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In the field of genetic criticism, the status of the text of The Fugitive has been a major point of contention. In 1986 a typescript was discovered which bore corrections in Proust’s hand that advised the excision of almost two-thirds of the narrative – most of the Narrator’s detective work regarding Albertine’s sexuality and her possible infidelities. Additionally, Proust had changed the place of Albertine’s death from the Touraine to Montjouvain. The implications of this change are significant: if Albertine fled to Montjouvain, this suggests she was motivated by a desire to see Mlle Vinteuil and her friend again and so offers ‘proof’ of her lesbianism, thus obviating the need for intervening pages of speculation and reflection. The status of this typescript, however, is not clear. Nathalie Mauriac Dyer has argued that it was intended as final and published the resulting shorter version of Albertine disparue with Grasset in 1987. Jean Milly has argued otherwise and published a competing ‘full’ edition of the volume with Honoré Champion in 1992. The Vintage translation, ‘Quarto’ Gallimard and Pléiade editions of the novel print the fuller version of The Fugitive. For a concise yet thorough and engaging account of this controversy and the publication and reception history of Proust’s novel more generally, Christine Cano’s Proust’s Deadline (2006) is highly recommended.19

Epilogue

: Proustian afterlives

The idea that Bergotte was not dead for ever is by no means improbable.

They buried him, but all through that night of mourning, in the lighted shop-windows, his books, arranged three by three, kept vigil like angels with outspread wings and seemed, for him who was no more, the symbol of his resurrection. (C, 209; P, 1744)

Almost a century after the publication of Swann’s Way, and well over eighty years after his death, Proust undoubtedly lives on in the twenty-first century. Like Bergotte’s, his books still keep vigil on displays in stores and shelves in libraries. Critics and commentators, journalists and bloggers mention his name, allude to traits of his work; opinions and idées reçues pass between generations of readers; and so, improbably yet perceptibly, in our modern, hurried world where verbal communication comes in ‘tweets’ rather than tomes, the man, the myth and the work live on. In Search of Lost Time continues to attract readers and provoke critical responses, but not solely in the form of scholarly articles, monographs and academic conferences. For many years Proust’s face and appearance have been caricatured by cartoonists and illustrators in the broadsheets, literary journals and colour supplements. Since 1998 enthusiasts have been following and awaiting successive instalments of Stéphane Heuet’s version of In Search of Lost Time in graphic novel format, of which five beautifully illustrated volumes have appeared to date.1 Those wishing to be more demonstrative of their devotion to the author can wear their affiliation across their chest (or elsewhere) by going online and choosing from a range of inexpensive and readily available t-shirts, pin-badges, aprons, even underwear bearing stock quotations and, more often, the mustachioed visage of the author. Mugs, clocks, bumper stickers and various other items are similarly to be had at the click of a mouse.2 On the Internet we find a good number of Proust-related blogs, offering discussion of the experience of reading (or re-reading) the novel; and in November 2009 a project was launched on the micro-blogging site Twitter, with the goal of rewriting the Search in a series of 140-character ‘tweets’ (progress can be followed at http://twitter.com/prousttweet). In the multimedia world, the writer and his work live on in a vast array of formats.

Beyond Proust’s Internet and media presence, and his place in consumer society (call it cynical commodification or geek chic, either way the Proust ‘brand’ sells), there exists the Société des amis de