Can You Have Too Much Proust?

 I don't know, can you have too much Proust? I'm closing in on a fourth reading of Marcel Proust's Remembrance of Things Past, which must place in some utterly strange little corner of Americana. It's funny, although not particularly surprising, that our perception of novels or films change over the years. Among the things that jumped out at me on this re-read are: 1) The Guermantes Way is better than I remember (that's the third volume of seven, and usually the one that grinds attempts to read the entire novel into the dust: this is why, when you're at the bookstore, the only volume available is the first, Swann's Way, because many people collapse that early on); 2) Proust is simply a lot funnier with each read, and maybe that's nothing more than the process of naturally getting into the flow of his writing; 3) Albertine is not the only captive in The Captive, the fifty volume - she's joined by Marcel, and the Baron de Charlus, and several other characters, including women, and, to a larger extent, society itself, and 4) there really is a lot of sex in The Fugitive, the sixth volume (I mean, I knew that, but I guess I'm always surprised by it nevertheless) - although all the sex is overwhelmed by Proust's extraordinary writing on loss. 

So, I couldn't possibly be in the mood for more Proust, right? Apparently the answer to that is no. Recently I purchased, and started gently reading, William Carter's biography, Marcel Proust: A Life along with all seven volumes of the new Penguin translation of In Search of Lost Time (the later, and more appropriate translated title, of Remembrance of Things Past). The new translations are supposed to be marvelous, although I don't think I'll tackle it for a couple years on my normal Proustian rotation (he said . . .). I guess I'm going to have to admit to being something of a Proust nut.

I had put off reading a biography of Marcel Proust because, well, isn't that sort of like carrying coals to Newcastle if you've read Remembrance of Things Past? Not entirely, of course, because while there are definite similarities to his life and his society, there's a lot more going on in the novel. Still, some of the similarities are amazing, especially if you've read it a few times and you automatically begin to pair up actual characters with literary ones. Now, I hope this latest reading binge isn't simply my way of avoiding my own writing . . .

Liminal Spaces

 I just came across this picture on my phone. I snapped it from the bed in my little apartment, just as the sun was thinking about waking up. The apartment didn't have an air-conditioner so you had to open and close the windows at the right time of the morning and evening to beat the Portuguese heat. Anyway, the shot just reminded me of the trip and Lisbon. 

Last night over dinner Janet and I had another big talk about moving to Portugal or Italy, which would be yet another liminal space.

 

Exhausted in Lisbon

 I was just talking about my recent trip to Portugal, which was, as with all trips to Portugal, wonderful. Still, it was also an exhausting venture. I was hoping to discover many things in advance of next March's proposed student trip, but one of them, truthfully, was whether or not I could hold up under the physical strain. It wasn't that long ago that I had to be wheeled through the Istanbul airport in a wheelchair, and, beyond the humiliation of it (in my arrogant and foolish mind) there's also the question of whether or not I can carry out my responsibilities on the trip. So, with all that in mind, I definitely pushed myself on the trip, walking miles every day. It wasn't always graceful, and I was definitely in a bad way at the end of the day, but I did manage to push through. One day in particular I had visited two museums - the tile museum (more on that later) and the Fado museum - and I walked back to the city center from the latter. I was definitely dragging as I approached the tumult that is the center of Lisbon. When you walk through that area you inevitably get a lot of folks at the various restaurants trying to get you to drop in and grab something to eat and drink at their establishment; not in a bad way - Portugal is not India or Zanzibar - but mainly in a friendly fashion. Almost always I thank them for their kind offer and more along. However, at that particular moment I was definitely running on fumes, so I plopped down at a local place. Naturally, I was not disappointed.

A very Portuguese treat.

Also very Portuguese: the complimentary ginja as a thank you for stopping in. I'm sure my decrepit state didn't hurt.

To Live Everything Through Novels

 My ideal would be to live everything through novels and to use real life for resting up - to read my emotions and to live my disdain of them. For someone with a keen and sensitive imagination, the adventures of a dictional protagonist are genuine emotion enough, and more, since they are experienced by us as well as the protagonist. No great romantic adventure exists than to have loved Lady Macbeth with true and directly felt love. After a love like that, what can one do but take a rest, not loving anyone in the real world?

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, ch. 348

And continuing our discussion of why Pessoa never had a lover in "the real world," we come to this brilliant passage. I think in one of my way too many passages about Proust when I devoted over seven-hundred consecutive days to discussing Remembrance of Things Past I spent time talking about women in films or literature that I felt I could settle down with quite happily. Naturally, in an almost Proustian way, I'm brought back to that memory.  It's funny, the older I get the more I narrow down my list of readings (not that I don't read a lot of new stuff as well) and am even more likely to reread a novel that I loved. I'm in the process of finishing my fourth reading of Remembrance of Things Past (more on that soon), which I'm sure, in today's world, would be all the justification one would need to be sent to a mental institute. However, in an increasingly ugly world - and this is a viewpoint worthy of Pessoa - the draw to a beautiful literary world is almost magnetic. How could anyone in the "real world" compare to his love for Lady Madbeth? And hence why bother? Does this statement actually apply to me as well, and it's why I'm drawn so passionately to The Book of Disquiet? Have I actually been a bad partner to the various women in my life because, as my Dad would frequently opine, I was never really there? 

A Letter Not to Post

 A Letter Not to Post

I hereby excuse you from appearing in my idea of you.

Your life . . .

    This is not my love; it's merely your life.

I love you the way I love the sunset or the moonlight: I want the moment to remain, but all I want to possess in it is the sensation in possessing it.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, ch. 347

I will often opine that if you want to understand how not to have a happy relationship you should delve into Marcel Proust's Remembrance of Things Past. Following that logic, if you want to master the art of not even having a woman in your life at all you should delve into Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet. We pretty definitely know that Fernando Pessoa never had sex with any woman in his entire life, although he did have one vague girlfriend who he kissed a couple times on a tram. Why? Well, it could simply be that he was a monumental weirdo. It's sort of the same argument that one ends up chasing around when you try and figure out the concept of his heteronyms; was he making a profound point about identity, or was he just being almost unimaginably odd. I would argue that in regards to the question of love - or the lack of love, the passage above helps things come more into focus. That last line, "I love you the way I love the sunset or the moonlight: I want the moment to remain, but all I want to possess in it is the sensation in possessing it," is classic Pessoa. It is easy to think of Proust as being intensely internal, which he is, but he's almost an extrovert as compared to Pessoa. What he wants is a quiet, internal life, shielded from the ugliness, the crassness, of modern life. Maybe this is his problem with any sort of relationship with a woman: he wants the beauty of the concept of it - to possess the "sensation in possessing it" - but not the ugliness of possessing it. At least he's honest: "This is not my love; it's merely your life."

CB and CP

 I don't know why it has taken so long to post pictures of my spring 2023 student trip to Jordan. I suspect it was because it ended on a bit of a bittersweet note. My body really broke down on the way home, and being carted through the Istanbul Airport in a wheelchair is not my idea of fun. It was pretty humbling, which I guess isn't a bad thing. Anyway, it turned out to be a pretty good trip, and I'll see if I can't track down some more pictures. Here are a couple shots of my excellent friend Cyndi and Craig. It was my sixth trip with CB (five to Jordan, and one to India/Sri Lanka) and my second with CP (we made a trip to China once - we all remember the infamous Turtle Boy picture, captured here on the blog - along with this one). They were, as one might expect, wonderful travelling companions.

I think this was the restaurant where we each ate two pounds of meat.

In my tent in The Wadi Rum, debriefing after another day of student adventures.

Meu Apartamento Pequeno

 In June I made a mad dash back to Portugal by way of preparing for next March's proposed student trip to Portugal. There were sites, mainly museums and hostels, that I wanted to visit. It was a wonderful and also very productive trip, and it's one where you find out all sorts of stuff that the Internet can't tell you. For instance, I really wanted to bring students to the Bullfighting Museum in Lisbon, which I visited several years ago. According to several online sites it was still open, but it was only upon arriving at the actual spot was I able to learn that it has been boarded up since the COVID pandemic (that would have been an unpleasant surprise). I also found about deals with museums that will make the trip more manageable. So, like I said, a good trip. One of the best things about it was the little Airbnb apartment where I stayed in Estrela, a quiet area in Lisbon. It's funny, you always see people in movies who take a little apartment to finish writing projects. I always thought it was silly, or maybe pretentious, but there actually is a lot of logic to it; essentially, I got so much work done. I could also clearly see path forward to a retirement that sounded wonderful: a small place in Portugal, with days demarcated by writing in the morning and then exploring museums and reading at cafes in the afternoon.

The apartment was down this quiet street, almost cross the street from the British Embassy.

A serviceable little kitchen. Mainly I used it to prepare my breakfast of  coffee, three eggs, and an apple.

A fairly comfortable bed, and one that caught the morning light in a lovely fashion.

The little sitting room off the bedroom. I tried to write here, but the light was a little bit too strong. However, it was a great place to read.

The tiny but pleasant living room. The SyFy channel is Portugal doesn't have commercials, so at night, after a day of writing and exploring, I would plop down and watch bad monster movies.

The foldout desk in the living room, where I did most of my writing. The timing for writing was great because the time difference meant that I could scribble away for hours before anyone back in the US would be awake that I might want to pester. 

Livin- the dream: hanging out the laundry.