Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Untitled (Cathedral) Irregularly shaped blue and white tie-dyed paper, with text from Proust, against blue textile backing. 15 x 25. Date unknown. Photo by Kevin Ryan) Posted by permission of Hal Sedgwick.

It’s a straight shot north from Tulsa, Oklahoma to Lawrence, Kansas on Highway 169. The drive takes just under four hours. I know it well, having driven it many times going to and from school when I was an undergraduate at the University of Kansas in the late 1980s. The little towns you pass through on the way are all pretty much the same: a high school, a Sonic drive-in, a megachurch or two. One of the few sights that might catch your eye along the way is “The Brown Mansion,” a huge, white-porticoed neo-classical pile built by some oil baron at the beginning of the twentieth century that sits all alone on a hill along the highway in Coffeyville, just as you cross into Kansas.

I made this drive again last June.  This time I was listening to an audiobook of Cormac McCarthy’s gothic Western Blood Meridian, or The Evening Redness in the West. It seemed an appropriate choice for the drive, and the big white house on the hill seemed to rear right up out of the world of the novel when I drove by it. My former student Bergen Grant told me I had to read the novel, for the style, not the violence and the gore. He said it was chock full of “found haiku”: short descriptive passages that are so vivid that they read like haiku if you pull them out of the novel and put white space around them. As I drove across the wide-open prairie listening to what Saul Bellow called McCarthy’s “life-giving and death-dealing sentences,” I saw exactly what Bergen meant.[1]

The KU campus is perched on a hill called “Mount Oread” that rises a thousand feet above sea level. It is named after an early women’s college in Worcester, Massachusetts and before that, after mountain-dwelling nymphs from Greek mythology. We used to joke that you could see Colorado from its summit since Kansas was so flat. In fact, Mount Oread is more like a hill than a mountain, but I can attest that you can see it from a ways off as you approach from the south. I had come to Lawrence to have lunch with J. Theodore Johnson, Jr., a favorite professor of mine. I will call him “Ted” here, although I still think of him very much as “Professor Johnson.”

I hadn’t seen Ted since I graduated in 1990, but for all these years he has occupied a special place in my memory. It was Ted who introduced me to Marcel Proust’s seven-volume novel Remembrance of Things Past, a work that is, incidentally, about as far from Blood Meridian as you can get. Unsurprisingly, Cormac McCarthy was not a fan of Proust. But the French novelist has meant more to me than just about any other writer. I think the same is true for Ted. I remember clearly the twinkle in his eyes whenever he spoke of Proust.  As a twenty-year old, I knew and trusted from that twinkle that there was something marvelous in this book, but it took me a very long time to experience the extent of it for myself. While I was still at KU I managed to read a big chunk of the first half of the first volume, Combray, in French. The long, elegant sentences were like a very rich dessert, and that was about all I could metabolize at the time. But three moments in particular had always stuck with me: one very long sentence describing the atmosphere in the room of the narrator’s reclusive aunt Léonie as if it were a vast oven baking bread, another passage describing the young narrator reading a book in the garden, losing track of time, and looking up to find the sun suddenly transported to a different quarter of the sky, and a third about the pleasure of coming across a thought one has had oneself in the pages of a book by an author one loves, “comme dans les bras d’un père retrouvé.”[2]

With these sentences echoing in my head, I had another go at Proust in the early 2000s when I was in my early thirties. This time, I read it in the new translation that was just coming out from Penguin and I made it through the whole thing. I have only recently realized that a large part of my ability to finish reading Proust at that time had to with how the book helped me to mourn my mother, who died suddenly in 2001. Now in my fifties I’m reading it again, this time in the older Moncrieff translation, and discussing it on Zoom every two weeks with four friends. We have been meeting for two years, and we are now nearing the end of the sixth volume, The Fugitive. This time around I am also dipping into the vast trove of scholarship on Proust and this has led me back to Ted’s work, some of which was written before I was born, and some in the same years I knew him, although I am encountering it only now, many years later.

So, last June, when I was in Tulsa on a visit to my family, I made the drive up to Lawrence in the morning, arriving in time for lunch at the Johnsons on Massachusetts Street. In one of his inimitable emails, giving me directions, Ted had described Mass Street as being “like a cardo of the typical Roman town.” The word cardo, Google tells me, derives from the Greek word kardia, meaning “heart,” and refers to the main thoroughfare of a Roman town, running north to south. The town of Lawrence, Ted reminded me, was named after the philanthropist and abolitionist Amos Lawrence (1786-1852), who moved there with many other anti-slavery crusaders from New England to make certain that Kansas entered the Union as a state free of slavery. This is why so many of the streets in Lawrence are named after states in the Northeast. I had somehow forgotten that the Johnsons’ house is situated right there on this main throughfare. As Ted noted, it sits on the dividing line between West Lawrence and East Lawrence, a part of the town that is now full of artists’ studios, including that of their son Stephen. But once I arrived at the “white frame, wooden two-story house with porch” it all came back. With one exception, that is: having lived in Boston for years now, I kept calling Lawrence’s Massachusetts Street “Mass Ave.”

Ted’s wife Mary came to the door with their dog Reddy. A collie, I think. Very friendly, and very red. Mary is also a scholar of French literature. She worked on the writer Marguerite Duras and I remember helping her to put the accents on her dissertation, which had been printed out on a dot-matrix printer that could not render accents. I felt proud to be asked to help with such an important task. And now, as soon as I saw Mary, I felt again how happy and comfortable and confident I have always felt in her presence. We hugged hello and I gave her the flowers I had brought. Ted was at his desk to my right, seated in a wheelchair and beaming at me. I went over to him to give him a hug, leaning down awkwardly, and handed him the gift I had brought, a copy of my translation of the Japanese novelist Okamoto Kanoko’s A Riot of Goldfish.

Ted had ready for me a book of essays on Proust by Suzuki Michihiko, the second person, after Inoue Kyūichirō (1909-1999), to produce a full translation of Proust into Japanese.  Suzuki, who is alive and well in Tokyo at ninety-four, is the son of Suzuki Shintarō (1895-1970), one of the founders of French literary studies in Japan. The elder Suzuki began translating Baudelaire’s Les fleurs du Mal in 1915, at the age of nineteen, and then went on to become a professor of French literature at Tokyo Imperial University. It was he who trained the group of future scholars and writers who would bring Proust to Japan. Looking him up online, I was glad to learn there is a museum devoted to him in Tokyo that holds his collection of French books. These survived the firebombing of Tokyo thanks to a concrete reinforced study that he built in 1928.

Along with the younger Suzuki’s book on Proust, Ted handed me a color xerox of a photo from a KU magazine.  It showed the members of the freshman honors seminar I took with him in the fall of 1986. Ted is in the middle. I’m there on the far left, wearing a big winter coat that my Mom bought for me the previous August in a store on Mass Street when she first drove me up to school. I remember her saying I would need something warm for the Kansas winter. In the photo, we are all facing the camera, looking up at a statue in front of Lippincott Hall on the KU campus. The statue is of two figures with their backs to the camera. The Dean of the KU law school James W. Green (1842-1919), known as “Uncle Jimmy,” stands with his hand on the shoulder of an anonymous student, in an “encouraging gesture” described in the photo caption as “a symbol of the commitment of the faculty to first-rate education.” Ted noted that depending on the light and where you are standing, the student or the professor appears taller. I remember this moment and this photo. I think I remember him saying the same thing as we stood there thirty-seven years ago.

The Johnsons are getting ready to donate Ted’s papers to the KU library, and their artist son Stephen is helping them sort everything and get it ready. So the house was scattered with archival boxes and papers: his syllabi, his manuscripts, his correspondence. One thing that will not be in the archive is a letter laid into the book of essays that Ted gave me by its author, Suzuki Michihiko. The letter is handwritten in beautiful French, and thanks “Monsieur le Professeur” for sending him a set of newsletters, saying how happy its author is to be able to read these newsletters now, “à loisir.” He cannot find a price, so he begs to know how much he should send in payment. That’s the Proust Research Association Newsletter, which Ted co-founded, edited, produced on a shoestring budget and distributed, for free, from Lawrence from 1969 to 1986. The newsletter was meant to aid communication among scholars working to coordinate and unify the Proust manuscripts, but it soon branched out to include all kinds of articles, many on Proust in popular culture. The great Proust scholar Germaine Brée called it “a mine of information on the state of Proust studies,” a forum, and “an indispensable tool for research.”[3]

We sat down for lunch at the table which I remember having been spread with cheese and wine at the many parties I attended at their house. Looking out into the back yard I remembered standing there chatting at cookouts for Bastille Day. This is where I first experienced the thrill of intellectual socializing and where I tasted brie cheese for the first time.

The conversation continued over a velvety cold tomato soup. We reminisced about the other professors I had studied with: Corinne Anderson, who taught me French conversation in my freshman year, Elizabeth Schultz, a Melvillian who advised me to major in Comparative Literature, and Allan Pasco, a scholar of 19th century French literature who directed my senior thesis on French and Japanese naturalism. They told me the sad news that Pasco had died of Covid during the pandemic, and of the deaths of two other professors I had known. Professor David Dinneen had just recently died, and Corinne Anderson’s husband Robert Anderson, whom I remembered playing French Christmas carols on the piano as we sang along, had died many years before.

I talked about the day I first met Ted, in the fall of 1986. Classes had not started yet but I was so excited for the semester to begin that I walked up onto “the hill,” as we called the KU campus, from the fraternity where I was living. Wandering into the French and Italian department in Wescoe Hall, I found the place deserted except for Ted, whose office door was open. I said hello and introduced myself, and as I remember it we spoke for hours about my plans, about books, about French. He urged me never to “let the University get in the way of your education.”  When I said this, Mary smiled.  This was a remark he was famous for.  He also told me to ignore all the requirements in my first semester. “Take only what interests you. Worry about the requirements later!” That’s exactly what I did, and it got me off to a great start.

 As we ate quiche and slowly moved on to grapes and cookies, Ted told all kinds of stories. There was the time he met Proust’s niece, Madame Suzy Mante-Proust. Madame Proust was wonderfully elegant and looked just like her uncle. “The same dark, sunken eyes.” The meeting took place at some point in the ‘sixties in “the Proust apartment” in Paris. She greeted him with “Commen allez-vous?” omitting the “t” in “Comment” that would normally be pronounced as a liaison; apparently a very posh way to speak. She held out her hand to Ted, expecting him to kiss it. As he told this story, Ted looked at me sheepishly and said, “I shook it! I don’t do the baise-main.” I thought of how Proust would have loved this detail. The meeting was made possible, he said, by his friend Phillip Kolb (1907-1992), the scholar from Illinois who had spent his life collecting Proust’s letters and who therefore knew almost everyone still living who had any connection to Proust.

Ted and Mary were there in 1971 for the festivities in the little French town of Illiers when they changed its name to “Illiers-Combray,” making reality conform with the fictional town in Proust’s novel that it inspired. It must have been quite an occasion. Ted talked about people pasting paper signs over the street signs, replacing the real names with fictional ones. He had given a paper on the occasion, there in the newly renamed “Combray,” in the house of Proust’s great-aunt,  who appears as “Tante Léonie,” in the novel, and whose rooms are like an oven baking bread. The paper Ted delivered was an early version of an article of his that I had recently read, on the notion of the Recherche as a “cathedral novel.” Proust was a great connoisseur of cathedrals and learned much of what he knew about them from the work of a scholar named Émile Mâle, whose son had been in the audience as Ted spoke. Madame Proust was there as well, her face unchanging through the whole talk. Ted worried that she wasn’t getting it or didn’t approve, until he was told later that she had lost her hearing. Clearly it meant a lot for her to be there, even if she could not hear the talks.

Ted talked about the beauty of Proust’s grammar. English doesn’t have the reflexive verbs, the agreement of number and gender, and other features that make it possible for Proust’s sentences to go on for so long, holding so many ideas aloft at once and with such fluid grace. What he said reminded me of an essay I read recently by Françoise Leriche comparing Proust’s style not to Impressionism in painting, as is often done, but to the organic forms of Art Nouveau architecture, and specifically to Antonio Gaudí’s one-man cathedral in Barcelona, La Sagrada Familia. Like the curving, plant-like forms in Gaudi’s cathedral, Proust’s style is capable of “binding disparate elements” into a single sentence, creating a “dynamic rhythm” that is the literary equivalent of the “curve and the arabesque in the visual arts.” [4]  Leriche writes that she felt, upon walking through La Sagrada Familia, as if she were walking through A la recherche itself. Hearing this, Mary said, “We’ve been to that cathedral! Ted, do you remember feeling like that?”  It wasn’t clear that that he did, but his work seems to have laid some of the groundwork for Leriche’s argument.  She quotes his early call to bring order and clarity to the “fuzziness” of many studies on what was vaguely called Proust’s “literary impressionism” and her article is an attempt to do so.

Ted is not fuzzy. His teaching and his writing are all about precision and rigor in description. Yet for someone so devoted to rigor, he is never overly critical, and is always eager to find and draw out the best qualities in his students. What you get from Ted is contagious, enabling enthusiasm; not tough-love “critique.” It is the sheer joy he got out of scholarship that made me want to be a professor. I remembered how energizing it was to be his student as he reminisced over lunch about how he would ask students to write about the passage where Proust describes the fictional artist Elstir’s painting of the Harbor of Carquetuit: nine sentences where the images shift back and forth between land and sea. At other times, it was the famous passage from Combray on the steeples of Martinville, which begins with the word “Seuls…”. He pronounced this word like it was a magic spell. The word means “alone,” but here it is in the plural since it refers to three steeples. This makes for a wonderful paradox that is impossible to express in English, an example of the “beauté grammaticale” in Proust. When Ted’s students wrote essays on these passages, he said, “Everything they said was different. And of course it was all correct as well.“

I was interested to hear about other scholars Ted had known. He spoke with great affection of Germaine Brée (1907-2001), who was his PhD advisor at Wisconsin and who had encouraged him to work on Proust after he wrote a paper for her about Proust’s views on art. Brée was a formidable person who volunteered for the French Resistance and served as an ambulance driver in Algeria. Later she served as president of the Modern Languages Association. Ted told a story about how she had had some trouble getting a driver’s license at some point during her later years in Wisconsin. Ted and her other graduate students had been up in arms, insisting that she had “driven Camus in the desert!” As I listened to this story, I remembered that it was in a student edition edited by Brée with notes in English that I first read Proust’s Combray as an undergrad.

There were many stories about Roger Shattuck, who taught at Boston University before I arrived there, and whose office was in the same building and on the same floor where mine is now. Shattuck was a wonderful scholar. Ted described him as a man who believed in reading out loud in class and who said that you can’t understand poetry unless you can dance it. So dance they did. He and Ted got their students to dance poems in the form of “pavanes.” I thought this might be a poetic genre when I first heard Ted say the word, but it turns out it is a slow, stately kind of dance. Ted and Shattuck seem to have been great admirers of each other. Shattuck told Ted that his review of one of his books was the only one that had “gotten it.” I told Ted and Mary some stories I had heard from an office neighbor of mine who knew Shattuck and who talked of him in larger-than-life terms. Shattuck once went on a date with Billie Holiday. Unfortunately, she was already addicted to drugs at the time and collapsed before the meal was over. Shattuck flew a bomber over Hiroshima not long after it was destroyed by the atom bomb, an experience that deeply affected him. “What a life!” my colleague said. Shattuck was also a founder of the “Association of Literary Critics and Scholars,” an organization formed in reaction to what Shattuck and others perceived as the excessively abstract and “theoretical” approaches that began to dominate literary studies beginning in the 1980s. It now functions as a gathering for people who “aren’t afraid to love literature.” I gave a talk at this association’s annual meeting for the first time last fall. I loved it and had more fun there than I have ever had at an academic conference.

Like Shattuck, Ted Johnson has never been a “theory” person. At a conference on semiotics in the late eighties, when someone said they needed an example of a “sign,” Ted pulled a Parisian street sign from his briefcase with something like “Arrêt” or “Passage Interdit” on it. How’s that for a sign?  “Some of us,” he told me, “were against too many abstractions. Today’s ‘ism,’ after all, will be tomorrow’s ‘wasm.’” Abstract intelligence could only take you so far. You had to feel things, to experience them in in your body.

I told Ted I’d been reading his stuff recently, and how much I had enjoyed it. He was one of the earliest scholars to work on what is called “genetic criticism,” the art of examining notebooks and manuscripts in order to understand a writer’s creative process and chart the way his or her work  emerged over time. Proustian genetic criticism is among the most advanced areas in this field, and Ted had gotten in at the beginning, since Proust’s manuscripts were coming to light in the 1960s and ‘70s, just when he was beginning his work on Proust. His mentor Germaine Brée had written one of the earliest articles about the manuscripts, in 1963. In 1969, the year after I was born, Ted published an article in the second issue of the Proust Research Association Newsletter titled “Notes toward a physical description of the Proust Notebooks at the Bibliothèque Nationale.” In this article, Ted meticulously describes the physical state of the “schoolboy notebooks” or cahiers in which Proust wrote the first drafts of his novel. Proust gave nicknames to these notebooks. I happen to have been reading recently about one notebook in particular in which Proust drafted the account of the death of Albertine, a woman his narrator loves obsessively and who is often said to be the fictional counterpart of a man Proust loved, his chauffeur Alfred Agostinelli. Agostinelli died in an airplane crash in 1914, causing Proust’s novel to swell by over a thousand pages as he transformed his own love and grief into fiction. He wrote the first draft of the death of Albertine scene in a notebook he called “Venusté.”  Here is Ted’s description of this notebook. “Bound in faded turquoise, cover yellowish with very large green and blue swirls in a marbled pattern. Written in large script across the front: Venusté.”[5] The word, I realize just now, means “elegant and graceful beauty,” like the goddess Venus.

As we spoke I told Ted about a big exhibition of Proust’s manuscripts that I saw in Paris at the Mitterand campus of the Bibliothèque Nationale this past January. The show, planned to mark the centenary of Proust’s death in 1922, was spread out over seven rooms, one for each volume of the novel. It featured thirty-five key passages, showing how Proust repeatedly revised, cut, expanded, and repositioned pieces of text until he reached the final versions. The show was called “La Fabrique de l’oeuvre,” or “the making of the work,” a notion taken from a moment in the final volume when the narrator compares the composition of the novel he has resolved to write to the process of making a dress using swatches of different fabrics. This rather humble metaphor is one of several Proust used to describe his writing process. At other times, he liked the grander idea of his novel as a cathedral.  In the sentence in question, Proust uses a pun on the word “bâtir,” which can mean “baste” as one does with fabrics in sewing and also “build” in the architectural sense. “I would build / baste my novel,” the narrator writes, “…I dare not say ambitiously like a cathedral, but quite simply, like a dress.”[6]  In this sentence from Ted’s 1969 article,  I was struck to find both images in play:

“As the builders of great medieval churches often salvaged materials from earlier structures, so does Proust, while building his cathedral novel, sometimes insert into the fabric of the work an element from an earlier period… These various pieces from relatively different and distant periods merge in a fashion not unlike the welter of elements before our eyes as we contemplate Chartres cathedral.”[7]

The show in Paris was in many ways a culmination of the work Ted pioneered together with other Proustians. In that article from 1969, he asks: “Would someone in Paris this summer or early fall please send me the following information?” As we spoke last summer, he emphasized the collaborative nature of literary research and the close-knit community of Proust scholars. In the manuscript room of the old Bibliothèque Nationale there were eight seats at the table. At any given time six of them would be occupied by scholars working on the Proust manuscripts, many of whom Ted got to know over the years.

Ted once served on a committee with “a horrible name,” “Outcomes and Assessments.” Interviewing students about to graduate, the committee determined that they were being “trained, but not educated.” So Ted and his fellow committee members proposed to introduce a course called a “preceptorial,” in which seniors in all majors were encouraged to reflect on what they had learned and engage in conversations across disciplines. Ted has always emphasized the interdisciplinary character of the humanities. Putting together his records, he counted sixty colleagues from departments across the University that he had invited to speak in his classes over the years. He is concerned that his way of teaching may not be practiced anymore and wants at least to leave a record in the archive. At one point, he mentioned a very large binder of materials that he collected and submitted in protest of a decision the university made to close a program in the humanities in order to save money. The materials are drawn from his classes, showing the value of work in the humanities. The program that was closed cost $400,000 a year. This was about what it cost, he noted, to pay the salary of one assistant football coach.

Ted spoke of many other things as well. When he taught Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot the students asked what the play meant. He responded by asking them what they thought it meant and by writing several columns of their answers on the blackboard. Then he sent this list to Beckett, who sent back a postcard with an image of a nebula many light years away. “He would die that same year, 1989,” Ted said, slipping into the historical present.

There was one article among Ted’s writings that I was really curious about. It is called “Against Saint Proust.” When I mentioned it, Mary smiled again. “Oh, I thought you might ask about that one!” It had taken me by surprise when I read it. In the article, Ted describes how he had spent a year on an NEH grant reading all of Proust’s writings, published and unpublished, about the visual arts. In the process he had discovered disparities between certain claims Proust made about art and the way he wrote about art in his novel. He accuses Proust of promulgating a kind of religion of art and of wrapping it in a language of divinity and mystery. He also attacks the consensus, then very strong in literary scholarship, and abetted by Proust himself, that the writer’s life has nothing to tell us about their work. He criticizes Proust for what he calls “one of the most monumental retreats of the 20th century,” a retreat from “life itself” into fiction. He expresses his concern that there are “those who would also find living unlivable and follow him into retreat.” The article is also a powerful indictment of the “idolatrous” reverence with which so many scholars read Proust. On my first cursory read, I thought it was also a record of Ted’s disillusionment with Proust’s work. I thought that it might mark the end of Ted’s career as a Proustian. But then I saw that the article was published in 1975, years before I met Ted and saw that twinkle in his eye when he talked about Proust’s novel.

I reread “Against Saint Proust” after I came back to Massachusetts from Kansas, and found it a tour de force. I realized that Ted was doing with Proust what Proust himself had done with the great critic John Ruskin. Proust adored Ruskin. He claimed to have read every word the man wrote and even to have memorized some of his books in their entirety. He translated two of Ruskin’s books, writing a long introduction to each. But at a certain point he rejected Ruskin, accusing him of “idolatry.” Ted was doing the same with Proust in this article. As he said to me at our lunch when I asked about his “Against Saint Proust,” he had realized, as Ted Johnson, that there were things he simply couldn’t agree with in Proust. “I believe,” he wrote, “there is room for very frank and personal assessment, as I have done here, rather than pursue our current fairly dreary paths of…blind acceptance of every one of his ideas.” For one thing, as he put it in the article, Proust had “considerable difficulty in dealing with his body and with sex, and thus tends to make mythical and even mystical abstractions about the body, about the artist, and about art.” In Proust’s writing about art, Ted found inconsistencies that kept “…undermining the cathedral-novel.”[8]

But that undermining, it turns out, is what Proust was all about. In his beautiful article on Proust and the cathedral novel, which he published in 1987, Ted writes that the metaphor of Proust building his novel like a cathedral must in the end be abandoned. If the narrator’s ambitious edifice tends to collapse, it is we readers who “must retain all the fragments” that we have discovered “scattered throughout the narrative.” Gathering these fragments like shards of broken stained glass, we make our own patterns, as if turning a vast kaleidoscope. It is the reader, then, who will “construct the cathedral novel, immaterial and intangible but existing within himself and Time.”[9]  As Ted spoke over lunch last summer, I remembered him using this same image of the kaleidoscope years ago, always mentioning the etymology: kalos, (beauty), eidos (form), and skopos (to see).  I remember him illustrating this idea with his hands: holding his arms aloft to turn an imaginary kaleidoscope, showing us what it means to read, and reveling in the way every reader finds something different, and something beautiful, in the fabric of the work.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[1] Quoted in Dwight Garner, “Cormac McCarthy, Novelist of a Darker America, Is Dead at 89,” The New York Times, June 13, 2023, sec. Books, https://www.nytimes.com/2023/06/13/books/cormac-mccarthy-dead.html.

[2] “As if in the arms of a father one has lost and found again.”

[3] Germaine Brée, “Aspects of Proust Criticism,” in The Art of the Proustian Novel Reconsidered (Winthrop Studies on Major Modern Writers, 1979), 95–103. 96.

[4] Françoise Leriche, “Proust, an ‘Art Nouveau’ Writer?,” in Proust in Perspective: Visions and Revisions, ed. Armine Kotin Mortimer and Katherine Kolb, trans. Jane Kuntz (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2002), 189–212.

[5] J. Theodore Johnson, “Notes towards a Physical Description of the Proust Notebooks at the Bibliothèque Nationale,” Proust Research Association Newsletter 2 (1969): 15–28.

[6] “…je bâtirais mon livre, je n’ose pas dire ambitieusement comme une cathédrale, mais tout simplement comme une robe.”

[7] Johnson, “Notes towards a Physical Description of the Proust Notebooks at the Bibliothèque Nationale.”

[8] J. Theodore Johnson, “Against Saint Proust,” in The Art of the Proustian Novel Reconsidered (Winthrop Studies on Major Modern Writers, 1979), 105–43. 130.

[9] J. Theodore Johnson, “Marcel Proust and Architecture: Some Thoughts on the Cathedral-Novel,” in Critical Essays on Marcel Proust, ed. Barbara J. Bucknall (Boston: G.K. Hall & Co., 1987), 133–61.