My Year With Proust - Day 176

   "When Elstir asked me to come with him so that he might introduce me to Albertine, who was sitting a little further down the room, I first of all finished eating a coffee eclair, and, with a show of keen interest, asked an old gentleman whose acquaintance I had just made (and to whom I thought that I might offer the rose in my buttonhole which he had admired) to tell me more about the old Norman fairs.  This is not to say that the introduction which followed did not give me any pleasure and did not assume a certain solemnity in my eyes.  But so far as the pleasure was concerned, I was naturally not conscious of it until some time later, when, back at the hotel, and in my room alone, I had become myself again.  Pleasure in this respect is like photography.  What we take, in the presence of the beloved object, is merely a negative, which we develop later, when we are back at home, and have once again found at our disposal that inner darkroom the entrance to which is barred to us so long as we are with other people."

Marcel Proust, Within a Budding Grove, pp. 931-932

Proust is finally getting his official introduction to Albertine, who will play such a huge role in the story, from Elstir.  It is telling that it is only when he is by himself, in full possession of his "inner darkroom," that he can develop the picture.  "Pleasure in this respect is like photography." I've talked before how I feel so blessed to be able to identify my best day ever, which was 18 June 1993, when I took my son to Six Flags Over Georgia for the first time.  What made it so extraordinary was that at the end of the day, in the gloaming as night approached, it hit me with full force that it was the best day I had ever had and would probably ever have.  Most of us, including me 99% of the time, only realize much later our best moments.  Although, as we've discussed repeatedly, perception and memory are such faulty instruments that we should probably be suspicious of those revelations.

While reading this I hearkened back, not surprisingly, to the end of Gustave Flaubert's Sentimental Education.  In an ending which at a surface level reading of the novel can seem maddeningly random, but it is actually both appropriately summative and brilliant, Frederick and Deslauriers, recall the time that they almost went to a brothel.

   "It was during the vacation of 1837 that they called at the house of the Turkish woman.
   This was a phrase used to designate a woman whose real name was Zoraide Turc; and many persons believed her to be a Mohammedan, a Turk; this added to the poetic character of her establishment, situated at the water's edge behind the rampart.  Even in the middle of summer there was a shadow around her house, which was distinguished by a glass bowl of goldfish near a pot of mignonette at a window. Women in white negligees, with painted cheeks and long earrings, used to tap on the panes as the students passed; and as it grew dark, their custom was to hum softly in their hoarse voices as they stood on the doorsteps.
   This home of perdition spread its fantastic notoriety over all the arrondissement.  References were made to it in a circumlocutory style: 'The place you know a certain street at the bottom of the Bridges.' It made the farmers' wives of the district tremble for their husbands, and the ladies grow apprehensive as to their servants' virtue, inasmuch as the sub-prefect's cook had been found there; and, of course, it exercised a fascination over the minds of all the young lads of the place.
   One Sunday, during vesper-time, Frederick and Deslauriers, having previously curled their hair, gathered some flowers in Madame Moreau's garden, then went out through the gate leading into the fields, and, after taking a wide circuit round the vineyard, came back through the Fishery, and stole into the Turkish woman's house with their bit bouquets in their hands.
   Frederick presented his as a lover does to his betrothed.  But the heat, the fear of the unknown, and even the very pleasure of seeing at one glance so many women at his disposal, excited him so strangely that he turned exceedingly pale, and stood there without advancing a single step or uttering a word.  All the girls bust out laughing, amusing at his embarrassment.  Fancying that they were ridiculing him, he ran away; and, as Frederick had the money, Deslauriers was obliged to follow him.
   They were observed leaving the house; and the episode furnish material for a bit of local gossip which was remembered three years later.
   They related the story to each other in a fashion, each supplementing the narrative where the other's memory failed; and then they had finished the tale:
   'I believe that was the best time we ever had!' said Frederick.
   'Well, perhaps!  Yes, I, too, believe that was the best time we ever had,' said Deslauriers."