Word: proust
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...Breathless, is depressingly effective as a small-town broad abroad, the sort of disinhibited Amie most Frenchmen earnestly implore to go home. Françoise Moreuil, Seberg's ex-husband, shows a pretty flair for direction in his first film. He keeps the story bouncing from pillow to Proust, and he bathes scene after scene in a morning light of such glittering purity that the spectator is simultaneously delighted by the physical beauty and disgusted by the morbid decadence he sees. It's like being served a dead mouse glac...
...sulks. Wrote Poet André Suares: "Just as the cat rubs itself against the hand, Debussy caresses his soul with the pleasure which he invokes." A natural bohemian, the composer spent nights roaming Montmartre with celebrities of the period ranging from Mata Hari to Marcel Proust...
...interior-decorating lady author whose every point is petit; nor is it the literary bedroom peeper of the huff-puff-periphrasis school ("Metaphor pounded at his temples and his heart swelled with simile"). The most egregious trier of patience is, surely, the Author Who Has Read Proust. He will send his hero into the kitchen to mix a drink, say, but sure as Remembrance of Things Past comes in seven volumes, the ice tray wall remind the hero of another, earlier ice tray, half-shrouded in the mists of memory, and it will be 40 pages before the reader gets...
...Private Jones's long, hard-written effort to be the Marcel Proust of C-for-Charlie Company's baptism of fire is not without virtues. His narrative of the company's action switches focus from soldier to soldier, skillfully managing to re-create a steadily developing, complex assault on a pair of Japanese-held hills. Without seeming to interrupt, it examines each individual's reactions to his own private world of pride and fear. But much of what Jones tells of the men-their need to prove their manhood, the revival meeting frenzy that carries them...
...coupling of the somewhat unreal and surrealistically horrifying present with an all too real past that can never completely die in the memory lies at the heart of Faulkner's artistic creation. This sense of time is both peculiarly Southern and universal: one thinks of Poe, of Proust, of Lanier, or even of Francois Villon...