"What, are you still talking about Dechambre?" said M. Verdurin, who had gone on ahead of us, and, seeing that we were not following him, turned back. "Listen," he said to Brichot, "don't exaggerate. The face of his being dead is no excuse for making him out a genius, which he was not. He played well, I admit, but the main thing was that he was in the right surroundings here; transplanted, he ceased to exist. My wife was infatuated with him and made his reputation. You know what she's like. I will go further: in the interest of his own reputation he died at the right moment, a point, as the lobsters, grilled according to Pampille's incomparable recipe, are going to be, I hope (unless you keep us standing here all night with your jeremiads in this kasbah exposed to all the winds of heaven). You don't seriously expect us all to die of hunger because Dechambre is dead, when for the last year he was obliged to practice scales before giving a concert, in order to recover for the moment, and for that moment only, the suppleness of his wrists.
Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, p. 931
Marcel spends more time with the Verdurins, which features a further discussion of the recent death of the pianist Dechambre. M. Verdurin appears callously insensitive to his passing, adding "You don't seriously expect us to die of hunger because Dechambre is dead." He claims, "My wife was infatuated with him and made his reputation," essentially implying that Dechambre owed them his career, which trumped any sadness that they owed him to mark his passing. More importantly, M. Verdurin implies that Dechambre had died at exactly the right moment, just as his career had been marked by being "in the right surroundings," and if, instead, he were "transplanted, he ceased to exist." M. Verdurin proposes, "in the interest of his own reputation he died at the right moment, a point, as the lobsters, grilled according to Pampill'e incomparable recipe, are going to be."
This odd little exchange speaks to me for a couple reasons. First off, obviously, I see myself as Dechambre. My friends have often asked me why I didn't take the offer in Hong Kong (and, in fact, all but one of them had encouraged me to take it in the first place). While I often cite love or friendship, maybe it was fear. Over nine years at Georgia Perimeter College and the last seventeen years at Champlain College I've put together what, at least at first blush, appears to be a reasonably impressive career marked by a number of accolades. However, was this simply a case of being recognized for being the tallest of the hobbits? I've loved my time at bother schools, and have been honored to work with many wonderful teachers, but let's be honest, neither school is first rate (although, also truthfully, Champlain is getting better every year). The University of Hong Kong is a great school (as my friend Steve Wehmeyer gushed, referencing the dream of every minor leaguer, "dude, you just got called up to the Show") and when faced with the chance to shape their liberal arts education I said no. I can say that I was following my heart, but maybe I was just a coward. Paraphrasing Proust, if "transplanted," would I have "ceased to exist"?
And even more profoundly, it brings up the question of the appropriate time to die, which I'll have to brood over more. As is well documented, one of my great fears is fading away and being pitied, so this also really hits home.
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