Another blogger who finds Proust's (and Marcel's) relationship with Mme. de Guermantes complex. I haven't found much in the way of good Proust blogging lately, and I'm been doing edits on a novel of my own, battling the rip-roaring New England winter, and whatever, making big pots of soup to keep us warm.
In NYC over the weekend, amazed and aghast at the Totally Buried cars, the slush, the possibility of breaking your ankle with a misstep. And the variety of boots! More amazing, still. I wore an ancient pair of Sperry "Marsh Boots," which I call swamp boots when I am not calling them sh__kickers.
Just to look at the footwear and the leg wear (anyone for jeggings or skinny jeans?) at the Whitney yesterday in the Edward Hopper show was trippy. Proust would have been at home at the Whitney, swathed in scarves and greatcoats. We were all swathed.
Here is the blogger's link for a good read about the Guermantes lady.
The duchess de Guermantes
The Other Odette