Uncategorized

As we climbed the grand staircase in the Opera Garnier, Melanie turned to me and said, “Can’t you just see the ball gowns and hear silk gliding over marble?” Yes — for a moment we were swept back to Proust’s Belle Epoque . . .

L’escalier de l’opera Garnier, painting by Louis Béroud, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons; photograph by
Benh LIEU SONG, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons; photograph of ceiling by Melanie Simons

“When good Americans die they go to Paris,” Oscar Wilde quipped. I guess I’ve been good, because I just enjoyed a week in Paris with a convivial group of salonistas: a week of absorbing beauty, of learning and discovery, of good company and delicious food. Whether it was standing in front of Baudelaire’s grave while Olivier recited “Correspondences”  or relaxing in the actual bed where Proust wrote À la recherche du temps perdu (Okay, I couldn’t get onto the bed, but I was less than five feet away), it felt like a journey back to another era.

Proust and 19th-Century French art — this study affirmed the London Literary Salon’s tradition of literary travel and took us in a new direction: museum visits and discussions of painting and sculpture. 

As we gathered around four versions of Monet’s Rouen Cathedral and reflected on the colours, sense of focus, and contrast between light and shade, we began to enter (just a little way) into the artistic process, and found parallels to Proust’s writing. 

Similarly, we looked at three paintings of ballet dancers by Degas — one early, one middle, and one late in his career — enabling us to follow his artistic path and see changes in his use of line, colour, and composition.

And finally, in the Rodin Museum we compared the powerful sculptures of Rodin and Claudel, each with a unique and expressive vision. 

The beautiful art we saw in Paris, the variety of styles and artistic visions we experienced in the Louvre and Musee d’Orsay are illuminated by Proust when he writes:

“for style for the writer no less than colour for the painter is a question not of technique but of vision . . . Thanks to art, instead of seeing one world only, our own, we see that world multiply itself and we have at our disposal as many worlds as there are original artists, worlds more different one from the other than those which revolve in infinite space, worlds which, centuries after the extinction of the fire from which their light first emanated, whether it is called Rembrandt or Vermeer, send us still each one its special radiance.” 

Ahead of the study I produced Padlet presentations of the art of Paris and the period to share with participants and, once we were there, I asked everyone to pick a favourite artwork we had seen. I then showed the paintings on a digital projector in our hotel as each person shared with the group what they found inspiring. It was a joy for me to see moments of discovery, to see people connect with art emotionally and intellectually. A wonderful aspect of the Salon community is how people bring their ideas and life experiences to the table to share with the group. As an example, David gave a presentation on Schopenhauer’s philosophy and how it connects with Proust’s writing that added extra depth to our discussions. 

In addition to the inspiring art, there was tasty food and good company: we had memorable meals and conversations, and the beginnings of new friendships. Gargouille and Brigitte restaurants were highlights for me. At Gargouille we had our own private room, where we were served multiple courses of small plates. I’d describe the food as modern Mediterranean, and I enjoyed the variety of spices and herbs. Toby reunited with a few of the original members of the Paris Salon, who shared with us their memories of literary discussions and told us what it was like to live in Paris full time. Brigitte is a traditional French bistro with a lovely old wooden bar and wood-panelled walls; the quality of food and service was high, and we enjoyed their catch of the day and more than a few glasses of wine. Our museum lunches were also memorable, from the cafe beneath the enormous clock in the Orsay, to Rodin’s garden, to the Louvre’s Café Mollien. Although, to be honest, after wandering endless corridors in the Louvre, any refreshment would have been welcome.  

We were mostly fortunate with weather and strolled through Paris’s green spaces enjoying their sculptures and flowers. We visited Parc Monceau, the Tuileries, and walked along the Seine to the restored Notre Dame Cathedral and Shakespeare and Co bookstore. I return to Wilde’s observation: Paris is a bit like heaven, at least for an American like me.

When W. G. Sebald died in 2001 his status as the pre-eminent European author of his generation was at its height. For Susan Sontag, he represented rare proof that ‘literary greatness is still possible’, and he was widely tipped for the Nobel Prize. Part of his appeal was that, appearing at the end of the 20th century, his prose fictions memorialised the victims of that century and helped us to understand the impact of its horrors and vicissitudes.

A quarter of a century on, why read – or re-read – Sebald today? There has been an increasing othering of people in the current political and social climate around refugees and asylum seekers. As Rowan Williams wrote in a recent Guardian piece, ‘To speak as though these people are anything other than ordinary is to reinforce the violence they have already experienced, the refusal to see them humanly.’  Sebald can help us find the antidote to this lack of understanding and humanity. In a different context, but one with universal applications, Sebald sought an empathic connection with the victims of 20th century history, the displaced and the deracinated. His unique literary project found new ways to establish a personal connection – through his listening narrator-figure, his ‘bricolage’-like combination of multiple sources, his haunting use of photographs, and his determination to let people speak for themselves. As a member of the generation of Germans who grew up in the shadow of World War II, Sebald’s key insight came when he came face to face with his first Jewish victim of the Holocaust in the 1960s, which he later expressed as Truth can only really be grasped through the encounter with real individual persons. Sebald found ways to stage this encounter in literature of profound beauty and insight.

Update July 2026: Join Lewis in our next reading of The Emigrants (1993) over eight weeks from 16 September- 4 November 2026.

Inspired by the British Museum’s exhibition Hiroshige: Artist of the Open Road, Sean Forester – San Francisco-based artist and lecturer – has devised for us Hiroshige & Japanese Art, a study exploring the unique art and aesthetics of Japan and how a direct line can be drawn between the work on display and that of the French Impressionists. Born in 1797, as Japan was just beginning to emerge from the long isolation of the Edo period (1603-1868), Utagawa Hiroshige was an artist whose enormous body of work captured the people, life, landscape and nature of the country in vivid and compelling detail.

Over five meetings Sean will examine the hugely influential art and culture of Japan from the Heinan period to the Edo, looking not just at the work of master artists and printmakers, but also considering the significance of Zen temples and gardens, ceramics, tea ceremonies, haiku poetry, calligraphy, woodblock prints, and dress (kimonos and netsuke).

” . . . one cannot study Japanese art, it seems to me, without becoming merrier and happier, and we should turn back to nature in spite of our education and our work in a conventional world . . .

“I envy the Japanese the extreme clarity of everything in their work. It is never dull and it never seems to be done in too much of a hurry. Their work is as simple as breathing, and they do a figure in a few sure strokes as if it were as easy as doing up your waistcoat.”

Vincent van Gogh, writing to Theo van Gogh, September 1888

“If you absolutely must … find an affiliation for me, put me with the Japanese of old: the refinement of their taste has always appealed to me, and I approve of the suggestions of their aesthetic, which evokes the presence by the shadow, the whole by the fragment.”

Claude Monet, 1909

The British Museum exhibition continues until 7 September (although it is currently closed until 4 July as they refresh the display). If you have not already visited then this Guardian review – “I could look forever at these passing moments in cosmic colours” – may tempt you, and there is more to read about the Japanese influence on Impressionism in this article in The Collector magazine.

Participants in the study can join Sean on an informal visit to the exhibition on Thursday 4 September. Buy your own ticket and meet inside the British Museum at the entrance to the Hiroshige exhibition at 12.00 noon (please email to let us know you are coming).  

When Laurence Olivier’s film of Hamlet—Shakespeare’s longest and most deeply philosophical play—opened in 1948, the critics were almost without exception entranced. The exhilarating production won four Oscars, including Best Actor and Best Picture. Olivier’s celebrated version also paved the way for other filmmakers to significantly cut the text, an action already commonly undertaken in stage performances, but one which later critics were to lament. Among other cuts, Olivier and his co-editor, Alan Dent, struck Rosencrantz and Guildenstern from the text along with Fortinbras’ last entrance and at least two of Hamlet’s most famous soliloquies. Had Olivier massacred the Bard?

Kenneth Branagh may have thought so. His 1996 production showcased nearly the entire script, resulting in a film with a running time of 4 hours and 2 minutes, nearly 1.5 hours longer than Olivier’s production half a century before, which came in at a slick 153 minutes. (It may or may not be significant that Branagh’s version garnered zero Academy Awards, though it did receive four nominations that did not include either Best Actor or Best Picture, but did include Best Writing – Adapted Screenplay).

Counter-critics to those lamenting Olivier’s cuts have praised the 1948 production for being, for example, ‘thrillingly intelligent and moving’ (Rafferty, 2000, para. 3), also referring to the interpretation as having been sensitively reduced to its ‘largest, most mysterious, and most intractable theme’ (Rafferty, 2000, para. 4): morality.

The London Literary Salon’s latest study of Hamlet also examines a carefully curated script. Our study will focus on 2,600 of Hamlet’s 4,167 lines. We will be working from the 1604 quarto, which was printed from a manuscript believed to be Shakespeare’s ‘foul papers’ (his rough drafts). Our own ‘version’ is more exhaustive than Olivier’s. It includes all the play’s subplots—Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Fortinbras, and Hamlet’s relationship with Ophelia—as well as all of Hamlet’s soliloquies. Together, we will dive into the heart of the text, considering not only its philosophical core but also its most spectral and cinematic aspects: the paranormal, incest, adultery, murder, madness, and above all, revenge.

References: Rafferty, T. (2000). Hamlet. The Criterion Collection.

---

Join Dr. Julie Sutherland on six successive Wednesday evenings (5.00-7.00 pm GMT) beginning on 8 January 2025 to discuss a play that has enthralled audiences for more than four centuries.