For anyone intimidated by Marcel Proust and his In Search of Lost Time, here are a few passages* that I made a note of as I was reading. This is just a sample of some that made me chuckle or nod my head in agreement. And if you're still with me at the end, a bit more Proust, Monty Python-style.
"But even with respect to the most insignificant things in life, none of us constitutes a material whole, identical for everyone, which a person has only to go look up as though we were a book of specifications or a last testament; our social personality is a creation of the minds of others. Even the very simple act that we call “seeing a person we know” is in part an intellectual one. We fill the physical appearance of the individual we see with all the notions we have about him, and of the total picture that we form for ourselves, these notions certainly occupy the greater part. In the end they swell his cheeks so perfectly, follow the line of his nose in an adherence so exact, they do so well at nuancing the sonority of his voice as though the latter were only a transparent envelope that each time we see this face and hear this voice, it is these notions that we encounter again, that we hear." Vol. 1, p. 19
"...but what delighted me were the asparagus, steeped in ultramarine and pink, whose tips delicately painted with little strokes of mauve and azure, shade off imperceptibly down to their feet...with an iridescence that is not of this earth. It seemed to me that these celestial hues revealed the delicious creatures who had merrily metamorphosed themselves into vegetables and who, through the disguise of their firm, edible flesh, disclosed in these early tints of dawn, in these beginnings of rainbows, in this extinction of blue evenings, the precious essence that I recognized again when, all night long following a dinner at which I had eaten them, they played in farces as crude and poetic as a fairy play by Shakespeare, at changing my chamber pot into a jar of perfume." Vol. 1, pp. 123-24
"Of all the modes by which love is brought into being, of all the agents which disseminate the holy evil, surely one of the most efficacious is this great gust of agitation which now and then sweeps over us. Then our fate is sealed, and the person whose company we enjoy at the time is the one we will love. It is not even necessary for us to have liked him better than anyone else up to then, or even as much. What is necessary is that our predilection for him should become exclusive. And that condition is fulfilled when--at a moment like this, when we do not have him with us--the quest for the pleasures that his charm gave us is suddenly replaced in us by an anxious need which the laws of this world make it impossible to satisfy and difficult to cure--the senseless and painful need to possess him." Vol. 1, p. 239
"Seeing that a meeting between [the gang of girls] and us was inevitable, and knowing that Elstir would call me over, I turned my back, like a bather as a large wave comes in: I stopped, letting my illustrious companion walk on without me, and stood outside the antique shop we happened to be passing, stooping toward its window as though fascinated by something. I was sorry not to be able to appear to have something other than the girls to think about, and I could vaguely foresee already that, when Elstir called me over to introduce me, I would put on the interrogative look that reveals not so much surprise as the desire to appear surprised--each of us being as bad at acting as our witness is good at reading faces--that I would even go so far as to point at my own chest as though asking, 'Who? Me?' and then walk quickly over to them, my head bent in docile obedience, and my expression a cold mask hiding annoyance at being dragged away from my study of old china merely to be introduced to people whom I had no desire to know. I went on gazing into the shopwindow, waiting for the moment when Elstir would shoot my name at me... The certainty of being introduced to the girls had made me not only feign indifference toward them, but feel it. The pleasure of their acquaintance, having become inevitable, was compressed and reduced..." Vol. 2, p. 435
"Those who have the opportunity to live for themselves--they are artists, of course...--also have the duty to do so; and for them, friendship is a dereliction of that duty, a form of self-abdication. Even conversation, which is friendship's mode of expression, is a superficial digression, through which we can make no acquisition. We may converse our whole life away without speaking anything other than the interminable repetitions that fill the vacant minute; but the steps of thought we take during the lonely work of artistic creation all lead us downward, deeper into ourselves, the only direction that is not closed to us, the only direction in which we can advance, albeit with much greater travail, toward an outcome of truth." Vol. 2, p. 485
"I had thought the love I felt for Albertine did not depend on any hope of physical intimacy. However, once that evening's experience appeared to have ruled out all possibility of possessing her...what followed was quite the opposite of what had happened when Bloch first informed me that women were there for the having: as though I had been in love not with a real girl but only a wax doll, it turned out that my desire to enter her life, to go with her to see the places where she had spent her childhood, to be initiated by her into the sporting life, gradually detached itself from her; my intellectual curiosity about what she might think on this or that subject did not outlast my belief that I might be able to kiss her. My dreams forsook her as soon as they ceased to be swayed by the hope of possessing her, which I had believed did not affect them. They were then free to recruit one or another of Albertine's friends, if her charm impressed me on a particular day, and especially if I could see a possibility of being loved by her; and so I turned first toward Andrée." Vol. 2, pp. 512-13
*All quotes are taken from the 2003 Penguin Books translations of Swann's Way (Vol. 1) and In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower (Vol. 2).
My mom keeps a little daily, devotional flip calendar on the windowsill in our kitchen. We usually aren't very good about keeping it on the correct date, but the thought for April 6 was:
In the small stuff...you'll know something becomes meaningful when it goes from your head to your heart to your hands.
This statement could go a lot of ways, but today, as I was rolling a ball 'o dough around and around between both hands, I thought, There was a moment in time when I thought it would be cool to bake my own bread, and here I am baking a loaf every week...and doing so makes me undeniably happy.
So I guess, little devotional calendar, I would like to add that something can also become meaningful when it goes from your head to your hands to your stomach.
Spanish men are a lot like Spanish reds: deep, dark, and slow-moving. Pour yourself a glass and admire the way the wine clings to the sides of the glass like a thick syrup, something akin to blood, which would be just a few shades lighter than the Spanish wines I've got on my mind...
During the siesta, while Madrileños were home enjoying long, languid lunches, we scurried from shaded bench to shaded bench throughout Retiro Park to escape the near-100 degree afternoon heat. We'd finished our spinach empanadas and were trying not to expend our energy with too much talk when a tall 30-something Spanish man approached us and asked in English for a pen.
As Zoe fished in her purse for the pen that was most certainly waiting to be found, the other three of us went into paranoid tourist mode, keeping one eye on the zipper of our bags and the other on the surrounding bushes and pathways where a quick-fingered accomplice may be lurking. But no one else was around, and I had a small combination lock on my purse zipper, so my eyes inevitably drifted in the direction of the tall Spaniard who was writing something on a pad of paper: a poem? a delirious insight? a grocery list?
The overgrown curls on his head hung around his head like vines the color of coffee grounds, complementing the caramel of his skin. Both his cream colored button-up shirt and his khaki pants were linen and seemed to exist in orbit around his limbs, not clinging to his skin nor swallowing them whole, rather, just, being there. His leather sandals had seen Madrid many times over and cradled the his strong feet in their bed.
I think he probably stood there for little more than three minutes, but I can see him so vividly in my memory. Madrid was my first taste of Spain, and although the pick-pocketing on the metro had prejudiced me slightly against the Spanish, I was quickly realizing that Spanish men were more to my taste than the Italians. In Italy--at least, in my experience as a short-term Perugina--the young adult men were fussy and conceited, like something straight out of a Gucci ad, complete with lavender colored button-ups, pointed leather shoes, and feminine sunglasses. They complimented me in Italian then playfully demanded I show some gratitude. That's not to say I didn't see my fair share of bearded Italian granolas, especially in the college town of Perugia, but when I saw this Spanish man standing mere feet away from me, all Italian men paled.
I knew nothing about this Spaniard, but the caramel of his skin called to mind the dirt of the field and the toiling of a farmer. I pictured him tending grape vines in the heat of the day and sipping coffee in cafés at night with other intellectuals. Was he a Socialist? His skin looked warm and sweet. An Italian's olive skin would be pale and sickly in comparison, suggesting dubious occupations in back alleyways, away from the sun.
But don't get me wrong! I saw many genial Italian men with whom I could have a friendly conversation, but maybe that was part of the reason I was so intrigued by this Spaniard. Whereas I could communicate with any mammismo over the advantages of tiramisùgelato over zuppainglese, conversing with this man might have proved a bit prickly. Sure, we could have made it work, between my Italian and first grader's Spanish and his Spanish and (I'm assuming) English, but some things would have gotten lost in translation, and then words must become obsolete.
He finished his note-writing and gave Zoe her pen back. Would you believe I was surprised to see him go? But he did, and I was... The four of us double-checked with each other to make sure nothing had gone missing during the interaction and then moved on to the next bench where I practiced the flick of my fanning wrist and my best come hither look, hoping it might fool someone into believing I was a Spanish señorita.
It'll be raining in an hour, I think to myself on the way back to my car. The air feels warmer than it did when I'd arrived, and I have the sensation of a warm, wet rag held against my mouth and nose. I think of my dad, knowing he's the one I have to thank for my hyper-sensitivity to changes in the atmosphere.
I like the sound the soles of my Mary Janes make on the pavement--clopping along, almost like high heels but quicker and more self-assured--and my shadow on the ground--long, lean and proud. Despite the humid night, I'm breathing much easier outside.
In Dan's basement, with our other high school friends, I hadn't been able to keep myself from falling back into the way I'd been then, a shy and doting hippie girl, scared by the sound of her own voice and unsure of the way she felt about anything. I had been painfully aware of the way I tugged on my earring or pushed my hair back every time I had started to say something, but I'd pretended that no one else was aware of it.
Despite lingering insecurities, I had put myself out there, stepping into the conversation, heavy with the boring realities of adulthood suddenly confronting all of us, something we'd never envisioned from our posts at the lunch table, heads thick with clouds of varying dreaminess. But we got here somehow and can do little else but keep going.
Scott had left at 10:30, as work for him began the next morning at 8. Rob and I stayed a while longer, and the three of us had discussed jobs and business classes, apartments and commutes. Dan filled us in on the summer internships he was deciding between and Rob recounted how the recording process was going with the band. When asked what my future plans involved, I had shrugged by way of response, hoping that would be enough, then quickly adding a few acceptable possibilities, for the sake of conversation.
Shortly after 11, I'd announced it was time that I head out. Hugs were shared, and I promised Dan that I would come visit him in Springfield, knowing even as I agreed to it that it would never happen. Instead, I hoped that lunch on Wednesday would be an adequate substitute...
The TV had still been on when I'd come up from the basement, but Dan's mom was not around anymore. I saw myself out, closing the door quietly behind me.
From the porch to my car down the street, I am relieved, content, thrilled to be moving again, one foot in front of the other with my heels creating a rhythmic pulse to accompany my thoughts; my mind drifts from the impending rain back to high school. The me tonight laughs at the me then, the naive little girl in love with the quiet guitar player, the same one who these days she won't be driving distances to visit.
