On other mornings, I would remain in bed, drowsing for as long as I chose, for others had been given that no one was to enter my room until I had run the bell, an act which, owing to the awkward position in which the electric push had been hung above my bed, took such a time that often, tired of feeling for it and glad to be left alone, I would lie back for some moments and almost fall asleep again. It was not that I was wholly indifferent to Albertine's presence in the house. Her separation from her girl friends had succeeded in sparing my heart any fresh anguish. It kept it in a state of repose, in a semi-immobility which would help it to recover. But this calm which my mistress procured for me was an assuagement of suffering rather than a positive joy. Not that it did not enable me to taste my many from which the intensity of my anguish had debarred me, but, far from my owing them to Albertine who in any case I no longer found very pretty and with whom I was bored, with whom I was indeed clearly conscious that I was not in love, I tasted those joys on the contrary when Albertine was not with me. And so, to begin the morning, I did not send for her at once, especially if it was a fine day. For some moments, knowing that it would make me happier than Albertine, I remained closeted with the little person inside me, the melodious hymner of the rising sun, of whom I have already spoken.
Marcel Proust, The Captive, pp. 3-4
Marcel's start to his relationship with Albertine isn't going particularly well. He points out that he was not "wholly indifferent to Albertine's presence in the house," although his joy, if that is even the word, seems mainly related to her having less of an opportunity to spend time with her friends. For some reason I am reflecting back on the French leader Georges Clemenceau's observation that "America is the only nation in history that, miraculously, has gone directly from barbarism to degeneration without the usual interval of civilization." Similarly, it seems that Marcel's relationship with Albertine went from barbarism to degeneration, except in this instance emotional rather than cultural, without the usual interval of happiness. Could be a flaw in Albertine or a flaw in the nature of their relationship or a flaw in Marcel - or is he just one of those creatures who, I suspect like Proust himself, and, well, probably me, who are simply happier alone. Proust reports, "And so, to begin the morning, I did not send for her at once, especially if it was a fine day. For some moments, knowing that it would make me happier than Albertine, I remained closeted with the little person inside me, the melodious hymner of the rising sun, of whom I have already spoken." It reminds me of the famous line from Scipio Africanus: "I am never less lonely than when I am by myself." When thinking of Albertine Marcel shares that "I no longer found [her] very pretty and with whom I was bored." Is it her who isn't very pretty and who is boring or is it the world outside of himself?
Oh, and I don't know why this bothers me, but why does my spell checker suggest that assuagement is misspelled? Granted, Proust was a wordsmith and would often use words that are not a part of the normal rotation, but the fact that assuagement was tagged somehow in my addled brain represents the dimming of the American mind. It may just be a mood. The other night I was killing time in between pickups and drop-offs and ended up at a FYE record shop (well, for a long time it wasn't really a record shop, but albums, at least as an audiophile or at least a vanity purchase, are coming back so they can technically be called a record shop) and I was browsing through their Jazz section which was just pathetic. As I've often pointed out, and which all right thinking individuals acknowledge, America has produce two things of genius, baseball and jazz, and to have such a paltry selection just screams cultural decline. I've often tried to get the hashtag #NationOfIdiots to trend on Twitter but so far have been unsuccessful.
No comments:
Post a Comment