Marooned on page 169 of volume 4 for the latter part of 2010, last year, it has taken chicken pox to get me moving again.
Proust always has something to say about being sick; and illness is the metaphor he reaches for first most of the time.
The loved one is by turns the sickness and the remedy that suspends and aggravates the sickness.(232)
I am rediscovering my taste for the book. I don’t love this translation as much as the earlier volumes. Translating anything as well-known as this has all my admiration, but somehow the language seems flattened, perhaps bureaucratic. The sentences don’t ring like they do in the first one.
But it is taking my mind off the itch.
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