On the face of it, Proust was not obvious great-writer material. He was in some ways a dilettante, social butterfly, snobbery-deprecating snob (except when he sought out young lower-class men as sex objects), and an extraordinary hypochondriac and eccentric, wearing a fur coat and white gloves to the dinner table, and living amid cork-lined walls. He’d also take to his bed on the least excuse, and was extremely loath to get out of it.
That he was also a closet queen is easily understandable; in his day, Gay Paree was not all that gay-friendly. He was, however, very fond of women in a nonsexual way—perhaps an extension of his inordinate love for his mother—and may have had a couple of ephemeral heterosexual flings. But what he was is less important than what he observed. If ever there was a chronic, compulsive observer, spectating virtually at the expense of living, Proust was it. Yet in his masterpiece, In Search of Lost Time, he makes fun of a mediocre writer, presumably based on Paul Bourget, seen hovering on the sidelines of an elegant party. Asked what he is up to, the fellow answers, “J’observe.”
On his mother’s side, Proust was Jewish, yet there was a certain anti-Semitic streak in him. Nevertheless, he did not hide his partly Jewish descent and came down strongly in defense of the unjustly condemned Captain Dreyfus. He was a devoted and generous friend and
