Proust: The Captive

The narrator of Marcel Proust's Remembrance of things past is a windbag and a self-pitying whiner. Of course, he is a very philosophical windbag. Well, many windbags are, so we need not marvel at that. I read part 5, The Captive (Den Fångna, in Swedish), with gritted teeth. It's not a bad novel. Not at all. But it's a most horrible perspective that this novel is anchored by. What makes Proust so good, however, is that he is relentless, he dares to tread were most would prefer not to. In other words, he takes the windbaggery of his dear narrator (he calls him Marcel...) seriously and turns the guts of the narrator inside out. This might surprise people who have only read the first and maybe the second part of Remembrance of things past. In those parts, the tone was swirling with coquetry, oscillating from the light-humored to the nostalgic. In these books, Proust focused on the intricate patterns of memory, how our memories are not something over which we have control. One of the most interesting things about Proust is the way he unravels the narrator's reminiscenses from the perspective of increasing insight and maturing, but on the other hand, as becomes very striking in The Captive, the mind of the narrator is numbed by bitterness and resignation.

The previous part, Sodom & Gomorrah, ended with Marcel's & Albertine's departure, from Balbec to Paris. Shattered by the news that a certain Mlle. Vinteuil has been a kind of foster mother for Albertine, he does everything he can to get her away from ravenous lesbians and her own, as he sees it, secret desires. Desire and jealousy. These are the main themes of The Captive. A claustrophobic novel mostly taking place in Marcel's apartment. I would hesitate to agree with Mr. Windbag himself (Sartre, that is) that the book is a true-to-life depiction of the essence of love; how love is an eternal struggle, in which we desire the beloved in her free submission. The lover wishes to capture a consciousness. Sartre: we do not want to be loved by slaves, then it would not be love. But then again: We desire the beloved to give herself over, to succumb - freely. Proust, for his part, seems more clear than Sartre. The narrator sometimes insists that he loves Albertine. But the next sentence reveals that his love is constituted by jealousy and total emptiness.

Marcel holds Albertine captive in his apartment. Francoise is there, too, of course. She doesn't approve. Marcel wallows in his jealousy of secret female lovers of Albertine's. She is allowed to go out with her friend Andrée. But, who knows, Andrée might not be so dependable after all? What triggers Marcel's jealousy? Clearly, it is the insight that he doesn't love her anymore. He wants to desire her. Only jealousy, only the vision of her together with a man, or, even more so, a woman, can make him interested in her again. Marcel fears, not other lovers, but the emptiness of his own "love". He has to keep up the illusion.

To Marcel, Albertine is at the height of desirability when she is asleep. He sits close to her body, admiring her sleeping face, her thoughtless expression. And only then is he able to fully "love" her. In that state, she seems to have fully submitted to him, no trace of a will, no bothering thoughts, no sneaky plans or hazy intentions. She is a body; and it is within his control. Ah, so this is beauty. When she is not asleep, Marcel is mostly bored with Albertine. He has taught her a thing or two about literature and art, and in conversations with her he installs himself as her Tutor. All in all, there is little we know about Albertine. Everything is filtered through Marcel's twisted jealousy, and she hardly has a voice of his own. Her voice is suffocated.

Some of the characters from Sodom & Gomorrah reappear here. There is the little Verdurin circle, centred around the High Arts and bitchy gossip. There is the notorious struggle between the upwards-moving bourgeoisie (represented by the Verdurins, I reckon?) and the Families with Ancestors who attempt to pull at every wealthy man's or woman's hair in order to stay put at a position of power and who don't mind a little bit of genealogy. In one striking scene, the Verdurins do their best to humiliate the baron, Monseur de Charlus, whose relation to the young violinist Morel they find increasingly annoying (but it has nothing to do with some bias against homosexuals, it is explained, they are fine, when they don't disturb the peace of upper class chit-chat). But it is clear that Marcel is no longer as thrilled about high society as he used to be. Albertine is waiting at home. He has got his prisoner to tend to. Even when listening to the haunting piece of music by Vinteuil, the empty obsession with Albertine does not leave him. Marcel no longer tries to elbow his way into every circle. But, as he dryly remarks, that only makes him all the more desirable as a guest!

Proust is creepier than you might think. He really is. The Captive is not a pleasant book to read. Marcel is a cesspool of bullshit, repeating himself incessantly, the same wallowing analyses over & over & over again. That's jealousy talkin'. Sure, this makes the text far less elegant than the earlier parts - but I guess that is exactly the point (or am I too sympathetic a reader?). I don't know exactly what reputation Proust has in literary circles, but I guess he is not famous for having depicted relations of gruesome power. But that he does.

I'm not quite sure how to read the book. There are tons of open questions. The story is told from a strange perspective of half-awareness. Marcel seems to understand in what position he has put Albertine; he talks about her as his slave; but the awareness of what he describes as her suffering does not affect him the least. He observes it, that's all. So, does he undestand? The book is written from the perspective of stupor, haze, eloquent somnambulism.

I'm excited to read the following two parts, even though I know it will hardly be a joyride.