On the Way Home: My Year With Proust

"But if their names thus permanently absorbed the image that I had formed of these towns, it was only by transforming that image, by subordinating its reapparance in me to their own special laws; and in consequence of this they made it more beautiful, but at the same time more different from anything that the towns of Normandy or Tuscany could in reality be, and, by increasing the arbitrary delights of my imagination, aggravated the disenchantment that was in store for me when I set out upon my travels. They magnified the idea that I formed of certain points on the earth's surface, making them more special, and in consequence more real. I did not then represent to myself towns, landscapes, historic buildings, as pictures more or less attractive, but out from here and there of a substance that was common to them all, but looked on each of them as on an unknown thing, different from all the rest, a thing for which my soul was athirst, by the knowledge of which it would benefit. How much more individual still was the character that they assumed from being designated by names, names that were only for themselves, proper names such as people have. Words present to us little pictures of things, lucid and normal, like the pictures that are hung on the walls of schoolrooms to give children an illustration of what is meant by a carpenter's bench, a bird, an anthill; things chosen as typical of everything else of the same sort. But names present to us - of persons and of towns which they accustom us to regard as individual, as unique, like persons - a confused picture, which draws from the names, from the brightness or darkness of their sound, the colour in which it is uniformly painted, like one of those posters, entirely blue or entirely red, in which, on account of the limitations imposed by the process used in their reproduction, or by a whim on the designer's part, are blue or red not only the sky and the sea, but the ships and the church and the people in the streets."

Marcel Proust, Swann's Way, pp. 407-408

As I've been reading and discussing Proust on this blog I would hope that no one (and, oddly enough, around a hundred people pop in a day to read it) would ever take this as a replacement for reading Remembrance of Things Past. Even if this blog is written by an idiot, this is not meant to be an Idiot's Guide to Proust. While I'm mainly interested in my own deeply personal desire to read Proust and to use it as a tool for understanding myself, there is a small (obviously delusional) notion in the back of my mind that these words might inspire people to read the entire work. In fact, even in today's e-world it would also be perfectly acceptable to buy Remembrance of Things Past, as it would be a purchase you would never regret. I know I will be revisiting it repeatedly until I shuffle off this mortal coil. There are multiple reasons why this silly blog should never take the place of reading Proust, one of the biggest ones being why would you deny yourself the beauty of his words? I'm picking out a few sections, but I'm sure they're not the ones that would inspire other folks. Plus, as Proust opines above, there are always "limitations imposed by the process used in their reproduction." Essentially, in this case Proust's words and ideas are being filtered through a medium, in this case me, and your perceptions and your reality are fundamentally different, and thus you need to read Remembrance of Things Past unfiltered.

OK, and now, as they would have said on The Young Ones, back to the acting.

I had several thoughts as I was reading this section, some of which I'll discuss now and others I'll have to revisit because I'm still processing them. One of the things that popped into my mind, and this is clearly written within the shadow of the upcoming trip, is how some names just have an exotic and almost otherworldly feel to them. What amazes me is how many of these places I've managed to stumble into. I often will say that I've been lucky enough to visit around forty countries, although I have to also say that in my long career their aren't too many times when anyone gave me anything. I've had a lot of opportunities, but I think it's because I've put myself into the situation to take advantage of a lot of opportunities. I'm pretty bright, but sometimes I think I've just worked other folks into the ground, so I guess I should also thank my father for instilling a strong work ethic. However, of course, we never see ourselves that way. For years I would have sworn that I was the laziest person in the world, and then I remember people at Champlain identifying me as a workaholic. Now, I don't know if that is necessarily true, but I've certainly seen a lot more of the world than a marginally intelligent kid from southern Indiana should have seen. So, I'll put it down as hard work, with a little luck thrown in. Mainly I just feel fortunate for health and happiness.

Anyway, here are a few pictures snapped on various and sundry trips. And they were just the ones that were sitting on my computer desktop for one reason or another. It sort of boggles the mind. Shit, I may just be lucky . . .