer to the era of Proust's first appearance in English, there's James Thurber's 1932 New Yorker
story "The Black Magic of Barney Haller":
On this hot morning when I saw Barney coming along with
his faithful storm trudging behind him, I went back frowningly to my copy of "Swann's Way." I hoped that Barney,
seeing me absorbed in a book, would pass by without saying
anything. I read: "... I myself seemed actually to have become the subject of my book: a church, a quartet, the rivalry
between Francis I and Charles V ..." I could feel Barney
standing looking at me, but I didn't look at him.
"Dis morning bime by," said Barney, "I go hunt grotches in
"That's fine," I said, and turned a page and pretended to be
engrossed in what I was reading. Barney walked on; he had
wanted to talk some more, but he walked on. After a paragraph or two, his words began to come between me and the
words in the book. "Bime by I go hunt grotches in de voods."
If you are susceptible to such things, it is not difficult to visualize grotches. They fluttered into my mind: ugly little creatures, about the size of whippoorwills, only covered with blood
and honey and the scrapings of church bells. Grotches . . .
Who and what, I wondered, really was this thing in the form
of a hired man that kept anointing me ominously, in passing,
So there you have it: something close to a century of smart gibes designed to show the hopelessness of trying to read the 3-4,000 pages (depending on which edition you use) of his seven-part masterwork À la recherche du temps perdu
- whether (like his first English translator, Scotsman C. K. Scott Moncrieff) you approximate that title as Remembrance of Things Past
, or (like a more recent team of Anglo-American translators) you render it more correctly as In Search of Lost Time
So what's the big problem? Why is it so difficult to get to the end of his book?
I was surprised when I read a number of reviews which compared Karl Ove Knausgaard's rather joyless autobiographical chronicle My Struggle
(2009-11) with Proust. Why? Because they both came in a number of volumes, and could both be described as minutely detailed, I suppose - oh, and because both were by foreigners.
I've only read the first of the books in Knausgaard's six-volume sequence, but I certainly found it a powerful account of some of the nastier aspects of death and funerals in general - very evocative to anyone who's been through anything approaching the same ordeal. But Proustian? No.
I think a lot of it comes down to an unfortunate initial choice of English translator. It's true that C. K. Scott Moncrieff's decision to translate the first volume of Marcel Proust's long novel came long before its distinction had been recognised even in France. But some of the more egregious additions he made to the text - particularly his choice of titles for the individual volumes, not to mention the series as a whole - caused a certain amount of consternation even at the time.
Proust himself wrote to Scott Moncrieff on 10 October 1922
, thanking him for "the trouble you have taken," and complimenting him on his "fine talent." However, he added:
The verses you have inserted and the dedication to your friends are no substitute for the intentional ambiguity of my Temps perdu, which corresponds to the Temps retrouvé that appears at the end of my work.
Proust also felt that Swann's Way
might have been better translated as To Swann's Way
Scott Moncrieff clearly regarded this as a piece of impertinence from a mere author, rather than a helpful suggestion. He riposted:
My dear Sir, I beg that you will allow me to thank you for your very gratifying letter in English as my knowledge of French — as you have shown me, with regard to your titles — is too imperfect, too stunted a growth for me to weave from it the chapelet that I would fain offer you. Are you still suffering — which I am very sorry to hear, and wish that my real sympathy could bring you some relief — I am making my reply to your critiques on another sheet, and by the aid of a machine which I hope you do not abominate: it is the machine on which Swann and one-third of the Jeunes Filles have been translated. Thus you can throw away this sheet unread, or keep it, or inflict it upon M. Gallimard.
Proust died soon after. It's hard to imagine what he could have said in reply, in any case, to one so "fain" to "weave chapelets" with his own flowery prose.
The problem, put simply, is that Scott Moncrieff's prose is pompous where Proust's is subtle and quick. This can be illustrated most economically in his choice of titles. The French phrase À la recherche du temps perdu
means "In Search of Lost Time" - no more, no less. Scott Moncrieff's choice: Remembrance of Things Past
- an allusion to Shakespeare's sonnet 30 ("When to the sessions of sweet silent thought / I summon up remembrance of things past") - does not mean the same thing at all. Shakespeare's sonnet continues:
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste.
In other words, the sonnet is about memory, tinged with regret. Proust's book, by contrast, is about memory in an entirely different sense: it's concerned with the nature of time itself. Proust, greatly influenced by his contemporary, the philosopher Henri Bergson
, saw memory as something which could change
over time - not a stable commodity at all. And, of course, in the famous image of the madeleine
in the cup of tea, he described the way in which sense memories could almost literally recreate
a lost reality.
Sacrificing meaning for sonorousness is the hallmark of Scott Moncrieff's approach generally. Proust's titles do not go easily into English, admittedly. Du Côté de chez Swann
, the first, translates literally as "By way of Swann's place." Lydia Davis calls it The Way by Swann's
in her 2002 translation. Swann's Way
is a far more ambiguous title - and, while it may sound
better than Proust's own suggestion of To Swann's Way
- it definitely favours euphony over sense.
Scott Moncrieff's next choice, to turn the vivid French of À l’Ombre des jeunes filles en fleur
into Within a Budding Grove
is, however, far less defensible. And it wasn't for lack of good advice, either. He even wrote to Joseph Conrad asking for his opinion. Conrad replied that "In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower" seemed to him the obvious translation. James Grieve, the most recent (2002) translator, apparently agrees: In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower
is his choice, too.
And so he blundered on. Le Côté de Guermantes
is fine as The Guermantes Way
, but how could even Scott Moncrieff persuade himself that the mealy-mouthed Cities of the Plain
would be a good fit for Proust's brazen title Sodome et Gomorrhe
? No prizes for guessing what that
particular section of his book is about ... La Prisonnière
is okay as The Captive
, but The Sweet Cheat Gone
is a dreadful travesty of Albertine disparue
(aka La Fugitive
Of course, simply criticising someone's choice of titles is not entirely fair. The last volume of the series, Le Temps retrouvé
, which Scott Moncrieff didn't live to translate himself, has been variously Englished as Time Regained
(by Stephen Hudson, in 1930), The Past Recaptured
(by Andreas Mayor, in 1971) and Finding Time Again
(by Ian Patterson, in 2002).
But - as you can imagine - it wasn't just the titles that were affected by C. K. Scott Moncrieff's fatal taste for the sonorous and polysyllabic: so different from Proust's nervous, electric style.
Here is the opening passage of Proust's Du Côté de chez Swann
Longtemps, je me suis couché de bonne heure. Parfois, à peine ma bougie éteinte, mes yeux se fermaient si vite que je n’avais pas le temps de me dire : « Je m’endors. » Et, une demi-heure après, la pensée qu’il était temps de chercher le sommeil m’éveillait ; je voulais poser le volume que je croyais avoir encore dans les mains et souffler ma lumière ; je n’avais pas cessé en dormant de faire des réflexions sur ce que je venais de lire, mais ces réflexions avaient pris un tour un peu particulier ; il me semblait que j’étais moi-même ce dont parlait l’ouvrage : une église, un quatuor, la rivalité de François Ier et de Charles-Quint. Cette croyance survivait pendant quelques secondes à mon réveil ; elle ne choquait pas ma raison, mais pesait comme des écailles sur mes yeux et les empêchait de se rendre compte que le bougeoir n’était pas allumé. Puis elle commençait à me devenir inintelligible, comme après la métempsycose les pensées d’une existence antérieure ; le sujet du livre se détachait de moi, j’étais libre de m’y appliquer ou non ; aussitôt je recouvrais la vue et j’étais bien étonné de trouver autour de moi une obscurité, douce et reposante pour mes yeux, mais peut-être plus encore pour mon esprit, à qui elle apparaissait comme une chose sans cause, incompréhensible, comme une chose vraiment obscure. Je me demandais quelle heure il pouvait être ; j’entendais le sifflement des trains qui, plus ou moins éloigné, comme le chant d’un oiseau dans une forêt, relevant les distances, me décrivait l’étendue de la campagne déserte où le voyageur se hâte vers la station prochaine ; et le petit chemin qu’il suit va être gravé dans son souvenir par l’excitation qu’il doit à des lieux nouveaux, à des actes inaccoutumés, à la causerie récente et aux adieux sous la lampe étrangère qui le suivent encore dans le silence de la nuit, à la douceur prochaine du retour.
J’appuyais tendrement mes joues contre les belles joues de l’oreiller qui, pleines et fraîches, sont comme les joues de notre enfance. Je frottais une allumette pour regarder ma montre. Bientôt minuit. C’est l’instant où le malade qui a été obligé de partir en voyage et a dû coucher dans un hôtel inconnu, réveillé par une crise, se réjouit en apercevant sous la porte une raie de jour. Quel bonheur ! c’est déjà le matin ! Dans un moment les domestiques seront levés, il pourra sonner, on viendra lui porter secours. L’espérance d’être soulagé lui donne du courage pour souffrir. Justement il a cru entendre des pas ; les pas se rapprochent, puis s’éloignent. Et la raie de jour qui était sous sa porte a disparu. C’est minuit ; on vient d’éteindre le gaz ; le dernier domestique est parti et il faudra rester toute la nuit à souffrir sans remède.
's version of that opening:
For a long time I used to go to bed early. Sometimes, when I had put out my candle, my eyes would close so quickly that I had not even time to say “I’m going to sleep.” And half an hour later the thought that it was time to go to sleep would awaken me; I would try to put away the book which, I imagined, was still in my hands, and to blow out the light; I had been thinking all the time, while I was asleep, of what I had just been reading, but my thoughts had run into a channel of their own, until I myself seemed actually to have become the subject of my book: a church, a quartet, the rivalry between François I and Charles V. This impression would persist for some moments after I was awake; it did not disturb my mind, but it lay like scales upon my eyes and prevented them from registering the fact that the candle was no longer burning. Then it would begin to seem unintelligible, as the thoughts of a former existence must be to a reincarnate spirit; the subject of my book would separate itself from me, leaving me free to choose whether I would form part of it or no; and at the same time my sight would return and I would be astonished to find myself in a state of darkness, pleasant and restful enough for the eyes, and even more, perhaps, for my mind, to which it appeared incomprehensible, without a cause, a matter dark indeed.
I would ask myself what o’clock it could be; I could hear the whistling of trains, which, now nearer and now farther off, punctuating the distance like the note of a bird in a forest, shewed me in perspective the deserted countryside through which a traveller would be hurrying towards the nearest station: the path that he followed being fixed for ever in his memory by the general excitement due to being in a strange place, to doing unusual things, to the last words of conversation, to farewells exchanged beneath an unfamiliar lamp which echoed still in his ears amid the silence of the night; and to the delightful prospect of being once again at home.
I would lay my cheeks gently against the comfortable cheeks of my pillow, as plump and blooming as the cheeks of babyhood. Or I would strike a match to look at my watch. Nearly midnight. The hour when an invalid, who has been obliged to start on a journey and to sleep in a strange hotel, awakens in a moment of illness and sees with glad relief a streak of daylight shewing under his bedroom door. Oh, joy of joys! it is morning. The servants will be about in a minute: he can ring, and some one will come to look after him. The thought of being made comfortable gives him strength to endure his pain. He is certain he heard footsteps: they come nearer, and then die away. The ray of light beneath his door is extinguished. It is midnight; some one has turned out the gas; the last servant has gone to bed, and he must lie all night in agony with no one to bring him any help.
Here's Terence Kilmartin
's revision of Scott Moncrieff:
For a long time I used to go to bed early. Sometimes, when I had put out my candle, my eyes would close so quickly that I had not even time to say to myself: “I’m falling asleep.” And half an hour later the thought that it was time to go to sleep would awaken me; I would make as if to put away the book which I imagined was still in my hands, and to blow out the light; I had gone on thinking, while I was asleep, about what I had just been reading, but these thoughts had taken a rather peculiar turn; it seemed to me that I myself was the immediate subject of my book: a church, a quartet, the rivalry between François I and Charles V. This impression would persist for some moments after I awoke; it did not offend my reason, but lay like scales upon my eyes and prevented them from registering the fact that the candle was no longer burning. Then it would begin to seem unintelligible, as the thoughts of a former existence must be to a reincarnate spirit; the subject of my book would separate itself from me, leaving me free to apply myself to it or no; and at the same time my sight would return and I would be astonished to find myself in a state of darkness, pleasant and restful enough for my eyes, and even more, perhaps, for my mind, to which it appeared incomprehensible, without a cause, something dark indeed.
I would ask myself what time it could be; I could hear the whistling of trains, which, now nearer and now farther off, punctuating the distance like the note of a bird in a forest, showed me in perspective the deserted countryside through which a traveller is hurrying towards the nearest station; and the path he is taking will be engraved in his memory by the excitement induced by strange surroundings, by unaccustomed activities, by the conversation he has had and the farewells exchanged beneath an unfamiliar lamp that still echo in his ears amid the silence of the night, and by the happy prospect of being home again.
I would lay my cheeks gently against the comfortable cheeks of my pillow, as plump and fresh as the cheeks of childhood. I would strike a match to look at my watch. Nearly midnight. The hour when an invalid, who has been obliged to start on a journey and to sleep in a strange hotel, awakened by a sudden spasm, sees with glad relief a streak of daylight showing under his door. Thank God, it is morning. The servants will be about in a minute: he can ring, and someone will come to look after him. The thought of being assuaged gives him strength to endure his pain. He is certain he heard footsteps: they come nearer, and then die away. The ray of light beneath his door is extinguished. It is midnight; someone has just turned out the gas; the last servant has gone to bed, and he must lie all night in agony with no one to bring him relief.
And here's Lydia Davis
's 2002 translation:
For a long time, I went to bed early. Sometimes, my candle scarcely out, my eyes would close so quickly that I did not have time to say to myself: “I’m falling asleep.” And, half an hour later, the thought that it was time to try to sleep would wake me; I wanted to put down the book I thought I still had in my hands and blow out my light; I had not ceased while sleeping to form reflections on what I had just read, but these reflections had taken a rather peculiar turn; it seemed to me that I myself was what the book was talking about: a church, a quartet, the rivalry between François I and Charles V. This belief lived on for a few seconds after my waking; it did not shock my reason but lay heavy like scales on my eyes and kept them from realising that the candlestick was no longer lit. Then it began to grow unintelligible to me, as after metempsychosis do the thoughts of an earlier existence; the subject of the book detached itself from me, I was free to apply myself to it or not; immediately I recovered my sight and I was amazed to find a darkness around me soft and restful for my eyes, but perhaps even more so for my mind, to which it appeared a thing without cause, incomprehensible, a thing truly dark. I would ask myself what time it might be; I could hear the whistling of the rains which, remote or nearby, like the singing of a bird in a forest, plotting the distances, described to me the extent of the deserted countryside where the traveler hastens toward the nearest station; and the little road he is following will be engraved on his memory by the excitement he owes to strange places, to unaccustomed activities, to the conversation he has had and the farewells under the unfamiliar lamp that follow him still through the silence of the night, to the imminent sweetness of his return.
I would rest my cheeks tenderly against the lovely cheeks of the pillow, which, full and fresh, are like the cheeks of our childhood. I would strike a match to look at my watch. Nearly midnight. This is the hour when the invalid who has been obliged to go off on a journey and has had to sleep in an unfamiliar hotel, wakened by an attack, is cheered to see a ray of light under the door. How fortunate, it's already morning! In a moment the servants will be up, he will be able to ring, someone will come help him. The hope of being relieved gives him the courage to suffer. In fact he thought he heard footsteps: the steps approach, then recede. And the ray of light that was under his door has disappeared. It is midnight; they have just turned off the gas; the last servant has gone and he will have to suffer the whole night through without remedy.
None of these three translations is inaccurate or poorly expressed. All of them say more or less the same thing. But what Proust has said in 480 words, Scott Moncrieff has expanded to 549. Kilmartin is able to cut this down by twenty or so words to 526, and Lydia Davis down by another twenty to 504.
Davis's is the most elegant of the three. Only she is able to turn Proust's famously long sentences into something equally eloquent in English: "The hope of being relieved gives him the courage to suffer" or phrases like "the imminent sweetness of his return."
Compare that with Scott Moncrieff's far less vivid word choices: "The thought of being made comfortable gives him strength to endure his pain" or "the delightful prospect of being once again at home."
Of course, Davis has the advantage of being a great prose stylist in her own right, but it's her determination to stick as closely as possible to Proust - to his
paragraphing and phrasing, rather than Scott Moncrieff's continuous feather-bedding and over-explicit expansions of his meaning - which enables her to keep her own version so light and airy.
Translation is a hard thing to do; it's pointless to pretend otherwise - and literary translation is particularly hard. French is a more economical and concise language than English - as a general rule. If, however, a translator averages an expansion of roughly 10% on every passage he renders (as is the case with Scott Moncrieff) it does, in the long run, have the unfortunate effect of making your author seem exceptionally verbose.
The real problem arose with Scott Moncrieff's heirs. They insisted on his monopoly on Proust translation for as long as they legally could: prohibiting other English versions from appearing. This is why the next two 'translations' were billed as 'revisions' of Scott Moncrieff rather than independent versions in their own right.
After Terence Kilmartin's valuable 1981 attempt to reconcile Scott Moncrieff's text with the new (1954) French Bibliothèque de la Pléiade
version edited by Pierre Clarac and André Ferré, there was a further revision of his revision by D. J. Enright in 1992, which changed the title (finally) to In Search of Lost Time
, in order to update it further to match the even newer (1987) Bibliothèque de la Pléiade
version edited by Jean-Yves Tadié.
At this point it was clearly time to go back to the text and work from that alone, ignoring Scott Moncrieff altogether, which is what Christopher Prendergast and his team did in the 2002 Penguin translation. I can't speak for the other volumes, but certainly Lydia Davis's translation of the first part (retitled - ironically - Swann's Way
for the American edition) is a triumph.
If you actually want to read Proust
, as opposed to the somewhat shopsoiled Wildean sprite that C. K. Scott Moncrieff made of him, it's nice to know that there's now a valid alternative to his formerly ubiquitous version.
George D. Painter: Proust (1959-65)
As far as filling in the rest of the background goes, George D. Painter's 2-volume biography of Proust remains a wonderfully readable and beautifully arranged piece of work. It's worth noting, parenthetically, the statement in his preface that "all translations from the French are my own." Even then, the shortcomings of the Scott Moncrieff version made it impossible to use for scholarly purposes: especially after the appearance of the new Pléiade text in 1954.
A more recent perspective is given by Jean-Yves Tadié's 1996 life. By far the most delightful piece of secondary literature on him, however, was contributed by his housekeeper Céleste Albaret in her 1973 memoir, which inspired Percy Adlon's 1982 movie Céleste
You'll find below a basic library of Proustiana. If you read French, the best and most complete text is undoubtedly to be found in Jean-Yves Tadié's four-volume 1987 Pléiade edition. It is extremely expensive, though, so it's as well to be aware that the same basic text is available for a fraction of the cost in the Gallimard Folio series.
If it's a good English version you're looking for, I'd go no further than the new Penguin edition. Forget Scott Moncrieff. "Throw away them records 'cause the blues is dead," as Elton John once put it. He's ruled the roost for far too long, and is no longer - if he ever did - doing poor old Marcel any favours. Why read 4,000-odd pages when Proust's actual book only contains 3,600 in the original French?
Jacques-Émile Blanche: Proust a 21 ans (1892)
Valentin Louis Georges Eugène Marcel Proust
Œuvres en français:
- Proust, Marcel. Les plaisirs et les jours. Préface d’Anatole France. 1896. Collection L’Imaginaire. Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1988.
- Proust, Marcel. À la recherche du temps perdu. Preface by André Maurois. Ed. Pierre Clarac & André Ferré. 3 vols. Bibliothèque de la Pléiade. Paris: Gallimard, 1954:
- Du Côté de chez Swann - À l’Ombre des jeunes filles en fleur. 1913 & 1919. Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 100. Paris: Gallimard, 1964.
- Le Côté de Guermantes - Sodome et Gomorrhe. 1920-21 & 1921-22. Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 101. Paris: Gallimard, 1973.
- La Prisonnière - La Fugitive - Le Temps retrouvé. 1923, 1925 & 1927. Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 102. Paris: Gallimard, 1954.
- Proust, Marcel. À la recherche du temps perdu. 1913-1927. Ed. Pierre Clarac & André Ferré. Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 100-2 (1954):
- Du côté de chez Swann. 1913. Collection Folio, 821. Paris: Gallimard, 1984.
- À l'ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs. 1919. 3 vols. Paris: Gallimard, 1961.
- Le Côté de Guermantes. 1920-21. 2 vols. Collection Folio, 87-88. Paris: Gallimard, 1978.
- Sodome et Gomorrhe. 1921-22. Collection Folio, 102. Paris: Gallimard, 1983.
- La Prisonnière. 1923. Collection Folio, 146. Paris: Gallimard, 1982.
- Albertine disparue. 1925. Collection Folio, 159. Paris: Gallimard, 1984.
- Le Temps retrouvé. 1927. Collection Folio, 785. Paris: Gallimard, 1978.
- Proust, Marcel. À la recherche du temps perdu. 1913-1927. Ed. Jean-Yves Tadié et al. 4 vols. Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 100-2, 356 (1987-89):
- Du côté de chez Swann. 1913. Ed. Antoine Compagnon. Collection Folio, 1924. Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1988.
- À l'ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs. 1919. Ed. Pierre-Louis Rey. Collection Folio, 1946. Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1988.
- Le Côté de Guermantes. 1920-21. 2 vols. Ed. Thierry Laget & Brian Rogers. Collection Folio, 2005-6. Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1988.
- Sodome et Gomorrhe. 1921-22. Ed. Antoine Compagnon. Collection Folio, 2047. Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1989.
- La Prisonnière. 1923. Ed. Pierre-Edmond Robert. Collection Folio, 2089. Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1989.
- Albertine disparue. 1925. Ed. Anne Chevalier. Collection Folio, 2139. Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1990.
- Le Temps retrouvé. 1927.
Ed. Pierre-Louis Rey, Pierre-Edmond Robert, Jacques Robichez & Brian
Rogers. Collection Folio, 2203. Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1990.
- Proust, Marcel. L’Indifférent: Nouvelle. Préface de Philip Kolb. Nouvelle Revue Française. Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1978.
- Kolb, Philip, ed. Cahiers Marcel
Proust, Nouvelle Série 3: Texts retrouvés. Avec une bibliographie des
publications de Proust (1892-1971). Édition revue et augmentée. Nouvelle Revue Française. Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1971.
- Proust, Marcel. Le Mystérieux Correspondant et autres nouvelles inédites. Ed. Luc Fraisse. Paris: Éditions Bernard de Fallois, 2019.
Works in translation:
- Proust, Marcel. On Art and Literature: 1896-1919. 1954. Trans. Sylvia Townsend Warner. 1957. Greenwich Editions. New York: Meridian Books, Inc., 1958.
- Proust, Marcel. By Way of Sainte-Beuve. Trans. Sylvia Townsend Warner. 1958. Introduction by Terence Kilmartin. London: The Hogarth Press, 1984.
- Proust, Marcel. Jean Santeuil. Trans. Gerard Hopkins. Preface by André Maurois. 1955. Penguin Modern Classics. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1985.
- Proust, Marcel. Remembrance of Things Past. 1913-27. Trans. C. K. Scott-Moncrieff & Andreas Mayor (1923-30; 1971):
- Swann's Way. 1913. Trans. C. K. Scott-Moncrieff. 1923. Introduction by Lewis Galantière. 1928. New York: Modern Library, 1956.
- Within a Budding Grove. 1919. Trans. C. K. Scott-Moncrieff. 1924. New York: The Modern Library, 1951.
- The Guermantes Way. 1920-21. Trans. C. K. Scott-Moncrieff. 1925. New York: The Modern Library, 1952.
- Cities of the Plain. 1921-22. 2 vols. Trans. C. K. Scott-Moncrieff. 1928. Illustrated by Philippe Jullian. London: Chatto & Windus, 1957.
- The Captive. 1923. Trans. C. K. Scott-Moncrieff. 1929. New York: The Modern Library, 1941.
- The Sweet Cheat Gone. 1925. Trans. C. K. Scott-Moncrieff. 1930. Vintage Books. New York: Random House, 1970.
- The Past Recaptured. 1927. Trans. Andreas Mayor. Vintage Books. New York: Random House, 1971.
- Proust, Marcel. Remembrance of Things Past.
1954. Trans. C. K. Scott Moncrieff & Andreas Mayor. 1923-30; 1971.
Rev. Terence Kilmartin. 1981. Penguin Modern Classics. Harmondsworth:
- Swann’s Way / Within a Budding Grove
- The Guermantes Way / Cities of the Plain
- The Captive / The Fugitive / Time Regained
- Proust, Marcel. In Search of Lost Time. Ed. Christopher Prendergast. 6 vols. Allen Lane. London: Penguin, 2002.
- The Way by Swann's. 1913. Trans. Lydia Davis
- In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower. 1919. Trans. James Grieve
- The Guermantes Way. 1920-21. Trans. Mark Treharne
- Sodom and Gomorrah. 1921-22. Trans. John Sturrock
- The Prisoner and The Fugitive. 1923 & 1925. Trans. Carol Clark & Peter Collier
- Finding Time Again. 1927. Trans. Ian Patterson
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