What Proust had discovered since writing Jean Santeuil was how to take up themes,
let them drop, then come back to them, though each time the theme was exposed
in a different light. No longer did
Proust feel that he had to say everything at once or set in stone his opinions
on every character and topic. Now the dramatic twists of the plot dictated the
insights revealed to the Narrator. He’d
also learned how to introduce a character by hearsay – the (false) rumors, for
example, that Charlus is a hypervirile womanizer who despises homosexuals and
is Odette’s lover, misinformation that the reader picks up long before being introduced
to Charlus himself.
During the course of the seven volumes of Remembrance of Things Past the Narrator
is puzzled by Charlus’s extreme friendliness that alternates with bouts of
insufferable – and inexplicable – rudeness. Then, halfway through Remembrance of Things Past, the Narrator
observes Charlus cruising a tailor, Jupien, who is entirely receptive to his
advances. This insight into Charlus’s sexuality also explains his unnatural attachment
to a cruel and ungrateful, if talented, violinist, Morel. Charlus’s
masochism becomes even clearer during the air raids of World War I, when
the Narrator seeks shelter in a building that turns out to be a male brothel
owned by the same Jupien. There the
Narrator observes Charlus being chained and beaten by hired hustlers. This sexual humiliation alternates with his
moments of over-weening pride and arrogance in society – until, at the end of
the whole cycle, a feeble, snowy-haired Charlus, accompanied by an ever
faithful Jupien, salutes and bows to every passerby, afraid he might be
snubbing someone important whose identity he can no longer recall.
As the trajectory of this single character demonstrates,
Proust had learned a method of presentation that falls midway between that of
Dickens and that of Henry James. Dickens assigns his characters one or two
memorable traits, sometimes highly comic, which they display each time they
make an appearance; James, by contrast,
is so quick to add nuances to every portrait that he ends up effacing them with
excessive shading. Proust invented a way
of showing a character such as Charlus in Dickensian bold relief at any given
moment – Charlus as the enraged queen or, later, Charlus the shattered King
Lear. Yet, by building up a slow composite of images through time, Proust
achieves the same complexity that James had aimed at, though far more memorably.
It’s like the old dispute among painters as to the primacy
of line or of shading. Dickens could
draw with a firm bounding line but used so little shading he gave no sense of
perspective. James was all shading and depth, but (especially in his late novels)
nothing vigorous distinguished the profile of one character from another. Proust succeeded in rendering characters with
the same startling simplicity as Dickens but generated a lifelike subtlety and
motion by giving successive “takes" over hundreds of pages. In that way his style is like the magic lantern
the Narrator watches at bedtime when he’s a boy. The heat of the lamp causes a band of images
to turn and project the illusion of motion on the wall. In the same way Proust’s slide show of
portraits of the same character induces the illusion of duration, of
development – and of psychological truth.
No matter how strange Proust’s life might have been, it has
been subsumed, as he hoped, into the radiant vision of it that he presented in
his writing. Nevertheless, the intensely
intimate (if not always personal) quality of Proust’s novel makes him more and
more popular in this age of memoirs.
Whereas other modernists (Stein, Joyce, Pound) rejected confession in
favor of formal experiment, Proust was a literary cyclops, if that means he was
a creature with a single great “I” at
the center of his consciousness (no matter that the first-person Narrator is
only occasionally the literal Marcel
Proust). Every page of Proust is the
transcript of a mind thinking – not the pell-mell stream of consciousness of a
Molly Bloom or a Stephen Dedalus, each dramatic character with a unique
vocabulary and an individuating range of preoccupations, but rather the fully orchestrated,
ceaseless, and disciplined ruminations of one mind, one voice: the sovereign
intellect.
Proust may be more available to readers today than in the past
because as his life recedes in time and the history of his period goes out of
focus, he is read more as a fabulist than a chronicler, as a maker of myths
rather than the valedictorian of the Belle Epoque. Under this new dispensation,
Proust emerges as the supreme symphonist of the spirit. We no longer measure his accounts against a
reality we know. Instead, we read his
fables of caste and lust, of family virtue and social vice, of the depredations
of jealousy and the consolations of art not as reports but as fairy tales. He is our Scheherazade. . .
Proust may be telling us that love is a chimera, a
projection of rich fantasies onto an indifferent, certainly mysterious surface,
but nevertheless those fantasies are undeniably beautiful intimations of
paradise – the artificial paradise of art.
I doubt whether many readers could ever be content with Proust’s
rejection of rustling, wounded life in favor of frozen, immobile art; but his
powerful vision of impermanence certainly does speak to us. The rise and fall of individual loves on a
small scale and of entire classes on the grand, the constant revolution of
sentiments and status, is a subject Proust rehearsed and we’ve realized. Proust is the first contemporary writer of
the twentieth century, for he was the first to describe the permanent instability
of our times.
Proust always claimed that he had a bad memory and that, besides, a carefully reconstructed recollection, prompted by photos or shared reminiscences, was invariably colorless. Only an involuntary memory, triggered by a taste or color or some other sensation, could erase the passage of time and restore past experience in its first, full effulgence. Proust was an anti-intellectual and convinced that the domain of art, which is recollected experience, can never be tapped through reasoning and method alone; it must be delivered to us, fresh and vivid, through a process beyond the control of intellect or willpower. Paradoxically, if Proust was an anti-intellectual he was also profoundly philosophical, in that what he sought was not the accidents but the essence of any past event. Involuntary memory , by definition anti-intellectual, nevertheless refines away all the unnecessary details of a forgotten moment and retains only its unadorned core.
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