Category Archives: Muhlstein Anka

Monsieur Proust’s Library by Anka Muhlstein

First the disclaimer: I have not read Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. Several years ago, I started to read the first volume and while I enjoyed it, something came along which distracted me from my reading project. Since this was a work that I really wanted to pay attention to, I decided that the time wasn’t right. I meant to return to Proust, and I will, thanks to the encouragement of other bloggers, so when I saw the nonfiction book Monsieur Proust’s Library from Anka Muhlstein, I decided to read it as a sort of enticement–an encouragement, if you will. But there’s another reason I decided to read Monsieur Proust’s Library: last year I read and enjoyed Balzac’s Omelette from the same author. As anyone who has read Balzac knows, it would be easy to spend one’s entire life analysing and dissecting La Comédie Humaine, but author Anka Muhlstein wisely chose to examine the place of food in Balzac’s work. This now brings me to Monsieur Proust’s Library, and here the focus is books and reading in Remembrance of Things Past.

I’ll admit that I would have got more out of this book had I read Proust’s work, but on one level, while Monsieur Proust’s Library is an academic work, it’s also very user-friendly, so even if I didn’t know who some of the characters were, their place in Proust’s world was adequately explained. So in other words, if you haven’t read Proust yet, or you’ve only read bits, then don’t be put off of this book as it illuminates a particular accessible thread that runs through Proust’s work. The author acknowledges that while “there are many ways of approaching a novel as complex as La Recherche,” she elected to “shed light on subjects as varied as Proust’s literary affinities, his passion for the classics, his curiosity about contemporary writers, and his knack of finding astonishingly apt quotations to put in the mouths of his characters.” And so for around 160 pages, the author appears to have great fun picking out just how books and reading fit into Proust’s masterpiece. Here’s one of my favourite quotes:

Proust seemed incapable of creating a character without putting a book in his hands. Two hundred characters inhabit the world he imagined, and some sixty writers preside over it. Certain of them, like Chateaubriand and Baudelaire, inspired him, while others, Mme de Sévigné, Racine, Saint Simon, and Balzac enhanced his personages.

The author explores Proust’s early reading life and how books “enabled him to escape the narrow confines” of his world (I’m sure most of us can relate to that), and the influence of Baudelaire and Ruskin on La Recherche before moving onto the contributions of Racine and Balzac’s work. I was delighted to learn that Proust was influenced by Balzac, and yet theirs was not an overwhelmingly positive reader-writer relationship. Anka Muhlstein notes that Proust “never claimed to be fond of the great nineteenth century novelist,” and instead Proust’s noted favourites were Racine, George Eliot, Thomas Hardy and Baudelaire. Proust considered Balzac’s work to show a “certain lack of elegance,” and “an obsession with the ways in which money is made.” At the same time, however, Muhlstein argues that Proust was an avid reader of Balzac and admired him for his use of re-appearing characters and “audacious treatment of sexual deviation.” And I’ll admit a certain gratification to learn that Proust greatly admired Dostoevsky, and when once asked which was ‘the most beautiful novel he ever read,” he selected The IdiotDostoevsky is worked into La Recherche in several ways, including through the analysis of his work in the “literature courses the Narrator inflicts on Albertine.”

The author argues that Proust “establishes a hierarchy” for the book’s characters with some being ‘good’ readers and other characters being poor readers, either for the choice of reading material or for their utter lack of understanding of the material at hand. According to Muhlstein, “every bad reader exemplifies a distinct moral or intellectual shortcoming,” so we see Professor Brichot (“Proust has little regard for academics“), Mme de Villeparisis and Mme de Brissac who are all sadly lacking as readers. Oriane, Duchess of Guermantes, on the other hand, uses books to wield “a wonderfully subtle form of domination” over others in her social circle, while Baron de Charlus, (inspired, argues Muhlstein by Balzac’s Vautrin) is so obsessed with literature that he acts out parts of Saint Simon’s memoirs.

A life without books was inconceivable for Proust. Not surprisingly, he made literary taste and reading habits a means of defining his characters. Everybody in La Recherche reads: servants and masters, children, parents and grandparents, artists and physicians, even generals. Conversations at dinner tables and among friends are mostly literary.

I’ve always thought that if I wrote fiction, I’d have great fun creating characters who were composites of people I really couldn’t stand as well as a few I’d really liked. In other words I’d have a sort of literary and social revenge, so I throughly enjoyed reading about Proust’s characters as good, bad, or indifferent readers.

 Another marvellous aspect of the book is the way glimpses of Proust peer through the pages. We see Proust not just as a writer, but also as a reader–someone for whom reading was a serious business. We learn about how as a child “he cried at the end of every book and was unable to go to sleep, desolate at the idea of leaving the characters he had grown attached to.” But this is Proust in childhood. Anka Muhlstein shows an adult Proust writing La Recherche applying all that was dear to him and yet also playing with those ideas through his characters.

It’s always interesting to know who authors were influenced by, who their favourite writers and their favourite books were, and the fact that Proust read & was influenced by Balzac, in spite of his flaws, tells me that I’ll really like La Recherche when I get to it, and I sense that reading Monsieur Proust’s Library has not only prepped me for The Big Read, but will also help me enjoy the novels when I finally get to them.

 Review copy

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Balzac’s Omelette by Anka Muhlstein

“Parties always end in pandemonium in houses where the valets have more style than the masters.”

As a Balzac fan, I was really interested to read Balzac’s Omelette from Anka Muhlstein (original title Garçon, un cent d’huîtres, Balzac er la Table). My copy came courtesy of the American publisher Other Press and is translated by Adriana Hunter. In this small volume, author Anka Muhlstein examines the way food, and all things related to food, appears in Balzac’s work. I’m going to admit that I never gave the subject a single thought before I read the book, but in the next Balzac novel, I know I’ll notice every mention of a bit of bread or a glass of wine. Clocking in at just over 200 pages, this is not a scholarly work, but if you are interested in 19th century French culture, Balzac or the history of restaurants in general, then this is an invaluable, fun romp and a very entertaining read. It probably helps if you know something about French literature of the period as there are frequent allusions to the novels of Balzac, Zola, Maupassant and Flaubert. To me, Balzac has always been about character, but in a marvellously fluid passage, Muhlstein argues that Balzac gives us another glimpse of his characters if we carefully examine how he implements the use of food in his novels: 

His preoccupation with all things gastronomic is first and foremost social, and this is endorsed by the fact that his characters spend hours on end in dining rooms, that his cooks’ habits are described in detail, and that he gives the addresses of his best suppliers. And yet he is not concerned with how things taste. If you want to imagine savouring an oyster as it melts on your tongue, read Maupassant; if you dream of jugs filled with yellow cream, try Flaubert; and if the thought of beef in aspic tickles you, turn to Proust. But if you are interested not so much in the taste of the oyster as in the way a young man orders it, less the cool sweetness of the cream than how much it costs, and less the melting quality of the aspic than what it reveals about how the household is run, then read Balzac.

 The author illustrates how Balzac, Zola, and Maupassant use food and drink to describe their characters–Balzac’s Duke of Hérouville is “a good wine, but so tightly corked up that you break your corkscrew.” Delphine de Nucingen is “such a washed-out creature with her white eyelashes [she’s] compared to a Cox’s pippin, an apple with blotchy markings like a frog while the wicked Marquise d’Espard is a delicious little apple that warrants biting into.” With all these descriptions of food worming their way into Balzac’s characterisations, naturally the thought emerges that perhaps Balzac was obsessed with food. If you’ve ever seen drawings of Balzac, you notice that he’s a large man. Being portrayed by Depardieu in the film Balzac furthered that impression, so if you’d asked me off the cuff  how I imagined Balzac’s eating habits, I would have proffered a guess that he was a man of gargantuan appetites. Muhlstein set me straight:

Paradoxically, this man, who is so keenly aware of the importance of food, was not a great food lover but the most eccentric of eaters. He barely ate anything for weeks on end during periods of intensive writing, then celebrated sending off the manuscript by abandoning himself to vast excesses of wine, oysters, meat and poultry.

To address and “reconcile these contradictions,” the chapter Balzac at Mealtimes surveys Balzac’s personal life and eating habits.  While he slogged his heart out writing eighteen hours a day, he drank water, coffee (a true addict!) and “sustained himself on fruit.” But then came the monstrous excesses, the orgies of food once a book was finished:

Once the proofs were passed for press, he sped to a restaurant, downed a hundred oysters as a starter, washing them down with four bottles of white wine, then ordered the rest of the meal: twelve salt meadow lamb cutlets with no sauce, a duckling with turnips, a brace of roast partridge, a Normandy sole, not to mention extravagances like dessert and special fruit such as Cornice pears, which he ate by the dozen. Once sated, he usually sent the bill to the publishers.

There’s one great description of a prison banquet held when Balzac was arrested for evading a period in the National Guard. It’s 1836,  and armed with borrowed money courtesy of his publisher, Balzac ordered a sumptuous feast from one of the most expensive restaurants in Paris: Véfour. The food orgy continued during Balzac’s stay:

His work table, his bed, his only chair, the entire floor of his room, everything was covered, everything was piled high, groaning with patés, stuffed poultry, glazed game, jams, baskets of different wines and every sort of liqueur [from] Chevet.

One of the most intriguing areas of the book is an exploration of the development of restaurants, and there’s some astonishing information here. Tracing how “the Revolution transformed the gastronomic landscape of Paris,” the author argues that the armies of unemployed chefs and pastry cooks of the aristocracy sparked a surge in the restaurant business. There were only “four or five restaurants in Paris before 1789,” but that number exploded to 2,000 by 1802 and 3,000 by the Restoration. Given that this sort of public eating was then, a fairly new phenomenon, the variety and competitiveness of restaurants must have been fascinating, and fortunately the book devotes some considerable space to exploring some of the most famous restaurants of Balzac’s time.  

The author argues that an examination of restaurants in La Comédie Humaine is essential as Balzac uses “restaurants to move his plots forward.” The information on the various restaurants is not delivered in isolation, however, and the author traces some of the characters Balzac ‘sends’ to restaurants. Muhlstein tallies the number of restaurants mentioned in La Comédie Humaine:

Balzac takes us all over Paris, on the right bank as much as the left, sending his characters off into the most refined establishments and the most lowly, and through his succession of novels gives us a real social and gastronomic report on the capital. Some forty restaurants are referred to in The Human Comedy, because he is not satisfied with mentioning only the biggest names. Whether discussing the most spectacular or the most modest, Balzac lingers over the menu. As is always the case with him, he is also interested in the cost. His work, therefore, amounts to a guide, one that discerns the stars but does not neglect the bill.

Restaurants described, along with mention of which characters ate where, and often why specifically Balzac ‘sent’ his characters to that particular restaurant include: Véry, Le Rocher de Cancale, Frères- Provençaux (“where he sends unsympathetic characters“), the Café des Anglais and its private rooms (which come in handy), the Café Riche, the Cadran Bleu, and the Cheval Rouge.  Including information regarding various restaurants creates a backdrop for the stories and characters–for example, to our modern sensibilities, it makes a great deal of difference whether the characters have an assignation in a rotgut fast food take-out, a steak house, or a 5 star restaurant that boasts a cordon bleu chef. Restaurants are not the only ‘real’ element to appear in Balzac’s fiction, he also wasn’t shy about including the very real Monsieur Chevet in his pages, and Balzac made him the “incomparable purveyor of all celebratory occasions.” The author notes that Chevet “seems to have been very grateful for the publicity.”

With literary examples, the author also argues:

Another rule–which Flaubert, Maupassant, and Zola respected–dictate that any substantial function held in a house ‘where the traditions of grandeur had not descended through many generations’ should end in disarray.

On a final note, there’s mention of a restaurant with shit service where people “go to be insulted,” and while I read this I remembered many comedy skits involving the stock character of the snotty French waiter. According to Balzac and Muhlstein, that image is rooted in fact.  I don’t think I’d fancy the Katcomb where the food was basic and the ambience, well it left a lot to be desired:

The tablecloths were changed only once a day, but each table had a brush with which customers could clear away crumbs.

Wonder what the bathrooms were like…..

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Filed under Muhlstein Anka, Non Fiction