rifəlraftər

Accepting that fiction is a largely linear craft regarding time progression and development, it becomes obvious that Proust was an adversary of protocol.

For within Proust, the present, as a specified point in both space and time, forms the center of a nebulous web that reaches contemporaneously into the future, the past, and deeper into the present moment as it exists than what is immediately perceived by the reader, and perhaps the author himself.
Diagrammatically—for I currently am unable to adequately describe it—this can be represented in two different ways. It can be seen as a sort of linear, though dendritic narrational line, thus:

dendritic representation

or as a sort of concentric relation of three diverse, remote epochs in time, thus:

concentric representation

I’m partial to the second myself. Though, if you are quick to counter: “Yes, but that’s a fancy way of showing the obvious: our current lives are inherently affected by and constructed of events in the past as well as aspirations found solely in the future—a future idealized, remote, though inflexibly real.” You wouldn’t be wrong in saying so.

However, in Proust, the perception of this widely acknowledged “truth” goes beyond such a topical explanation. In Proust, the past and future, instead of merely acting invisibly upon the characters’ actions, as well as constructing their individual traits, maintain a nearly physical presence within each successive contemporary moment.

In this regard, past, present, and future are all actors upon Proust’s stage. The amorphous idea of one’s identity based on one’s experience of an individual temporality is not forced behind the satin curtain of “common sense.” Proust denies that this idea of temporality in an individual should be taken for granted. In short: time is a near-entity; time is not the structure in which events are placed, but rather the essence behind an event’s impetus, placement, and outcome.

What Proust means to expose is that time, that “thing”—for lack of a better word—that has perpetually confounded scientists and novelists alike, is rather simple. Taken literally, time, as opposed to being something metaphysical and beyond definition, rather is composed of easily recognizable physical elements, sensory data, and—it is Proust, after all—memories.

Whether it be the smell of lilac tainting the nose of a youthful perambulator, or the savory effect engendered by a Madeleine, dipped into a strong lime tea, each of these perceptions—moments, supported by one’s senses, left suspended in an individual’s unique understanding of time—work as pieces which ultimately compile to produce a life.


This is all very vague and philosophical—if that. Patience is pleaded for.
I’m sure that it will develop into something containing at least a meager amount of sense and worth. More will be added later as I get further along in the reading.

In the meantime: Think of a cephalopod, for this is the consummate Proustian character. With a brain for a body, and countless suctioning digits, its reason, its perception of time, reaches outward in every which way, in an attempt to hold onto and assimilate moments, ideas, dreams, entire lives. And sometimes—for this is an unavoidable result of having suction cups for fingers—we cannot seem to shake these things free.
And now, for the cephalopods.

This entry was posted on Thursday, April 16th, 2009 at 7:36 pm and is filed under Fiction, Books. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.