Combray in the Cottage

Hello all, and welcome back to the cottage. I shall open today's reflections with a quote: "I told myself I would have time to think of what to do" (Proust, 43). In fact, this is what I mistakenly thought when I assumed the first of these entries were due the following Sunday, rather than this one. But no matter--thank goodness that I discovered the truth in an amount of time that permitted me to read the first 48 pages with some degree of leisure, then promptly return to the writing desk to deliver to you this week's entry. I expect to complete the novel in time for our second gathering, by which time I should hopefully have more thoughts to share.

Thank goodness, then, that this is a place for first impressions. And what a cozy story it's been so far. The opening notes wherein Proust levels a Tolkienesque description of his room and the multitude of thoughts and sensations that come from the (seemingly) simple occupation of a bed are sufficient to pull the reader into the story, a satisfying primer for the vivid memory of his childhood. All this from the imagined comfort of a warm, dark bedroom tucked away from the night's cold. At this point in the novel, I can easily imagine that the narrator has never left the bedroom, or even his bed, while he reminisces and recollects. 

The way in which the story's perspective shifts and weaves almost imperceptibly between the lens of the wiser narrator in the present and the less eloquent counterpart of his memories is quite compelling. The footnotes of the narrator in the present slip into the margins as he describes the past in the way he saw it back then, but they fit in quite seamlessly in a way that the audience can empathize with. Having observed the professor (whom I'd like to have a character for as well, but if not, I should simply continue to refer directly to him as 'the professor') prior to my reading, I was likely more enraptured by the young narrator's obsession with his mother's nightly kiss than if I had not been primed by the professor's description. I read it with a familiar sort of anticipation, knowing that the "habit" would be an object of the young narrator's naïve desires, but reading it myself was truly something else. Though my eyes were moving rather swiftly across the page, my mind was absolutely taken by the rawness of the young narrator's desperation. 

The most memorable apex for myself in the reading so far was when the young narrator, caught by his parents in the stairwell, notes that he could "cry without sin" (Proust, 38). What a thing to say, regardless of which state the narrator was speaking from--the mature, realizing one of the 'present' or the young one, knowing but frustrated by his inability to name it as articulately as his older counterpart could. Immediately, the line encapsulated for me the nature of the narrator's relationship with his parents in a way more concise and striking than any other line I had read up to this point. 

Now, as it seems that I've mistakenly written far too much--I shall hasten to depart to my own bed, where I should lie awake pondering my own memories. With this, I shall impart upon you this week's question: what recollection of your childhood--or any point in your life, if you'd prefer--made you realize something that you weren't aware of at the time of the memory?

Looking forward to seeing you all in the glade tomorrow!

Your local woodland witch,

June