Marcel Proust paid for reviews praising his work to go into newspapers

>None of these take away from the quality of his work.

Not intrinsically but it does lend creedence to those reassessing his reputation

When you realise that praise of literature is mostly dependent on the opinions of a small group of publishers, academics, and writers, due to the inherent pseudo intellectuality of many readers, including most of lit, it does matter.

It's because André Gide stopped a publisher from publishing the first volume of in search of lost time.

Was it Of Human Bondage that had the scene in which the art reviewer suggested that the main character bribe him for positive reviews?
I doubt it's remotely uncommon. If anything, it should help you to be careful about who you choose to trust in the suggestion of art.
The gaming critic industry was nearly ripped apart by this in recent memory. There is unquestionable nepotism involved in regards to Cohen, Levin, and Moore in the book world (if i hear joycean triumph once more, i'll vomit) i would even call to your attention the fact that goodreads, (what seems to be simply a place for dullards and clevertons to come and review books they did or did not read) is currently owned by anazon, and wonder what possible conclusions would come from knowing that a company with vested interest in book sales owns a popular site designed specifically to suggest, review, and share books.

>None of these take away from the quality of his work.
Au contraire, it has gone a long way toward informing the opinion you hold of his work today. Those with a more well-rounded perspective have been telling you that his work is overrated for a while, and we now have a piece of the puzzle that helps explain why: because it was from the very beginning.

there is the possibility that the acclaim is deserved as well, and that the only thing this does is serve to muddy the waters. people who enjoy the book will have the benefit of doing so regardless of the reviews, shills will be shills, and will waste whoever's time they can.
Certainly the availability of the work is more a question here, would we have read a confederacy of dunces or had any access to it, had not Toole's mother gone to the publisher's office and fellated him? doubtful we would have experienced it. some credit is owed to those willing to invest in their own work. no amount of shilling will make a piece great, but some shilling is necessary at times to make known a great work.

>Those with a more well-rounded perspective
On this board it has been mostly buttmad celinefags.

Coming to Veeky Forums and not being a Célinefag is like going on reddit and not liking homosexual Jews

the recognitions

was that it? okay, thank you.

Another proof of Céline's superiority.

Yeah...sure...tell me...more...about...the superiority of...that histrionic...third rate writer!

Everybody who devotes their time to reading the fantasies of other men is a pseud though.

Is there some thing between Celine and Proust I'm not aware of?

They're two figures violently opposed on every level; politically, stylistically, philosophically.

Delete this, goy

Stylistically?

Céline despised the effeminate efflorescence and autistic technicality that the academy loved and reached its zenith with Proust. He believed it was ballsless and any writer who truly wants to reach people needs to be comfortable in the vicious and scathing power of an actual human voice
A voice the kikes are threatened by

He despised the migration of a salt to the surface of a porous material, where it forms a coating of academia?

I work in advertising and it is extremely common. Half of TED Talk speakers bribe their way to get a TED Talk and then leverage book deals and career moves from it. PR companies do this all the time by sending out press releases written with aid from the company, then media outlets write and article basically copy/pasting the press release, but as if it is their own opinion.

At least in Proust's case he was actually talented.

Yeah, it sucks

efflorescence is french for flowering out, apparently, so it seems appropriate, the flowering of nancyboys in academia that reached its height with proust

Where can I learn more about this, or Celine's opinion on what you mentioned?

It's a bit of a stretch, applying a technical chemistry term to something else that sort of fits if used metaphorically. I suspect he meant effluence.

nah. he meant efflorescence. even more appropriate to use a french term in relation to two french authors

No I meant efflorescence, I was never even aware of its technical meaning in chemistry until now

guy's such a pleb he's trying to pull you down. don't let them throw shade on that shiny prose you're polishing

Alright, my mistake.

If you're talking French, sure.

okay, well, you can never use a loan word from another language again while discussing anything in english.
jesus christ.

Well yeah, if it already has a meaning in English somewhat different to what you mean by it then it's a bad choice.

>implying that words don't often have several meanings
>also implying the word was originally english and the french and latin terms came afterwards
why did you apologize then double down on your stupidity?

I didn't imply any of those things. The word, as a loan word, primarily means something different in English to the meaning he intended. It's a good word in the context he intended, but it's also reasonable that one might think it wasn't intended.

i'm glad you've backpedaled. anyhow, it is not reasonable to assume a word is incorrectly used when there are several definitions of the term, and english attributes the definition of effloresce (according to chambers, the true patrish dictionary) primarily to "to blossom forth", with the context of chemistry afterwards. tomexpect words to be in a vacuum and not often requiring context to interpret is the only unreasonable thing here.

...

Autism

>Those with a more well-rounded perspective have been telling you that his work is overrated for a while
You mean that one /pol/ samefag who has been calling Proust overrated because he's a Jew? Yeah, you guys have been telling us that for a while, thanks, I finally see the light now.

>when you were not one of the two people involved in a back and forth but you still know exactly what both of them meant
autism

i was involved in the back and forth and took on the mantle of the man who initially posted the word "efflorescence", he didn't seem like he wanted to get too involved.

>efflorescence is french for flowering out, apparently
you didn't even know the meaning until you googled it, get off your high horse, christ

nonsense, i ensured that the definition was potentially correct before assuming that someone had used a word incorrectly, which is the root of the argument. to call out someone's seeming mistake, and in turn make a mistake themselves by failing to do the requisite research to ensure it was a mistake to begin with. knowledge of a word itself is not the issue here.

>nonsense, i ensured that the definition was potentially correct before assuming that someone had used a word incorrectly
then you either used the word apparently incorrectly, or you are lying now
two can play this autistic game

what? you're a moron, i looked it up after the other guy claimed it was wrong, found out that it wasn't wrong, and took him to task for incorrectly attacking someone for a mistake that wasn't made to begin with.
do you understand now? i said nonsense to you because you were missing the point entirely, that knowing the meaning of the word in question beforehand is irrelevant to the argument i was having.

i just wanted to throw shit at a wall and see if it would stick
i'm sorry i doubted your autism user

Is a jew diverting this thread by arguing about the definition of a particular word that has nothing to do with Proust being a mediocre writer who greased the wheels to achieve the acclaim he so undeservedly enjoys now?

it's okay, i forgive. i've been in this mode lately, i'm not usually like this. typically i just pick fights about gass being a secret misanthropist and call tolstoy a rapist a few times and that's about it.

i actually posted a few interesting comments pertaining to the thread that no one responded to because i'm a pleb, so i went for a much more attention seeking tactic by autismoing a very simple quibble about the definition of a word.
here was my post pertaining to the issue at hand
and another in attempt to get a more in depth conversation going.

Knew he was a hack. Fuck him

Celine was a cry baby.

You would be too if you were too redpilled for this world

kek
nice digits btw

Proust is garbage, so no surprise. Still higher chance a goy is lying than a jew parting with sheckles.

>it does lend creedence to those reassessing his reputation
Oh, for fuck's sake, just crack open one of his books and start reading, you'll see he deserves his reputation as one of the greats. I don't like Proust as a person, but there is nothing to reevaluate about the value of his work, there has never been a case as clear as this in literary history.

Celine was basically that virgin/chad comic. There was a scene early on where some brave chad military man gets killed the fuck off

I'm taking him off my to read list, this is disgusting.

In which of his books?

>Those with a more well-rounded perspective have been telling you that his work is overrated for a while
nice meme

LISTEN YOU GUYS

IT'S ABOUT ETHICS IN LITERARY CRITICISM

Journey to the End of the Night. The WW1 scenes were really intense.

"The colonel was still as cool as a cucumber, I watched him as he stood on the embankment, taking little
messages sent by the general, reading them without haste as the bullets flew all around him, and tearing
them into little pieces. Did none of those messages include an order to put an immediate stop to this
abomination? Did no top brass tell him there had been a misunderstanding? A horrible mistake? A misdeal?
That some-body'd got it all wrong, that the plan had been for maneuvers, a sham battle, not a massacre!
Not at all! "Keep it up, colonel! You're doing fine!" That's what General des Entrayes,[7] the head of our
division and commander over us all, must have written in those notes that were being brought every five
minutes by a courier, who looked greener and more shitless each time. I could have palled up with that boy,
we'd have been scared together. But we had no time to fraternize.
So there was no mistake? So there was no law against people shooting at people they couldn't even see! It
was one of the things you could do without anybody reading you the riot act. In fact, it was recognized and
probably encouraged by upstanding citizens, like the draft, or marriage, or hunting! ... No two ways about
it. I was suddenly on the most intimate terms with war. I'd lost my virginity. You've got to be pretty much
alone with her as I was then to get a good look at her, the slut, full face and profile. A war had been
switched on between us and the other side, and now it was burning! Like the current between the two
carbons of an arc lamp! And this lamp was in no hurry to go out! It would get us all, the colonel and
everyone else, he looked pretty spiffy now. but he wouldn't roast up any bigger than me when the current
from the other side got him between the shoulders."

starting on Page 5
neoalchemist.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/louis-ferdinand-celine-journey-to-the-end-of-the-night.pdf

You see, the thing about Proust is he was a JEEEEEEEEEW oy vey a JEW oy gevalt these goyim I tell ya JEW Jew JEW Jew JEW bagels JEEEEEEEEEW big nosed money loving JEW elite JEEEEEW white genocide JEW feh what would I want with these goyim JEEEEEEEEEW verklempt JEW Jew JEW Jew JEW nagging mother JEEEEEEEEW nice Jewish boy JEW Jew JEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW by god I'll brain that bloody Jewman JEW I'll crucify him I will JEEEEEEEEEEEEEW Kek a kike! Kek a kike! Kek a kike! JEEEEEEEEEEEEEW /pol/pol/pol/pol/pol/pol/ JewJewJewJewJewJew rabbi JEW big nose (for you) JEEEEEEEEEEEW jerry Seinfeld JEEEEEW Jew Jew Jew Jew Jew Jew Jew Jew Jew oy vey It's another Shoah JEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

kek

There are different ways of being condemned to death. Oh! What wouldn't I have given to be in jail instead
of here! What a fool I'd been! If only I had had a little foresight and stolen something or other when it
would have been so easy and there was still time. I never think of anything. You come out of jail alive, out of
a war you don't! The rest is blarney.
If only I'd had time, but I didn't. There was nothing left to steal. How pleasant it would be in a cozy little
jailhouse, I said to myself, where the bullets couldn't get in. Where they never got in! I knew of one that
was ready and waiting, all sunny and warm! I saw it in my dreams, the jailhouse of Saint-Germain to be
exact, right near the forest. I knew it well, I'd often passed that way. How a man changes! I was a child in
those days, and that jail frightened me. Because I didn't know what men are like. Never again will I believe
what they say or what they think. Men are the thing to be afraid of, always, men and nothing else.
How much longer would this madness have to go on before these monsters dropped with exhaustion? How
long could a convulsion like this last? Months? Years? How many? Maybe till everyone's dead? All these
lunatics? Every last one of them? And seeing events were taking such a desperate turn, I decided to stake
everything on one throw, to make one last try, to see if I couldn't stop the war, just me, all by myself! At
least in this one spot where I happened to be.
The colonel was only two steps away from me, pacing. I'd talk to him. Something I'd never done. This was a
time for daring. The way things stood, there was practically nothing to lose. "What is it?" he'd ask me,
startled, I imagined, at my bold interruption. Then I'd explain the situation as I saw it, and we'd see what he
thought. The essential is to talk things over. Two heads are better than one.
I was about to take that decisive step when, at that very moment, who should arrive on the double but a
dismounted cavalryman (as we said in those days), exhausted, shaky in the joints, holding his helmet
upside-down in one hand like Belisarius,[8] trembling, all covered with mud, his face even greener than the
courier I mentioned before. He stammered and gulped. You'd have thought he was struggling to climb out
of a tomb, and it made him sick to his stomach. Could it be that this spook didn't like bullets any more than I
did? That he saw them coming like me?

"What is it?" Disturbed, the colonel stopped him short; the glance he flung at that ghost was of steel.
It made our colonel very angry to see that wretched cavalryman so incorrectly clad and shitting in his pants
with fright. The colonel had no use for fear, that was a sure thing. And especially that helmet held in hand
like a bowler was really too much in a combat regiment like ours that was just getting into the war. It was as
if this dismounted cavalryman had seen the war and taken his hat off in greeting.
Under the colonel's withering look the wobbly messenger snapped to attention, pressing his little finger to
the seam of his trousers as the occasion demanded. And so he stood on the embankment, stiff as a board,
swaying, the sweat running down his chin strap; his jaws were trembling so hard that little abortive cries
kept coming out of him, like a puppy dreaming. You couldn't make out whether he wanted to speak to us or
whether he was crying.
Our Germans squatting at the end of the road had just changed instruments. Now they were having their
fun with a machine gun, sputtering like handfuls of matches, and all around us flew swarms of angry bullets,
as hostile as wasps.
The man finally managed to articulate a few words:
"Colonel, sir, Sergeant Barousse has been killed.”
"So what?”
"He was on his way to meet the bread wagon on the Etrapes road, sir.”
"So what?”
"He was blown up by a shell!”
"So what, dammit!”
"That's what, colonel, sir.”
"Is that all?”
"Yes, sir, that's all, colonel, sir.”
"What about the bread?" the colonel asked.
That was the end of the dialogue, because, I remember distinctly, he barely had time to say "What about
the bread?" That was all. After that there was nothing but flame and noise. The kind of noise you wouldn't
have thought possible. Our eyes, ears, nose, and mouth were so full of that noise I thought it was all over
and I'd turned into noise and flame myself.
After a while the flame went away, the noise stayed in my head, and my arms and legs trembled as if
somebody were shaking me from behind. My limbs seemed to be leaving me, but then in the end they
stayed on. The smoke stung my eyes for a long time, and the prickly smell of powder and sulfur hung on,
strong enough to kill all the fleas and bedbugs in the whole world.
I thought of Sergeant Barousse, who had just gone up in smoke like the man told us. That was good news.
Great, I thought to myself. That makes one less stinker in the regiment! He wanted to have me courtmartialed
for a can of meat. "It's an ill wind," I said to myself. In that respect, you can't deny it, the war
seemed to serve a purpose now and then! I knew of three or four more in the regiment, real scum, that I'd
have gladly helped to make the acquaintance of a shell, like Barousse.
As for the colonel, I didn't wish him any hard luck. But he was dead too. At first I didn't see him.

The blast
had carried him up the embankment and laid him down on his side, right in the arms of the dismounted
cavalryman, the courier, who was finished too. They were embracing each other for the moment and for all
eternity, but the cavalryman's head was gone, all he had was an opening at the top of the neck, with blood
in it bubbling and glugging like jam in a kettle. The colonel's belly was wide open, and he was making a
nasty face about it. It must have hurt when it happened. Tough shit for him! If he'd beat it when the
shooting started, it wouldn't have happened.
All that tangled meat was bleeding profusely.
Shells were still bursting to the right and left of the scene

And so on and so forth

>But novels are a little like lace … an art that disappeared with the convents. Novels can’t fight cars, movies, television, booze. A guy who’s eaten well, who’s escaped the big war, in the evenings gives a peck to the old lady and his day’s finished. Done with.
Céline is /ourguy/ and more.

The point of that part is the general nonsense of war, and not in the moralizing sense of "oh those poor people", but pure meaninglessness. His description of other characters is ironic and cynical because he views them as insane.

Yeah, that much is obvious. I was just pointing out how the colonel was a lot like a "chad"

>There’s a natural need to look for excitement, but obviously all the bottoms you see around town inflame the sex drive to a degree … drive the teen-agers nuts, eh?
Did Céline predict Alan de Bottom?

>the glance ... of steel

Yeah okay, at this point the frogs should arrive and frogsplain that Celine is not worth reading outside of frogsprache or something.

Post your top ten.

I don't see your problem

How does one get into advertising, or at least begin to understand the inner workings of it? I'm really interested in how certain products/people are manufactured for public consumption. Any books, fiction or otherwise, that you'd recommend?

Baudrillard's first two books (The System of Objects, The Consumer Society) talk a lot about that.

...

>as now

how murakamiesque

hello readit

Sounds like smart use of PR budget. Anyone surprised by this clearly has no real world experience.

That applies to most works that are popular due being pushed by authority figures based on their subjective judgement. In the end it's about the product itself and your opinion about it.

It's not the fault of PR in the end but idiots who fall for it instead of making up their own opinion.

Proust is overrated to be fair. Not saying he isn't talented or that his work doesn't have any merit but he's not even top 10 French writer.

t. Jew

It's incredible obvious if you stop and think for a second. Read up about HUEMO theory, consumer (and basic) psychology and of course knowing the cognitive biases never hurts. Or just skip it all an analyse it like any other art form.

This. I wish he were alive just so I could punch his fascist face.

His love of cats was adorable though

“I'd take cyanide no problem if it was that or throwing a cat out in the street, even a moth-eaten, mangy, caterwauling pain in the ass! I'd rather have the thing in bed with me than see it suffer on my account...though when it comes to human beings, I'm only interested in the sick...the ones who can stand up are nothing but mounds of vice and spite...I don't get mixed up in their schemes...”

Yes, it means it's a case of emperor's new clothes, retard.

My ass.

Fuck off, no one cares.

>his fascist face
You're a much bigger cry baby. I bet you've never even read Heidegger.

...

>Proust is overrated
He really isn't. He went for a specific thing and taste is subjective, but it's unfairly well written.

You don't speak for everyone

So was McCarthy.

Ah yes, he's really enjoying it now that he's dead.

>None of these take away from the quality of his work.

Flowery prose is not quality.

Marcel Proust — 'The highest praise of God consists in the denial of him by the atheist who finds creation so perfect that it can dispense with a creator.'

Not only was he a homosexual and a fedora but also a complete narcissist who jerked off to rats being tortured. Despite his flowery prose and hedonistic lifestyle he lived life mostly asleep, unconscious, and driven by impulses.

>gay
>atheist
>narcissist

also a jew.

This is a dumb bait and I wish you would stop.