I would ring for Francoise. I would open the Figaro. I would scan its columns and ascertain that it did not contain an article, or so-called article, which I had sent to the editor, and which was no more than a slightly revised version of the page that had recently come to light, written long ago in Dr Percepied's carriage, as I gazed at the spires of Martinville. Then I would read Mamma's letter. She found it odd, if not shocking, that a girl should be living alone with me. On the first day, at the moment of leaving Balbec, when she saw how wretched I was and was worried about leaving me by myself, my mother had perhaps been glad when she heard that Albertine was travelling with us and saw that, side by side with our own boxes (those boxes among which I had spent the night in tears in the hotel at Balbec) Albertine's too - narrow and black, having for me the appearance of coffins, and as to which I did not know whether they would bring life or death to our house - had been loaded on to the "twister." But I had never even asked myself the question, being all over joyed, in the radiant morning, after the fear of having to remain at Balbec, that I was taking Albertine with me. But if at the start my mother had not been hostile to this proposal (speaking kindly to my friend like a mother whose son has been seriously wounded and who is grateful to the young mistress who is nursing him with loving care), she had become so now that it had been all too completely realised and the girl was prolonging her sojourn in our house, moreover in the absence of my parents. I cannot, however, say that my mother ever openly manifested this hostility to me. As in the past, when she had ceased to dare to reproach me with my nervous instability and my laziness, now she had qualms - which perhaps I did not altogether perceive or did not wish to perceive at the time - about running the risk, by offering any criticism of the girl to whom I had told her that I intended to make an offer of marriage, of casting a shadow over my life, making me in time to come less devoted to my wife, of sowing perhaps, for a season when she herself would no longer be there, the seeds of remorse by having grieved her by marrying Albertine. Mamma preferred to seem to be approving a choice which she felt herself powerless to make me reconsider.
Marcel Proust, The Captive, pp. 4-5
Proust continues his discussion of Marcel's morning routine, which allows him to bring in a few observations about his mother's response to Albertine moving into the apartment. His mother clearly doesn't approve of Albertine, but she's stuck in that delicate position of whether to say something or not. However, when mother's (and for that matter all women) say nothing they are screaming. Proust continues to presage doom, as with is description of Albertine's luggage as "narrow and black, having for me the appearance of coffins." This may be the most ill-considered and doom-laden idea until the GOP began pushing the ADHA.
I liked Marcel referring to his article, the one night appearing in the Figaro, as his "so-called article." I've taken to referring to my epics books as my epics manuscript. I think book implies that it's already under contract or will definitely to be published, as in you have a long history of publishing books and finishing it is just the transitional stage to it being published. With that in mind I've just started referring to it as a manuscript because I have so little confidence in being published, although I think it's a promising idea. Truthfully, while I love research, from envisioning a theme through reading the required texts and following others down respective rabbit roles, but writing is a tedious chore for me. The other day I was discussing my frustrations with my friend Kathy and she asked me what my biggest problems with writing were; I replied, "I think it's subject/verb agreement." Granted, while the public schools in Lawrenceburg, Indiana didn't do me any favors, I think I have bigger issues than that. I'm probably the classic example of Charles Fourier's butterfly passion (from his The Social Destiny of Man) in that I tend to flutter around intellectually to ideas, whereas I would be better served to focus much clearly on one topic. It's not necessarily a completely bad thing because it allows me to bring in a number of different ideas. For example, last week, while pursuing completely different interests, I found great material for my chapter on the Persian epic the Shahnameh while reading Attar's Sufi masterpiece The Conference of the Birds and the detailed commentary in Nasr's The Study Quran. Still, if I would flit around less I would be a lot more productive. I think I'm also held back by a lack of confidence, and I certainly am insecure about my lack of intellectual chops, especially on the publishing front. Soon, soon, all too soon I'll start referring to it as my epics project, which adds the appropriate additional level of uncertainty.
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