gururguner

Gurur Guner Guner من عند Bhaton Ki Dhani, Rajasthan 306401، الهند من عند Bhaton Ki Dhani, Rajasthan 306401، الهند

قارئ Gurur Guner Guner من عند Bhaton Ki Dhani, Rajasthan 306401، الهند

Gurur Guner Guner من عند Bhaton Ki Dhani, Rajasthan 306401، الهند

gururguner

Proust's great experiment, his life's work, his vast exercise in remembrance, is perhaps the greatest and most extreme fight against oblivion and self-dissipation in all of literature. Shut up in his room in Paris, blotting out the day and working through all of his nights, he focused his entire being on remembrance, on reaching out in every direction through the prism (and prison) of memory, against the darkness and the void of forgetfulness. Walter Benjamin suggests that it is indeed forgetfulness that shapes A la Recherche du temps perdu, for "when we awake each morning, we hold in our hands, usually weakly and loosely, but a few fringes of the tapestry of lived life, as loomed for us by forgetting." These fringes are what Proust so desperately sought to collect in entirety, to weave his life anew in the tapestry of the written word. I question his method, in the same way I adore Pessoa, but pity the man who thought all experience could be lived in a single office, or a single room, on the Rua dos Douradores in Lisbon. No matter the complexity of one's dialogue with one's self, no matter the heights of beauty one can reach through contemplation, the richness of the world and of a life lived is too tempting, at least to me, to ever renounce in order to become a martyr to literature. But one cannot deny the edifice, the great cathedral of words (with all its complexities of architecture, the lyrical balustrades, the ornamental arches, the stain glass windows throwing color on the altar, the steeple jutting against the magnificently described sky), that was the result of this Herculean effort of thought. An example: "A few feet away, a strapping great fellow in livery stood musing, motionless, statuesque, useless, like that purely decorative warrior whom one sees in the most tumultuous of Mantegna's paintings, lost in thought, leaning upon his shield, while the people around him are rushing about slaughtering one another; detached from the group of his companions who were thronging about Swann, he seemed as determined to remain aloof from that scene, which he followed vaguely with his cruel, glaucous eyes, as if it had been the Massacre of the Innocents or the Martyrdom of St. James. He seemed precisely to have sprung from that vanished race- if, indeed, it ever existed, save in the reredos of San Zeno and the frescoes of the Eremitani, where Swann had come in contact with it, and where it still dreams- fruit of the impregnation of a classical statue by one of the Master's Paduan models or an Albrecht Durer Saxon. And the locks of his reddish hair, crinkled by nature but glued to his head by brilliantine, were treated broadly as they are in that Greek sculpture which the Mantuan painter never ceased to study, and which, if in its creator's purpose it represents but man, manages at least to extract from man's simple outlines such a variety of richness, borrowed, as it were, from the whole of animate nature, that a head of hair, by the glossy undulation and beak-like points of its curls, or in the superimposition of the florid triple diadem of its tresses, can suggest at once a bunch of seaweed, a brood of fledgling doves, a bed of hyacinths and a coil of snakes." Mind you, this is one description, of one footman, at a single party Swann attends, and this character never recurs again in the book. This level of description is applied to everything, each strand of memory is elaborated in this fullness, and handled with this care and detail. It is at times exhausting, but it is never unrewarding, and the overwhelming self-absorption through which Proust recalls his life makes this undoubtedly one of the seminal works of literature, a touchstone for all modern novels to be placed beside. I may enjoy other writers, at times, more than Proust, but few of them can draw me so fully out of myself and into their creation, immerse me so totally in their impressions that I feel a kind of synthesis, or perhaps synesthesia, through words, with its creator.