But as soon as I had succeeded in falling asleep, at that more truthful hour when my eyes closed to the things of the outer world, the world of sleep (on whose frontier my intelligence and my will, momentarily paralysed, could not longer strive to rescue me from the cruelty of my real impressions) reflected, refracted the agonising synthesis of survival and annihilation, once more reformed, in the organic and translucent depths of the mysteriously light viscera. The world of sleep, in which our inner consciousness, subordinated to the disturbances of our organs, accelerates the rhythm of the heart or the respiration, because the same dose of terror, sorrow or remorse acts with a strength magnified a hundred-fold if it is thus injected into our veins: as soon as, to traverse the arteries of the subterranean city, we have embarked upon the dark current of our own blood as upon an inward Lethe meandering sixfold, tall solemn forms appear to us, approach and glide away, leaving us in tears. I sought in vain for my grandmother's form when I had entered beneath the sombre portals; yet I knew that she did exist still, if with a diminished vitality, as pale as that of memory; the darkness was increasing, and the wind; my father, who was to take me to her, had not yet arrived. Suddenly my breath failed me, I felt my heart turn to stone; I had just remembered that for weeks on end I had forgotten to write to my grandmother. What must she be thinking of me? "Oh God," I said to myself, "how wretched she must be in that little room which they have taken for her, no bigger than what one would give to an old servant, where she's all alone with the nurse they have put there to look after her, from which she cannot stir, for she's still slightly paralysed and has always refused to get up! She must think that I've forgotten her now that she's dead; how lonely she must be feeling, how deserted!
Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, pp. 787-788
Proust's sorrow and anxiety and guilt surrounding his grandmother follow him into his dreams and if anything intensify: "The world of sleep, in which our inner consciousness, subordinated to the disturbances of our organs, accelerates the rhythm of the heart or the respiration, because the same dose of terror, sorrow or remorse acts with a strength magnified a hundred-fold if it is thus injected into our veins . . ." I find the fact that, in his dream, his grandmother is trapped in a tiny room, "no bigger than what one would give to an old servant,"fascinating. As one grows older our world does become smaller, if for no other reason than physical infirmity. Sadly, it also happens to us emotionally. I've always felt guilty for not spending more time with my grandmother Maude, my father's mother, especially since I've come to believe that I probably have far more in common with her in regards to intelligence and temperament than most members of my family (which is good and bad, actually). She was so profoundly deaf (something else I increasingly share with her) that it was exhausting, for both of us, to spend time trying to carry on a conversation (although I truthfully I wanted to know more about her and her side of the family; essentially, I suspect that I'm Evans in more than middle name). Because of this her emotional world was shrinking as well. I wish I would have created opportunities to just driving out to Rising Sun and read with her, even if that meant just sitting side by side on the couch, and it breaks my heart that I failed her in something as simple as spending time with her in her declining years.
The dream continues, but this seems like a good place to break so I'll pick it up tomorrow.
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