The Proust is in the pudding

Back in Madrid after a holiday in England’s green and pleasant land, as well as charming Glasgow and a somewhat remote Scottish island (Barra). At the time of this writing, independence is rumbling for Scotland. Most of the people I talked to were saying a definite “yes” – we’ll see what happens on the 18th!

Now translating (ES>EN) the latest volume of Barcelona publisher Treviana’s series on painters. This one is on Georges Seurat and, as usual, the book’s central text links the artist with a relevant literary figure. Treviana has followed this painter-writer format in quite a few other books that I’ve worked on (Manet/Flaubert, Sorolla/Blasco-Ibáñez, Velázquez/Pacheco, Raphael/Vasari…).

Anyway, I’m pleased to say that they’ve chosen Marcel Proust to be Seurat’s counterpart. And yes, come to think of it, stepping back from that swirl of multi-coloured dots to bring into focus a leisurely Sunday Afternoon on La Grande Jatte is indeed a bit like assembling Proust’s lost world from its infinitude of tiny, sub-atomic components (madeleine crumbs, if you prefer). “The figure in the carpet” Henry James, another long-winded genius, might have called it.





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