PROMENADE
Je ne connaissais Marcel Proust depuis peu de temps, quand nous fumes invite, l'un et l'autre, à passer quelques jours à la campagne chez joins amie. J'avais entretiens dans rares us admired the ingenious courtesy of Marcel, his miraculous speed of understanding, his sense of humor, but I did not suspect his genius, which I had the revelation that little by little, and I do not even doubt it was someone special. I knew he was writing, but he did not speak, I did not read it and it was nothing like the men of letters that I frequented.
The day I arrived, we went together we walk in the garden. We were passing a rose border of Bengal, when suddenly he paused and stopped. I stopped too, but then he began to walk, and I did the same. Soon he stopped again and said with this childlike sweetness and a little sad that he always kept in tone and voice: "Are you angry that I have a little back? I would like to review these small Roses. "I left him. At the turn of the driveway, I looked behind me. Marcel had turned back to the roses. Having toured the castle, I found him at the same spot, staring at the roses. Head bowed, his face serious, he blinked his eyes, frowning slightly as a passionate effort of attention, and his left hand he stubbornly pushed between her lips after her little mustache black, he nibbled. I felt he heard me coming, he saw me, but he would neither speak nor move. I spent so without uttering a word. A minute passed and then I heard Marcel calling me. I turned and he ran towards me. He joined me and asked me if "I was not sorry." I reassured him, laughing, and we resumed our interrupted conversation. I do not sent him questions about the episode of roses; I made no comment, no joke: I vaguely understand that it was not ...
many times thereafter, I witnessed similar scenes! How often have I observed in these mysterious moments Marcel he communed with nature; with art with life by these "minutes Deep" where his whole being concentrated in a work transcending and penetrating suction alternate, came in, as it were, in state trance, where his superhuman intelligence and sensitivity, sometimes with a series of lightning flashes acute, sometimes with a slow and irresistible infiltration, succeeded to the root of things and discovered that no one could see - that this person now will never see.
REYNALDO HAHN
WALK
It was recently that I knew Marcel Proust when both were invited to spend a few days in the field in a friend's house. In our few conversations he had admired the ingenious kindness Marcel, his miraculous speed of understanding, sense of comedy, but never suspected his genius, which is only gradually revealed to me, and did not expect it to be someone special. I knew he was writing but he did not speak to that, he had not read anything you and he does not look anything like the writers that I frequented.
On my arrival we were together for a walk in the garden. We passed a row of rose bengal when suddenly, he stopped and paused. I also stopped, but then he began to walk again and I did the same. Soon stopped again and told me that sweetness and a little sad child who always kept the tone and voice: "Do you mind go it alone for a moment? I would like to see those little roses. "I left him there. At a bend in the road I looked back. Marcel had receded to the roses. After going around the castle returned to find it in the same place, staring at the roses. His head bowed, a grave expression on his face, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed slightly as an effort passionate attention, and with the left hand between his lips stubbornly got the tip of the black mustache and nibbled. I realized that I listened closer, I saw that, but I also realized that dared not speak or move. I passed, then, without saying a word. A minute passed and then I heard my name was Marcel. I turned around, came running to me. I reached out and asked me if "I was not angry." I assured him, laughing, that was not well and we resumed our interrupted conversation. I did not ask questions about the episode of roses, made no comment, no joke darkly that should not be understood to ...
many times I went, later, similar scenes! Marcel watched many times in these mysterious moments that entirely communed with nature, art, life, and in those minutes "deep" in his whole being concentrated in a transcendent work of penetration and aspiration alternating entered, so to speak, in a state of trance, where his superhuman intelligence and sensitivity, sometimes by a series of intense flares, sometimes a slow and irresistible infiltration, reached the root of things and found out what nobody could see what no one now will ever see.
Traducción of Carlos Cámara y Miguel Ángel Frontana
Je ne connaissais Marcel Proust depuis peu de temps, quand nous fumes invite, l'un et l'autre, à passer quelques jours à la campagne chez joins amie. J'avais entretiens dans rares us admired the ingenious courtesy of Marcel, his miraculous speed of understanding, his sense of humor, but I did not suspect his genius, which I had the revelation that little by little, and I do not even doubt it was someone special. I knew he was writing, but he did not speak, I did not read it and it was nothing like the men of letters that I frequented.
The day I arrived, we went together we walk in the garden. We were passing a rose border of Bengal, when suddenly he paused and stopped. I stopped too, but then he began to walk, and I did the same. Soon he stopped again and said with this childlike sweetness and a little sad that he always kept in tone and voice: "Are you angry that I have a little back? I would like to review these small Roses. "I left him. At the turn of the driveway, I looked behind me. Marcel had turned back to the roses. Having toured the castle, I found him at the same spot, staring at the roses. Head bowed, his face serious, he blinked his eyes, frowning slightly as a passionate effort of attention, and his left hand he stubbornly pushed between her lips after her little mustache black, he nibbled. I felt he heard me coming, he saw me, but he would neither speak nor move. I spent so without uttering a word. A minute passed and then I heard Marcel calling me. I turned and he ran towards me. He joined me and asked me if "I was not sorry." I reassured him, laughing, and we resumed our interrupted conversation. I do not sent him questions about the episode of roses; I made no comment, no joke: I vaguely understand that it was not ...
many times thereafter, I witnessed similar scenes! How often have I observed in these mysterious moments Marcel he communed with nature; with art with life by these "minutes Deep" where his whole being concentrated in a work transcending and penetrating suction alternate, came in, as it were, in state trance, where his superhuman intelligence and sensitivity, sometimes with a series of lightning flashes acute, sometimes with a slow and irresistible infiltration, succeeded to the root of things and discovered that no one could see - that this person now will never see.
REYNALDO HAHN
WALK
It was recently that I knew Marcel Proust when both were invited to spend a few days in the field in a friend's house. In our few conversations he had admired the ingenious kindness Marcel, his miraculous speed of understanding, sense of comedy, but never suspected his genius, which is only gradually revealed to me, and did not expect it to be someone special. I knew he was writing but he did not speak to that, he had not read anything you and he does not look anything like the writers that I frequented.
On my arrival we were together for a walk in the garden. We passed a row of rose bengal when suddenly, he stopped and paused. I also stopped, but then he began to walk again and I did the same. Soon stopped again and told me that sweetness and a little sad child who always kept the tone and voice: "Do you mind go it alone for a moment? I would like to see those little roses. "I left him there. At a bend in the road I looked back. Marcel had receded to the roses. After going around the castle returned to find it in the same place, staring at the roses. His head bowed, a grave expression on his face, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed slightly as an effort passionate attention, and with the left hand between his lips stubbornly got the tip of the black mustache and nibbled. I realized that I listened closer, I saw that, but I also realized that dared not speak or move. I passed, then, without saying a word. A minute passed and then I heard my name was Marcel. I turned around, came running to me. I reached out and asked me if "I was not angry." I assured him, laughing, that was not well and we resumed our interrupted conversation. I did not ask questions about the episode of roses, made no comment, no joke darkly that should not be understood to ...
many times I went, later, similar scenes! Marcel watched many times in these mysterious moments that entirely communed with nature, art, life, and in those minutes "deep" in his whole being concentrated in a transcendent work of penetration and aspiration alternating entered, so to speak, in a state of trance, where his superhuman intelligence and sensitivity, sometimes by a series of intense flares, sometimes a slow and irresistible infiltration, reached the root of things and found out what nobody could see what no one now will ever see.
Traducción of Carlos Cámara y Miguel Ángel Frontana
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