"And so even to-day in any large provincial town, or in a quarter of Paris which I do not know well, if a passer-by who is 'putting me on the right road' shows me from afar, as a point to aim at, some belfry of a hospital, or a convent steeple lifting the peak of its ecclesiastical cap at the corner of the street which I am to take, my memory need only find in it some dim remembrance to that dear and vanished outline, and the passer-by, should he turn round to make sure that I have not gone astray, would see me, to his astonishment, oblivious to the walk that I had planned to take or the place where I was obliged to call, standing still on the spot, before that steeple, for hours on end, motionless, trying to remember, feeling deep within myself a tract of soil reclaimed from the waters of Lethe slowly drying until the buildings rise on its again; and then no doubt, and then more uneasily than when, just now, I asked him for a direction, I will seek my way again, I will turn a corner . . . but . . . the goal is in my heart . . ."
Marcel Proust, Swann's Way, pp. 69-70
There was a time in my life when a phrase like "the goal is in my heart" would have been cringe-worthy, but I do think that I am a kinder, gentler soul than I used to be (if not completely post-spirit visitation Scrooge). In this case Proust was talking about the steeple of Saint-Hilaire, "which shaped and crowned and consecrated every occupation, every hour of the day, every point of view in the town."
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| This particular picture was taken years ago when I was passing through Vienna during the Christmas season. |
I suppose if there is a cathedral that I always see in my mind it is that of St. Stephen's in downtown Vienna. Certainly I've been fortunate to have seen far grander cathedrals since then, but St. Stephen's always has a special place in my heart because I associate it with, like most powerful memories, with being in love. And, in the end, isn't that the goal in our heart.
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Devoted to the approach of "reading innocently," that is, reading the novel as Proust intended.
When I read the novel for the first time, I was alone (no reading group or Internet blogs), and the ending changed my life. I immediately re-read the novel and have never stopped.
Now, I wonder if that experience, following Proust's tale purely, without stumbling into a "spoiler," imprinted the novel more deeply.
Now, one of my flaws is seeing Proust everywhere. This passage reminds me of a moment in Proust's life. (No spoilers.)
"One of Proust's ex-lovers and his most constant friend, Reynaldo Hahn, the composer, recalled that soon after he met Proust they were walking through a garden when suddenly Proust stopped dead before a rosebush. He asked Hahn to continue walking without him. When at last Hahn circled back, after going around the chateau, 'I found him at the same place, staring at the roses. His head tilting forward, his face very serious, he blinked, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as though from a passionate act of attention, and with his left hand he was obstinately pushing the end of his little black mustache between his lips and nibbling on it.... How many times I've observed Marcel in these mysterious moments in which he was communicating totally with nature, with art, with life, in these `deep minutes' in which his entire being was concentrated...'" Edmund White, "Marcel Proust"
(Don't read yet: https://www.nytimes.com/books/first/w/white-proust.html)
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