The people of the farm could scarcely see Albertine in the closed car as I handed them back their bottles; and we would drive off again though to continue that lovers' existence which they might suppose us to lead, and in which this halt for refreshment had been only an insignificant moment - a supposition that would have appeared only too plausible if they had seen us after Albertine had drunk her bottle of cider; for she seemed them positively unable to endure the existence of a gap between herself and me which as a rule did not trouble her; beneath her linen skirt her legs were pressed against mine, and she brought her face closer too, the cheeks pallid now and warm, with a touch of red on the cheekbones, and something ardent and faded about them such as one sees in girls from the slums. At such moments, her voice changed almost as quickly as her personality; she forsook her own to adopt another that was hoarse, brazen, almost dissolute. Night began to fall. What a delight to feel her leaning against me, with her toque and her veil, reminding me that it is always thus, seated side by side, that we find couples who are in love! I was perhaps in love with Albertine, but I did not dare to let her see my love, so that, if it existed in me, it could only be like an abstract truth, of not value until it had been tested by experience; as if was, it seemed to me unrealisable and outside the plane of life.
Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 1048
There are several things that jump to mind in this section, although, truthfully, as I begin to slog through the growing mountain of final papers, I don't have the time to unpack this that I would like. So, as is so often the case, I'll jot down some thoughts and hopefully expand when I return, inshallah, for a second reading.
First off, the more I read of Remembrance of Things Past, the more I wonder about the intensity, or lack thereof, of Proust's own sexual desire. He writes brilliantly and precisely about love and pain and loss, and I wonder if one of the reasons why he can pull this off so brilliantly is that he has the detachment of a scientist looking at life through a microscope. He understands love, but it is an experience not sullied by the baser carnal desires which complicate things. I have friends who I suspect fall into the category of asexual. They are not heterosexual or homosexual or bisexual or any of the other stops along that spectrum, but rather can live without sex; unlike the rest of us whose judgment is perpetually besmudged by desire (not me, of course, as I am free of the carnal whirlwind, but that is a result of a philosophical/spiritual mastery - or because I'm just so damn old no one looks at me anymore). Take this description from Marcel of Albertine: "At such moments, her voice changed almost as quickly as her personality; she forsook her own to adopt another that was hoarse, brazen, almost dissolute." Now, for most men (again, not me, but others who are not FOTCW) this change in voice, and mood, would be cause for celebration, but for Proust is cause for research. He also tells us, " . . . she brought her face closer too, the cheeks pallid now and warm, with a touch of red on the cheekbones, and something ardent and faded about them such as one sees in girls from the slums." He is associating this look from girls from the slums, which makes me wonder: do you mean the slums where girls like to fuck? I love Remembrance of Things Past, but we've noted how often White Privilege plays a role in Proust's writing, and this may be another instance where class plays a role (I should give my students this section next year in Heroines & Heroes as part of their analysis using Marxist literary criticism). However, it may also be that in the end this is nothing more than the classic Christian Virgin Mary/whore dichotomy that messes with the perception of so many men, and which makes the lives of the women in their lives so complicated (if not miserable).
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