Unfortunately, in the absence of an outer life, incidents are created by the inner life too; in the absence of expeditions with Albertine, the random course of my solitary reflexions furnished me at times with some of those tiny fragments of the truth which attract to themselves, like a magnet, an inkling of the unknown, which from that moment becomes painful. Even if one lives under the equivalent of a bell jar, associations of ideas, memories, continue to act upon us. But these internal shocks did not occur immediately; no sooner had Albertine set off on her drive than I was revivified, if only for a few moments, by the exhilarating virtues of solitude. I took my share in the pleasures of the new day; the arbitrary desire - the capricious and purely solipsistic impulse - to savour them would not have suffice to place them within my reach, had not the particular state of the weather not merely evoked for me their past images but affirmed their present reality, immediately accessible to all men whom a contingent and consequently negligible circumstance did not compel to remain at home.
Marcel Proust, The Captive, p. 17
A couple of days ago I returned from out of town (and by the time that system releases this posting I will have been out of town and back again). I flew back home to Indiana to celebrate my father's 80th birthday, which, naturally, reawakened my love/hate (much more the latter than the former) relationship with the state (but more on that later). I was talking to my Dad and I told him that the more I read Remembrance of Things Past the more I drew a connection between Proust and my grandmother Maude, which I discussed before on this blog. They were two whip smart people who under the weight of accumulating physical ailments found themselves cut off from the rest of the world. Reading Proust has made me think that Maude must have also had a very rich internal world. Proust tells us, "Unfortunately, in the absence of an outer life, incidents are created by the inner life too; in the absence of expeditions with Albertine, the random course of my solitary reflexions furnished me at times with some of those tiny fragments of the truth which attract to themselves, like a magnet, an inkling of the unknown, which from that moment becomes painful." I've been dealing with a loss of hearing for some years now, but it's only been the last couple years where other physical limitations have begun to wall me off from the rest of the world. Essentially, I'm starting to see myself in my grandmother, which I've proposed before, but also in Proust, but not necessarily in a good way. While not as solitary as an oyster, I do find myself, like Proust, "revivified, if only for a few moments, by the exhilarating virtues of solitude." As with most things, however, this is also a self-fulfilling prophecy. I believe that you reach a point in relationship where you sadly discover that you're happiest when the other person is gone or you're gone, which I've always associated with the seemingly unavoidable transition when the cooling of affection gives way to Kelvin level emotions. What I've begun to think is that maybe this is not representative of a transition but rather with some people it might be their normal nature. I have a great friend, a philosopher, who I've always joked for all intents and purposes exists as pure intellect. I've never known him to have a relationship with anyone, and yet he may be the most contented soul I know. So, the problem is not that you're as solitary as an oyster, but rather that you don't realize it and try and carry on relationships?
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