"This compulsion to an activity without respite, without variety, without result, was so cruel a scourge that one day, noticing a swelling over his stomach, he felt an actual joy in the idea that he had, perhaps, a tumour which would prove fatal, that he need not concern himself with anything further, that it was his malady which was going to govern his life, to make a plaything of him, until the not-distant end. If indeed, at this period, it often happened that, though without admitting it even to himself, he longed for death, it was in order to escape not so much the keenness of his sufferings as from monotony of his struggle.
And yet he would have wished to live until the time came when he no longer loved her, when she would have no reason for lying him, when at length he might learn from her whether, on the day when he had gone to see her in the afternoon, she had or had not been in the arms of Forcherville. Often for several days on end the suspicion that she was in love with someone else would distract his mind from the question of Forcherville, making it almost immaterial to him, like those new developments of a continuous state of ill-health which seem for a little time to have delivered us from their predecessors. There were even days when he was not tormented by any suspicion. He fancied that he was cured. But next morning, when he awoke, he felt in the same place the same pain, a sensation which, the day before, he had, as it were, diluted in the torrent of different impressions. But it had not stirred from its place. Indeed, it was the sharpness of this pain that had awakened him."
Marcel Proust, Swann's Way, pp. 334-335
As I've said before, in the hands of a lesser writer these lengthy discussions of Swann's obsession with Odette and his suffering at her betrayal might seem tedious or at the very least over-done. As much as I like The Sorrows of Young Werther, there are times when I'm quite ready to help him kill himself. And it's difficult to read Swann's desire for death without thinking of Ralphie's bout with soap poisoning in A Christmas Story. However, Proust carries it off. Beyond Proust's almost preternatural perception and his mastery of language, I think the reason why this works is that we've all been there, all suffered through that same pain; at least, we should have if we've lived our lives right. If we haven't felt that pain then we haven't felt that depth of love. And it is an actual pain, not simply a sense of loneliness or sexual frustration or sadness, but an actual, physical pain, a doubled-up on the floor pain. Proust tells us that Swann longed for death, to "escape not so much the keenness of his suffering as from monotony of his struggle." It's exhausting to be that much in love.
At the same time Swann wishes that he could pass through this suffering to a time when he didn't love Odette anymore, when her name meant nothing to him. It is the final victory, when you feel neither love nor hate. If indifference is the opposite of love, as compared to hate, then what better proof of conquering love, or of conquering her, than to just not care? Of course, it's also best if she sees that we just don't care ("who is noticing that I don't care?"), which proves that we really do still care. Or, if it's just remarkably important that I realize that I don't care, as compared to just not caring, then it speaks to the level of self-absorption that made the entire experience worse.
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