Sometimes you really wan't to like a book, but it's not always successful no matter how hard you try. Maybe with this one I tried too hard, because I had certain expectations. There's not really a plot in here, but this is a kind of a collection of memories and of characters who more or less show up in them. The lack of a plot wasn't a problem, especially when Proust could probably be able to describe taking a dump beautifully, but in the end this was too easy to put down and too hard to pick up again. I did understand, that like recollections are usually sprawling, this was meant to imitate that. In practice though reading was way too heavy. Although at times beautiful scenes and Proust's use of words made me sigh from delight, but mostly it was tough to read his ramblings. Not to say ramblings can't work, just look at Tropic of Cancer (1934). Long sentences are also ok, as long they are understandable, and not the kind you have to read all over again just to figure out what the author is trying to say.

My favourite scene was (in addition to that legendary madeleine scene) when Proust described a childhood reading session in the garden. It was straight from my own childhood. During the summer I used to read in our garden so focused, that I didn't realise the day getting darker. The transitions between different memories were also executed well and naturally, as if the words were flowing from one place into another. As a whole though the novel was in need of editing, because now this is just way too long. I also kind of felt that while there's nothing wrong with Proust's writing talent, he just had some problems in constructing a whole novel. Like he didn't know what he was doing, but was trying feverishly to write all his ideas down. At least I have my limits with stream of consciousness.

I'm going to take a look at the second installment, but if that feels as sticky as this one I'll give up with the whole series. There's far too many books out there for me to torture myself with an uninteresting series. There's still hope, though. At least what I've gathered, this was a sort of introduction to the whole series, so as a whole the story hasn't properly begun yet. Or at least I hope that there will be at least a some kind of glimpse of a point.

Despite my negativity this still deserves three stars, for Proust's writing and for the potential for good stuff later on. So, for the most arrogant Proust fans whose comments I've seen here on Goodreads: stop being pretentious and eloquent jackasses. Not all classics are liked by everyone. To each his own.

I remember fiddling these books at the library when I was a child, but the thickness of them probably stopped me from ever borrowing them. Instead I just stuck to girly books, like Nancy Drew. The tv series Tarzan: The Epic Adventures on the other hand was one of my favourites. Ok, I'll admit, I watched it mostly because of John Lara :D And oh boy, the films with Johnny Weismuller, my great love! So, like with a lot of other people, the story of Tarzan was familiar even though I never actually read the book.

Now that I'm an adult, I take note on different things than what I would have as a kid. I was able to enjoy the story for what it was and be swept away by the epic adventures, but Burroughs was definitely a child of his era in regards to attitudes. The African tribes are described as being cruel, even monstrous cannibalist savages, whereas Esmeralda, the servant of white people, was mostly a childlike, hysterical and stupid nervous wreck. These basically overrule Burroughs's idea of fraternity between humans, or did it just concern white men? Alice and Jane were mostly just weak and useless (Jane a bit stronger, though), who apparently weren't able to 'think reasonably like men'. It was also unfathomable, that Tarzan's aristocratic instincts were supposedly hereditary, 'a natural result from generations of fine upbringing'. Seriously? Even though he'd been brought up by an ape after being orphaned as a baby? Thankfully Mr. Philander and professor Porter offered a little welcomed comic relief to the story.

Ok, so you could probably draw a conclusion from all this that I didn't like the book, but it's quite the opposite. The story was a great dose of pulp entertainment, even though the end felt a bit rushed and glued on. Because of my personal lack of interest towards wrestling with animals, I was happy for the arrival of Jane and the contrast it brought, but as a whole this was a great adventure novel of which I will definitely read the next installments at some point.

Cocteau's films were familiar to me beforehand (for example the magical La belle et la bête (1946), the best film version of that classic fairy tale), and apparently the same thing applies to this novel: Cocteau's atmospheric stories are nearly impossible to describe with words, you just have to experience them yourself. The dreamlike mood of the story of Elisabeth and Paul takes hold of you, and doesn't let you go until you are in the abyss with them.

How much I liked the portrayal of passion for art doesn't matter that much, when the actual main character was left pretty much in the dark. That may have been the author's intention, but this kind of approach has never appealed to me. The story is way too fragmented to get an idea of Strickland's character, even though I did enjoy it as a whole. I would also like to say that whatever you may think of his decisions, you can never understand unless you have felt that compulsive desire to create. I haven't, but I can still vaguely understand his reasoning. Towards the end there are two brilliant passages, that express my thoughts on life exactly:

I have an idea that some men are born out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they have always a nostalgia for a home they know not. -- They may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever known. -- Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth. Here at last he finds rest.

Is to do what you most want, to live under the conditions that please you, in peace with yourself, to make a hash of life; and is it success to be an eminent surgeon with ten thousand a year and a beautiful wife? I suppose it depends on what meaning you attach to life, the claim which you acknowledge to society, and the claim of the individual.

In order to be happy, you may have to make enormous sacrifices, and possibly hurt other people. But isn't it worth it, if you can feel like you finally have a meaningful life? That you are where your heart belongs?

You might want to skip that ham sandwich while reading this. How can no one notice men falling into giant barrels of pork fat? And then melting there and being transported to the canning section, so that people are actually eating those unfortunates?

Anyway, it seems that most readers seem to cling to the descriptions of factories and slaughterhouses, but actually Sinclair's purpose was to draw attention to the lives of poors and how they were taken advantage by the capitalist society. This is the story of immigrants, whose lives rarely had a happy ending. Instead their days were filled with uncertainty and both mental and physical suffering. Accidents and misfortunes of the main characters keep piling up, so it's a bit tough and tedious to read sometimes, but still really interesting.

I can honestly say I still don't know what was real and what was not. The first scene was breathtaking and all other dreamy scenes following it were equally fantastic. Dreams, hopes, mythology and a hint of reality mixed together with a dash of creepiness.