jake is reading proust in bed, and i am trying to tell him that all that happens in the book is that he lives and then dies and all that happens in between is that he eats some cookies and shits them out. but he simply won't believe me. i'm just trying to save him some time, you see.
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2 comments:
you're skewing the whole premise of the book in as much it's about the remembering of the cookie's consumption, and that subsequent memory's sticky attachments in so far as it brings recollections of his childhood, which brings recollections of his adolescence, which brings recollections of his indoctrination into French society as a person of class, which brings recollections of his sexual awakenings he's spent his whole life avoiding, and so on and so forth, in which you have all these tenuous connections by memory and split infinitives that cause the protagonist (so called MARCEL, though not for the first three or four volumes, and for that matter his age remains a mystery until his name is unveiled as well, which makes the scene where Gilberte says on the banks of the Champs-Elysees "If you like, we can wrestle a bit more," kind of awkward because if he's 8, it's cute, if he's 17, it's a little creepy) to begin to doubt his memory, and the presence of it because he's no longer the same person, having been split from that previous person by life's experiences, which he often refers to as Habit, due to the fact that one's habits often imbue one's day to day existence with a sense of narrative, though if you look back and try to view those Habits from a more distant lens, you see how habits have changed, but cannot put a finger exactly on when they shifted, causing this rupture of memory, for example: when Proust's Protagonist was between the ages of 8 and 17, and he desperately desperately loved Gilberte, the daugther of Madame and Monsieur Swann, that was all he was concerned with - in fact, the love was all-consuming and so he was consumed, which is why the book takes an absolutely excruciating 115 pages to pull him out of it, which took me approximately one month to re-read thus putting my displeasure in re-reading this emotional rollercoaster in tandem with PP's displeasure over the falling out of love with Gilberte, so already you can see this consuming love (or my reading of Proust in bed) is a habit, with which one approaches the day to day things, but even forward thinking people can see that in a year I will not be reading Proust in bed (hopefully), and so the habit will have changed, just as before the Gilberte Love, PP's habit was different, and after the Gilberte Love, so too was the habit different, but the muddy grey areas -- the areas where the shit you allude to occurs -- are the presumption of the text that one want's to revel in, though you'll pardon, I hope, the mixed metaphor.
wasn't legally blonde so good?
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