" . . . we must bear in mind that the character which a man exhibits in the latter half of his life is not always, although it often is, his original character developed or withered, attenuated or enlarged; it is sometimes the exact reverse, like a garment that has been turned."
Marcel Proust, Within a Budding Grove, p. 468
This is, naturally enough, a continuation of Proust's previous discussion of a person's nature, in this case their character. Does our character actually change - either to develop or wither - or even become the exact reverse? One of our biggest discussions in Concepts of the Self is exactly what constitutes the self in the first place? If the body completely recreates itself every seven years or so - and the self is merely a negotiated phenomenon - then what is the self? And, as a subset of the self, what is our character? If it is not the soul then is it merely a construct? Essentially, is my character different than it used to be? When Brenda and I dated in college her friends always referred to me as Scary Gary, and I think she actually crossed over to the other sidewalk when she saw me coming? Was I really that scary (I'm quite sure I was an insufferable ass, but that's not quite the same thing)? I suspect I was playing a role. As the Drive-By Truckers in Marry Me remind us, "It's a cartoon town, I play my part." Despite my allegedly fearsome temper most of my colleagues would describe me as a good guy who would do anything for his friends and his students. Is this particular Scudder a development or a withering away of my earlier character - or the actual exact reverse? I don't feel one iota different, although to be fair I guess none of us really do. I think I try much harder to be patient and tolerant and supportive, but, again, I don't know if that's any different - maybe I'm just doing a better job sharing that side of my nature. That said, there are certainly enough people who hate me, and maybe they're the ones who actually have a better read on my character.
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