Engineers about Marcel Proust

It was Andi’s turn. The expectations were high. There is a consensus between us that Norton is the smartest among us mathematically, but generally, Andi is the one that beats us all. In fact, he is so smart he almost doesn’t classify as a fachidiot.

Besides, he is loud. He always gets all the attention with his self-confidence and also... rudeness.

“So, I read Marcel Proust’s Sodom and Gomorrah,” started Andi in in the café in Vipava where we usually meet.

“That’s the fourth volume of In Search of Lost Time,” said Jasmina. “Just don’t say you’ve read this without reading the first three volumes?”

“Of course. Why would I read them?” asked Andi.

“You can’t start reading In Search of Lost Time with Sodom and Gomorrah!” Jasmina was outraged. I think she was genuinely angry.

“The title was so appealing I couldn’t resist,” said Andi with a wide grin.

“Jasmina, you know Andi,” said Janez. “If there is something even closely related to sex... ”

“Of course!” said Andi. “You are totally right. But don’t expect there is any sex in Sodom and Gomorrah. At most, you’ll get some fucking kissing. Proust is no fucking Henry Miller.”

“Henry Miller came later, sweetie,” said Jasmina.

“Not that much later,” said Andi. “He was born in 1891, Proust was born in 1871. Miller’s Tropic of Cancer was first published in 1934. It was banned as obscene in the US for almost 30 years. The volumes of In Search of Lost Time were first published between 1913 and 1927. Don’t say there is much of a fucking difference.”

“Anyway, it’s a totally different world,” said Jasmina.

“That’s actually very true,” said Andi. “It’s hard to believe that just a bit over one hundred years ago a world of fucking dukes, duchesses, and princes still existed. Not only existed – entering high society was the meaning of life for the young Proust. Joining the most celebrated salons was a big deal. And the aristocracy still felt so fucking superior to other people. You know – even the most celebrated doctors, like Proust’s father, were seen as inferior human fucking beings.”

“That’s the way we are,” said Edvard. “We would be the same if born in the same circumstances. Almost everyone would just be the same.”

“Sure,” agreed Andi. “What surprises me is the differentiation between the aristocracy and high class. It seems even the poorest duke felt infinitely above an incredibly rich banker. But you know... recently I read John Gunther’s The Lost City which is about Vienna in 1930. And lads – the Austro-Hungarian Empire was kind of long gone, but it was still a fucking big deal when a duke appeared in a restaurant.”

“Oh, Proust. It is about a madeleine cake, right?” suddenly said Norton. He appeared to have just woken up from a nap.

“Fucking Norton knows Proust!” exclaimed Andi. “And if it weren’t you, Norton, I would punch you in the face. It is always about the fucking cake. Everybody needs to mention this fucking madeleine cake. Like there is nothing else in Proust. I am sure most of these suckers just read the novel exactly up to the point where the fucking cake is mentioned.”

“So you read the first volume too?” asked Jasmina.

“Maybe,” said Andi. “You know, I just needed to know who the fuck Odette is.”

“And who the fuck is Odette?” asked Edvard.

“Read the fucking novel,” said Andi.

“Oh, come on!” exclaimed Edvard. “That’s one great fucking presentation, right!?”

“And there is the Dreyfus affair again,” continued Andi. “The significance of this fucking affair in France is truly remarkable. It appears in pretty much every fucking French novel from that time.”

“What’s that affair about?” asked Edvard.

“Read the...” started Andi.

“... fucking novel,” ended Edvard. “I know, dude.”

“It was a political scandal in France around 1900,” answered Jasmina instead. “About the guilt or innocence of the army officer Alfred Dreyfus, who had been convicted of treason for allegedly selling military secrets to the Germans. Dreyfus was Jewish and at first the public supported the conviction, however, this changed over time. One of the Dreyfus’ supporters was Émile Zola, who published the famous ‘J’accuse’ letter in one of the newspapers.”

“And that’s the end of my fucking presentation, lads,” said Andi. “If you have any other questions, ask Jasmina.”

“What?!” said Norton. “That was it?”

“Yeah,” said Edvard, “that was the worst fucking presentation ever, Andi. You are a fachidiot of the worst kind.”