"Indeed this passion for a phrase of music seemed, in the fist few months, to be bringing into Swann's life the possibility of a sort of rejuvenation. He had so long since ceased to direct his course towards any ideal goal, and had confined himself to the pursuit of ephemeral satisfactions, that he had come to believe, though without ever formally stating his belief even of himself, that he would remain all his life in that condition, which death along could alter. More than this, since his mind no longer entertained any lofty ideals, he had ceased to believe in (although he could not have expressly denied) their reality. He had grown also into the habit of taking refuge in trivial considerations, which allowed him to set on one side matters of fundamental importance. . .
But to-night, at Mme Verdurin's, scarcely had the little pianist begun to play when, suddenly, after a high note held on through two whole bars, Swann saw it approaching, stealing forth from underneath that resonance, which was prolonged and stretched out over it, like a curtain of sound, to veil the mystery of its birth - and recognized, secret, whispering, articulate, the airy and fragrant phrase that he had loved. And it was so peculiarly itself, it had so personal a charm, which nothing else could have replaced, that Swann felt as though he had met, in a friend's drawing-room, a woman whom he had seen and admired, once, in the street, and had despaired of ever seeing again. Finally the phrase withdrew and vanished, pointing, directing, diligent among the wandering currents of its fragrance, leaving upon Swann's features a reflexion of its smile. But now, at last, he could ask the name of his fair unknown (and was told it was the andante movement of Vinteuil's sonata for the piano and violin), he held it safe, could have it again to himself, at home, as often as he would, could study its language and acquire its secret."
Marcel Proust, Swann's Way, pp. 223-224
As much as anything, I suppose, this passage deals with the redemptive power of music, or at least redemption. And, as my great friend Sanford is wont to opine, its always a tale of redemption (even if it inevitably ends in tears). I think I've managed to track down this particular of music from Vinteuil (or at least I think I have). So, I guess at least for now, we have a soundtrack for Remembrance of Things Past. If the name Vinteuil sounds familiar, his daughter featured prominently in a series of posts last week. She was the one who had carefully placed her father's picture next to the couch, only to "discover" it when her female lover came for a visit. Proust, beautifully, and me, clumsily, discussed the role that "sadism" played in love, so maybe this wasn't much of a story of redemption after all.
It does open up the question of the redemptive power of music, which could doubtless be discussed much more expertly and elegantly by so many of my friends: Dave Kelley, Mike Kelly, Gary Beatrice, Dave Wallace and, for that matter, my ex-wife Brenda (who had a much richer knowledge of music than I did/have). It did get me thinking about one of my favorite music questions: what songs will immediately destroy a bad mood. My default answer is two songs that are back to back on Van Morrison's Moondance album: Into the Mystic and Caravan. Truthfully, how can you listen to the two of them and not realize that life is pretty sweet.
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