"Now the memories of love are no exception to the general laws of memory, which in turn are governed by the still more general laws of Habit. And as Habit weakens everything, what best reminds us of a person is precisely what we had forgotten (because it was of no importance, and we therefore left it in full possession of its strength). That is why the better part of our memories exists outside us, in a blatter of rain, in the smell of an unaired room or of the first crackling brushwood fire in a cold grate; whatever, in short, we happen upon what our mind, having no use for it, had rejected, the last treasure that the past has in store, the richest, that which, when all our flow of tears seems to have dried at the source, can make us weep again. Outside us? Within us, rather, but hidden from our eyes in an oblivion more or less prolonged. It is thanks to this oblivion alone that we can from time to time recover the person that we were, place ourselves in relation to things as he was placed, suffer anew because we are no longer ourselves but he, and because he loved what now leaves us indifferent. In the broad daylight of our habitual memory the images of the past turn gradually pale and fade out of sight, nothing remains of them, we shall never recapture it."
Marcel Proust, Within a Budding Grove, p. 692
I don't want to make too much of Proust (I mean, he was a genius after all, and I'm barely mammalian in my cognitive abilities, so take my constant praise with a grain of salt) but reading Remembrance of Things Past has helped me gain a greater understanding of so many memories and ideas. Not that it's easy, far from it. As we've discussed, there is a couple hundred page gap between what I'm currently reading, on which I'm hurriedly scribbling almost unreadable notes, and what I'm actually blogging about. This gives me weeks to work my way through the deeper meaning before I have to try and make sense of it. Now, obviously I don't devote weeks and weeks to analyzing each passage, which is probably best shown by the staggering lack of intellectual depth in my posts, It does give me time to think about the more profound aspects of Proust, and often I need every moment of it. And this is definitely one of those times. But see, that's OK, and the challenge of reading Proust is arguably the best thing about reading Remembrance of Things Past; well, except for the beauty, it's hard for me in the end, even in the service of an intellectual argument, to value anything above the beauty of his words. Proust is hard, but in the process of dissecting his prose and unpacking his ideas we are empowered to, paraphrasing the opening scene from Manhattan, work through things and, in the process of understanding his life we come to a greater understanding of our own lives. Proust proposes that "Habit weakens everything," which I think is undeniable. We could certainly talk about love, but I think a more prosaic example will suffice. I have known too many professors over the years who never changed their lectures for years if not decades. Habit reigns, and while that allows you to get by with minimal preparation it also means that you're minimally involved. Not only are you probably boring your students, but you're also boring yourself; you aren't present. Reading, and, yes, sometimes grinding through, Proust is the very definition of the intellectual opposite of Habit. The sometimes slumbrous pace of Remembrance of Things Past is actually waking you up to thinking and feeling.
OK, now we need to tackle the issue of his point about memories existing outside us, but I'll have to come back to that later today because I need to finish preparation for a final. And speaking of bad habits and Bad Habit . . .
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