…when the alchemy of Habit has transformed the individual capable of suffering into a stranger for whom the motives of that suffering are in idle talk, when not only the objects of his affection have vanished, but also that affection itself; and he thinks how absurd is our dream of a Paradise with retention of personality, since our life is a succession of Paradises successively denied, that the only true Paradise is the Paradise that has been lost, and that death will cure many of the desire for immortality.(25-26 Beckett’s Proust)
Samuel Beckett contemplates Habit and Time and Memory as he delves into the writerly mind of Proust. The one hiccup to reading this lit-crit – thousands upon thousands of pages need to be read before this reader can agree/disagree with his analogy.
This was to be a completely different blog post two hours ago. It was to open with a memory of a dream. A dream that should have been written down upon waking instead of an internal dialogue, statement, this Will be remembered…(it was not)
a mountain, a cavern, an avalanche of snow or was it a flood…there was a lunch out on a veranda which held black iron furniture and plates of overflowing pasta. the umbrellas were an earthy orange — not bright, heavy with umber or a mustard, ochre — i have no idea why or what or where. there was something about a twig or a tree branch and then my brother appeared or was he there the whole time. we headed to an apartment decorated with college brands we both disliked. three people too old to be students lived there – they made no bones about wanting me to be gone; he apologized for me and moved quickly to repair whatever it was they needed. there is a station wagon; a dog; a curvy road; a key…
Things have been left out, voluntarily and involuntarily, Proust would have something to say about that type of truth, ‘ad nauseum’ according to Beckett, for that is what Proust’s monumental meta is all about. I don’t know, ask me next year.
Today, there shall be no truth. Well, it is laced between the trees- when you avert your eyes, narrow your gaze so that the sunset glints off your neighbor’s window reflecting an image that intrigues; who is that person slightly askew in black drab, a hat – why, it Is.
No, no revelation of biblical nature, for as stated above, a realization that one too many whom walk beyond this technological sphere may read this… should a relative be privy to what the masses can know. You, dear reader, are allowed as Derrida, Proust, Beckett, etc. know, albeit the known, the one who may see your bleary eyed gaze tomorrow must be kept deluded, one man’s Paradise is certainly not privy to another. One Must keep a bit of sanctity of mind, or is it face?
It makes me think of another work being read rather blindly, for the commentary regards Derrida, especially his book Post Card. David Wills’s Matchbook is rather brilliant, even if above most this head starting at the chin. What has got me, though, is his essay three, “Matchbook” which has me concluding that Derrida Wants you to burn after reading, “Envois” that is. Will it actually deconstruct, this destruction? Not from what I understand, for the problem resides in the subject/object framed in conceit of text of love.
Do you ever wonder if those that like your post read all the way to the end? Does anyone ever test it? Dare – write something so salacious that if there is only a ‘like’ then you may be safe to contend that content below the fold is Not being read.
Perhaps this is a reflection of how we move through life in our smartphone world. With half an eye on content with a conceit to agree in order to not admit we were not really paying attention. Our congress could take a tip or two on being agreeable from these boards. We just wish to champion the one who has taken the time no matter the content. We are living our Habit, our Time is ticking too, after all, ergo do we not know what they speak. Your reality is my reality, no?
Speaking of, will leave you with this…ironically, the Wills book held a postcard as bookmark. I started the book a year ago, not really knowing about the “Post Card” discussion – I just collect them from art museums and then use as place holders. Oddly, at the right angle, but not really a right angle, out of the corner of my eye, the sunflower actually becomes a portrait of Van Gogh painted over. (the photo’s glare and position do not offer the right perception — you would need to turn your monitor, cock your head to the left and look down at an angle – the brown spot becomes and eye/nose area — sigh, hard to recreate this Perception, really ~)
Perception- we perceive what we want to see or do we ~