My Year With Proust - Day 9

   "I feel that there is much to be said for the Celtic belief that the souls of those whom we have lost are held captive in some inferior being, in an animal, in a plant, in some inanimate object, and so effectively lost in use until the day (which to many never comes) when we happen to pass by the tree or to obtain possession of the object which forms their prison.  Then they start and tremble, they call us by our name, and as soon as we have recognized their voices the spell is broken.  We have delivered them: they have over come death and return to share our life.

   And so it is with our own past.  It is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile.  The past in hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) which we do not suspect.  And as for that object, it depends on chance whether we come upon it or not before we ourselves must die."

Marcel Proust, Swann's Way, pp. 45-46

Once again, I feel that Proust is spot on in his reflection.  As gifts for this Christmas and my latest birthday (two days ago - yes, passing on to fifty-six, which doubtless I'll have something to say about soon enough) I received a new Cincinnati Reds sweatshirt (my old one was at least twenty years old) and a new Fran Tarkenton Minnesota Vikings jersey (which was forty years old).  Now, it could well be that she was tired of me looking like such a hobo, and, to be fair, they were both pretty ragged (although I still plan to be buried wearing the older versions - no suit for me; not my idea of any way to spend eternity).  Or, could it be that she thinks, consciously or even unconsciously, that the two items, beyond simply inspiring memories, possessed some sort of totemistic power to connect me to the past.  I think it was Kundera who said that the battle for power was the battle for control of the past.

I also think Proust is correct in that it is "a labour in vain to attempt to recapture" the past.  It seems to me that if you attempt to force a memory to come to the surface you only end up increasing the chances that you'll fabricate it.  Instead, memories seem to bubble to the surface with their own agenda and on their own schedule.