What is the best translation of the 1st line of A La Recherche du temps perdu?

For many years I went to bed early.

A long time ago, I was couched in a good hour.

Pitkät ajat menin varhain nukkumaan.

Tall temp workers make jam and Swiss croissants for Bonnie, yes, her.

For many years I would not sit on Gear's couch.

Ha ha coochie.

If you look hard enough, under the couch you'll find some good herb.

Willfully mispronounced, 'de bonne heure' sounds like 'da boner' as said by a French stereotype.

Mother died yesterday, or was it today?

(No Jackie Harvey comments, please)

Longtime, I coochied my boner.

you know, i've banged a lot of waitresses in my day, but you, you were the best...

Fremme neppa venette.

I think gygax has captured that je ne sais quoi which is so hard to translate in Proust.

OK, so that was easy. Here's the next Proust sentence to translate:

"Mais j’avais revu tantôt l’une, tantôt l’autre, des chambres que j’avais habitées dans ma vie, et je finissais par me les rappeler toutes dans les longues rêveries qui suivaient mon réveil ; chambres d’hiver où quand on est couché, on se blottit la tête dans un nid qu’on se tresse avec les choses les plus disparates : un coin de l’oreiller, le haut des couvertures, un bout de châle, le bord du lit, et un numéro des Débats roses, qu’on finit par cimenter ensemble selon la technique des oiseaux en s’y appuyant indéfiniment ; où, par un temps glacial le plaisir qu’on goûte est de se sentir séparé du dehors (comme l’hirondelle de mer qui a son nid au fond d’un souterrain dans la chaleur de la terre), et où, le feu étant entretenu toute la nuit dans la cheminée, on dort dans un grand manteau d’air chaud et fumeux, traversé des lueurs des tisons qui se rallument, sorte d’impalpable alcôve, de chaude caverne creusée au sein de la chambre même, zone ardent et mobile en ses contours thermiques, aérée de souffles qui nous rafraîchissent la figure et viennent des angles, des parties voisines de la fenêtre ou éloignées du foyer, et qui se sont refroidies ; chambres d’été où l’on aime être uni à la nuit tiède, où le clair de lune appuyé aux volets entrouverts, jette jusqu’au pied du lit son échelle enchantée, où on dort presque en plein air, comme la mésange balancée par la brise à la pointe d’un rayon ; parfois la chambre Louis XVI, si gaie que même le premier soir je n’y avais pas été trop malheureux et où les colonnettes qui soutenaient légèrement le plafond s’écartaient avec tant de grâce pour montrer et réserver la place du lit ; parfois au contraire celle, petite et si élevée de plafond, creusée en forme de pyramide dans la hauteur de deux étages et partiellement revêtue d’acajou, où dès la première seconde j’avais été intoxiqué moralement par l’odeur inconnue du vétiver, convaincu de l’hostilité des rideaux violets et de l’insolente indifférence de la pendule qui jacassait tout haut comme si je n’eusse pas été là ; où une étrange et impitoyable glace à pieds quadrangulaire, barrant obliquement un des angles de la pièce, se creusait à vif dans la douce plénitude de mon champ visuel accoutumé un emplacement qui n’était pas prévu ; où ma pensée, s’efforçant pendant des heures de se disloquer, de s’étirer en hauteur pour prendre exactement la forme de la chambre et arriver à remplir jusqu’en haut son gigantesque entonnoir, avait souffert bien de dures nuits, tandis que j’étais étendu dans mon lit, les yeux levés, l’oreille anxieuse, la narine rétive, le coeur battant : jusqu’à ce que l’habitude eût changé la couleur des rideaux, fait taire la pendule, enseigné la pitié à la glace oblique et cruelle, dissimulé, sinon chassé complètement, l’odeur du vétiver et notablement diminué la hauteur du plafond."

Blah blah blah Louis XVI blah blah.

"I want to do it with my mom."

Not a bad translation, n/a, but you've abridged slightly:

"But I had seen first one and then another of the rooms in which I had slept during my life, and in the end I would revisit them all in the long course of my waking dream: rooms in winter, where on going to bed I would at once bury my head in a nest, built up out of the most diverse materials, the corner of my pillow, the top of my blankets, a piece of a shawl, the edge of my bed, and a copy of an evening paper, all of which things I would contrive, with the infinite patience of birds building their nests, to cement into one whole; rooms where, in a keen frost, I would feel the satisfaction of being shut in from the outer world (like the sea-swallow which builds at the end of a dark tunnel and is kept warm by the surrounding earth), and where, the fire keeping in all night, I would sleep wrapped up, as it were, in a great cloak of snug and savoury air, shot with the glow of the logs which would break out again in flame: in a sort of alcove without walls, a cave of warmth dug out of the heart of the room itself, a zone of heat whose boundaries were constantly shifting and altering in temperature as gusts of air ran across them to strike freshly upon my face, from the corners of the room, or from parts near the window or far from the fireplace which had therefore remained cold–or rooms in summer, where I would delight to feel myself a part of the warm evening, where the moonlight striking upon the half-opened shutters would throw down to the foot of my bed its enchanted ladder; where I would fall asleep, as it might be in the open air, like a titmouse which the breeze keeps poised in the focus of a sunbeam–or sometimes the Louis XVI room, so cheerful that I could never feel really unhappy, even on my first night in it: that room where the slender columns which lightly supported its ceiling would part, ever so gracefully, to indicate where the bed was and to keep it separate; sometimes again that little room with the high ceiling, hollowed in the form of a pyramid out of two separate storeys, and partly walled with mahogany, in which from the first moment my mind was drugged by the unfamiliar scent of flowering grasses, convinced of the hostility of the violet curtains and of the insolent indifference of a clock that chattered on at the top of its voice as though I were not there; while a strange and pitiless mirror with square feet, which stood across one corner of the room, cleared for itself a site I had not looked to find tenanted in the quiet surroundings of my normal field of vision: that room in which my mind, forcing itself for hours on end to leave its moorings, to elongate itself upwards so as to take on the exact shape of the room, and to reach to the summit of that monstrous funnel, had passed so many anxious nights while my body lay stretched out in bed, my eyes staring upwards, my ears straining, my nostrils sniffing uneasily, and my heart beating; until custom had changed the colour of the curtains, made the clock keep quiet, brought an expression of pity to the cruel, slanting face of the glass, disguised or even completely dispelled the scent of flowering grasses, and distinctly reduced the apparent loftiness of the ceiling."

Bite it, Moncrieff.

If Proust were alive today, he'd be writing for Pitchfork.

No way Pitchfork would hire somebody 134 years old.

Here's my own tranlsation:

But I had seen again sometimes one, sometimes another, of the rooms I had lived in, in my life, and I ended up remembering them all in the long reveries that followed my waking up; rooms in winter where, when one is in bed, one snuggles one’s head into a nest made of the most disparate things: the corner of a pillow, the top of the covers, the end of a shawl, the edge of the bed, and a copy of the Débats roses, that one ends up patching together, in the manner of birds, by indefinitely pressing against; or, on a really glacial day, one’s pleasure in feeling cut off from the outdoors (like the sea sparrow who makes its nest underground in the earth’s warmth), and where, the fire in the fireplace having been kept burning all night, one sleeps in a great coat of smokey, warm air crossed by the flickering glimmer of logs catching back alight, a sort of impalpable alcove, a warm cavern dug out from the very room, a hot, mobile zone in its thermic contours, cooled by drafts coming from the corners, the parts close to the windows or farthest from the hearth which have cooled off.; rooms in summer where one likes to be one with the warm night, where the moonlight pressing against the half opened shutters casts its enchanted ladder all the way to the bed, where one is almost sleeping in the open air, like a chickadee carried by the breeze to the end of a moonbeam, sometimes the Louis XVI room, so cheery that even the first night there I had not been too unhappy and where the slender columns lightly holding up the baldaquin were spread with great grace to show and reserve the bed’s place; sometimes, on the other hand, the little one with the ceiling so high, hollowed into the form of a pyramid at the height of stories and partially covered in mahogany, where, from the first second I had been morally intoxicated by the unknown odor of vetiver, convinced of the hostility of the violet drapes and of the insolent indifference of the grandfather clock that chattered out loud as if I weren’t even there; where a strange and pitiless square-footed mirror obliquely blocking on of the room’s corners took up an unforseen space for itself in the soft fullness of my normal field of vision; where my mind, seeking for hours to free itself, to stretch itself out in height to take on the exact shape of the room and succeed in filling to the top its giant funnel, had suffered many hard nights while I lay stretched out on the bed, staring up, listening anxiously, sniffing stubbornly, my heart racing until familiarity had changed the drapes’ color, hushed the clock, taught pity to the cruel and oblique mirror, dissimulated, if not entirely dispersed the smell of vetiver and notably diminished the height of the room.

Actually, my French isn't good enough to say, but does that first line immediately let you know, in French, that you're talking about a kid being sent to bed at a kid's bedtime?

No.

That paragraph is additonally amazing because we're talking about a man who loved to stay in bed and was extremely frileux to the point of often wearing a fur coat to the dinner table.