And even when I bore in mind that acquired originality which had struck me that had struck me that afternoon, that kinship, too, which musicologists might discover between composers, it is indeed a unique accent, an unmistakable voice, in which in spite of themselves those great singers that original composers are rise and return, and which is a proof of the irreducibly individual existence of the soul. Though Vinteuil might try and make more solemn, more grandiose, or to make more sprightly and gay, to re-create what he saw reflected in the minds of the public, in spit of himself he submerged it all beneath a ground-swell which makes his song eternal and at once recognisable. Where had he learned this song, different from those of other singers, similar to all his own, where had he heard it? Each artist seems thus to be the native of an unknown country, which he himself has forgotten, and which is different from that whence another great artist, setting sail for the earth, will eventually emerge. . .
. . . Composers do not actually remember this lost fatherland, but each of them remains all his life unconsciously attuned to it; he is delirious with joy when he sings in harmony with his native land, betrays it at times in his thirst for fame, but then, in seeking fame, turns his back on it, and it is only by scorning fame that he finds it when he breaks out into that distinctive strain the sameness of which - for whatever its subject it remains identical with itself - proves the permanence of the elements that compose his soul. But in that case is it not true that those elements - all the residuum of reality which we are obliged to keep to ourselves, which cannot be transmitted in talk, even from friend to friend, from master to disciple, from lover to mistress, that ineffable something which differentiates qualitatively what each of us has felt and what he is obliged to leave behind at the threshold of the phrases in which he can communicate with others only by limiting himself to externals, common to all and of no interest - are brought out by art, the art of a Vinteuil like that of an Elstir, which extoriorises in the colours of the spectrum the intimate composition of those worlds which we call individuals and which, without the aid of art, we should never know? A pair or wings, a different respiratory system, which enabled us to travel through space, would in no way help us, for if we visited Mars or Venus while keeping the same senses, they would clothe everything that we saw in the same aspect as the things of Earth. The only voyage of discovery, the only really rejuvenating experience, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes, to see the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to see the hundred universes that each of them sees, that each of them is; and this we can do with an Elstir, with a Vinteuil; with men like these we do really fly from star to star.
Marcel Proust, The Captive, pp. 258-260
Today's passage is incredibly rich, so much so that's taken longer today to get my brain around it all to write it up in a way that makes any sense. Truthfully, I should have divided it into several sections, which would have made it much more manageable. However, if I keep doing that, as much as I'm enjoying this process, I'll never get finished reading and commenting on Remembrance of Things Past.
Proust is continuing to discuss Marcel's response to the Vinteuil sonata, but more importantly, to art in a broader. He mainly discusses how art impacts us changes our perception, if not changing everything about us. And the change can be so profound that it is as if we had traveled to another world. Proust tells us, "A pair or wings, a different respiratory system, which enabled us to travel through space, would in no way help us, for if we visited Mars or Venus while keeping the same senses, they would clothe everything that we saw in the same aspect as the things of Earth." But the thing is, that no journey truly means anything if you don't change your perception of the universe around you. He continues, "The only voyage of discovery, the only really rejuvenating experience, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes, to see the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to see the hundred universes that each of them sees, that each of them is . . " Not to be too self-serving, but this is one of the things that I really like about our particular student trips that we run at Champlain because they're not trips in a can, but rather trips that are specifically designed to magnify the course themes, with the goal of not simply going overseas, but to make the experience as transformative as possible. Because, and I have to agree with Proust here, and I know this is going to sound like a poster in a teenage girl's bedroom, but it's not the destination but rather the journey - and in this case the intellectual journey. However, because it is an intellectual/spiritual journey, maybe the travel itself is almost incidental to the transformation. In fact, maybe the biggest transformation is one that takes place through art. As Proust sums up, " . . and this we can do with an Elstir, with a Vinteuil; with men like these we do really fly from star to star."
With this in mind, Proust talks about the special power of the artist, and how they, just as they help viewers/listeners travel to new world, even internal ones, they in turn live in their own worlds. Proust writes, "Each artist seems thus to be the native of an unknown country, which he himself has forgotten, and which is different from that whence another great artist, setting sail for the earth, will eventually emerge. . ." How does the artist return to that "unknown country, which he himself has forgotten"? And this really sounds like poster material, but I think Proust's argument would be that they have to stay true to themselves. He continues, "Composers do not actually remember this lost fatherland, but each of them remains all his life unconsciously attuned to it; he is delirious with joy when he sings in harmony with his native land, betrays it at times in his thirst for fame, but then, in seeking fame, turns his back on it, and it is only by scorning fame that he finds it when he breaks out into that distinctive strain the sameness of which - for whatever its subject it remains identical with itself - proves the permanence of the elements that compose his soul." Certainly Proust himself never gave up on his vision for his masterpiece, even when it was obvious that he probably was not going to outlive the novel itself. And I know that everyone can see this coming, but I just go back to Neil Young after the wild popularity of Harvest. He could have churned out Harvest II and Harvest III, but instead he embarked on what is sometimes referred to as the Ditch Trilogy: Time Fades Away, On the Beach, and Tonight's the Night; three very dark and immensely unpopular albums (except for certain odd Indiana teenagers) which are his best albums. I'm paraphrasing, but he said that Harvest put him in the middle of the road, but it made for a boring trip, so he headed for the ditch where the ride was rougher but the people were more interesting. As he sang, "I need a crowd of people around, but I can't stand them day to day." That reflects is introvert side (which I can certainly appreciate), but I think it's a testament to a desire to not please the audience, because in the process of chasing that success you could not be true to any personal vision. You'd have to move to another world, a sterile artificial one, and you'd have a much greater difficulty getting back to your homeland.
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