Elle avait appris dans sa jeunesse à caresser les phrases au long col sinueux et démesuré, de Chopin, si libres, si flexibles, si tactiles, qui commencent par chercher et essayer leur place en dehors et bien loin de la direction de leur départ, bien loin du point où on avait pu espérer qu'atteindrait leur attouchement, et qui ne se jouent dans cet écart de fantaisie que pour revenir plus délibérément - d'un retour plus prémédité, avec plus de précision, comme sur un cristal qui résonnerait jusqu'à faire crier - vous frapper au coeur.
Un amour de Swann, Marcel Proust (1871 - 1922)
In her youth, she had learned to caress long sentences of Chopin, sinuous, excessive, so free, flexible and tactile, sentences which start by trying to find their place outside and far from the direction of departure, far from the spot where one hoped to feel their touch, and they played within this gap of fantasy only to come back more deliberately - a premeditated return, with more precision, like crystal that reverberates to the point of making you scream - to hit you in the heart.
I tried to translate this passage of Marcel Proust to convey his typical writing style, but it doesn't of course have the same flow as in French. At first, his long-winded sentences seem affected, incomprehensible and annoying, but when I read them again, and get used to his meditative tone, I find a lyrical quality to them, as if they're undulating, but with precise details and deeper meaning. I've always loved the flow of long sentences, but I never thought a writer could indulge in them to such extent that they work so well.
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