Product Description

A brilliant and original memoir of midlife-a writing life, a reading life, a woman's life-by the distinguished author of Parallel Lives

Phyllis Rose, a biographer, essayist, and literary critic, finally got around to reading Proust in middle age. As Rose learned, you don't have to live through an unhappy childhood or celebrity adulthood to write an autobiography. You just need patience, candor, and a close-to-scientific passion for truth. She begins to learn how to navigate the intricacies of Proust's novels, at the same time reflecting on the course of her own life.

With striking honesty, Rose writes about marriage, friendship, childbirth, and her own mortality. As she moves from daily experience to what she's read and back again, she illuminates how the close reading of her own life reveals truths for the rest of us and how such a subtle celebration of books can help us live.

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Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #1865235 in Books
• Published on: 1999-12-23
• Original language: English
• Dimensions: .68 pounds
• Binding: Paperback
• 272 pages

From Amazon.com
"For a long time I used to try to read Proust," recalls Phyllis Rose, evoking both the somnolent opening salvo of Remembrance of Things Past and her own resistance to that mighty, melancholic masterpiece. Happily, she did get around to it. And even better, she recorded her dogged progress through all seven installments--and her own, shall we say, parallel life--in The Year of Reading Proust: A Memoir in Real Time. The result is an irresistible hybrid of autobiography, rumination, and lit crit, in which the author puts one Proustian principle after another into action. Some of these efforts end up backfiring on Rose. For example, her attempt to tar a friend with the French novelist's paradoxical brush causes her some deep embarrassment:

Paradox always leads you to a sort of truth, for it gets at truth's many-sidedness. But the tone of what I wrote David, although it amused him, was not Proustian. There's a sweetness that comes with complex understanding, and I didn't have it. The bitterness of my sterility flowed into the style, creating of Annie, whom I sometimes loved, sometimes scorned, sometimes envied, sometimes resented, sometimes relished, and sometimes pitied, a creature of blanket unattractiveness and of myself uncomplicated malice.

Here, of course, the author is being hard on herself, articulating precisely the sort of complexity that she's supposed to be incapable of. The paradox might evoke a faint smile from Proust himself--who also might have relished the pinpoint social observation and relentless honesty of Rose's book. Whether she's recording a late-breaking entente between herself and her mother, or the details of a dinner party for blaspheming bad boy Salman Rushdie, or her own career disappointments, the author withholds nothing. At the same time, she delivers any number of big-picture truths, occasionally wrapping them in you-know-who's favorite sort of simile: "As at a big party, you approach people you haven't seen in a long time with benevolence and perhaps a little too much joy, fearing that you've forgotten how close you were, in a long friendship, you might approach your friend with a tentativeness and uncertainty unwarranted by the degree of affection you feel for her, but understandable in the light of human forgetfulness and the complexity of your particular exchanges." It's all here--generosity, mortification, high intelligence, and top-quality gossip, along with enough Proustian moments to last any reader at least a year. --James Marcus

From Library Journal
A writer (Parallel Lives: Five Victorian Marriages, LJ 10/1/83) and professor at Wesleyan University, Rose finally buckled down to read Proust?and rediscovered her own past.
Copyright 1997 Reed Business Information, Inc.

From Kirkus Reviews
Proust is less the subject of Rose's pleasurable, rambling memoir than its guiding spirit, whose wisdom and worldview Rose invokes as she reviews the travails and satisfactions of a year in her life. A row with her Key West landlady involving potted palms and banana treees; hectic preparations for a dinner honoring a mystery guest (who turns out to be Salman Rushdie); her friend Annie Dillard's cancer scare; and her own mother's halting progress toward death--these and other events take biographer Rose (Jazz Cleopatra: Josephine Baker in Her Time, 1989, etc.) into a Proustian blend of social gossip (mostly of literary Key West) and a remembrance of things in her own past. The passing of time, the attempt to transcend it (in collecting antiquities), the need to create something original before it is too late, and the immense difficulty of doing so, are among the novelist's themes that resonate for Rose. Most affecting is her newfound appreciation of the middle-class suburban 1950s childhood she had long reviled: ``I never `understood' my childhood because I never understood what a happy childhood it was.'' This encounter with her past culminates in a visit with her sister to their childhood home for the first time in 36 years. Unlike the fictional Marcel, who returns to Paris after a long absence and finds it much changed, Rose finds the house miraculously preserved, like a museum of her childhood, thus bringing no epiphany but merely the satisfaction of memories confirmed. Still, while there is much to savor here, there are disappointments, an occasional sense of incompleteness; we learn more, for instance, about the social hubbub over her dinner for Rushdie than we do about the writer himself. Perhaps the best part of the book is its opening chapter, in which Rose, having overcome her own inability to penetrate Proust, explains richly how one can do so, and why it is worthwhile. -- Copyright ©1997, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.