How Do I Know If My Formula Is Recalled The Fugitive by Marcel Proust

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The Fugitive by Marcel Proust

Towards the end of The Fugitive, the sixth volume of Marcel Proust A la recherche de temps perdu, I am beginning to understand – not finally – how the modern experience is telling. Quoted in the language and the establishment of privilege that we now associate with past centuries, the author ultimately creates a completely absurd world, where nothing, not even the wealth of the rich, is real. Presumptions of virtue or permanence, the qualities whose views tend to resist, are exposed as temporary, impermanent, as reliable as lies and as reliable as foam.

I am also reminded of William Shakespeare’s words spoken by the fictional King Richard the Second:

Thus I play for one person many people,

It is not enough for anyone;

Then betrayal makes me wish I were a beggar,

And so I…

Is it possible for a person to feel like a king and a beggar at the same time? Is it possible for someone to be respected, to be considered a direct offspring of God one time and to be mocked, the next to be drowned in wine, or even starved to death by those who once worshiped his very existence? Even history cannot admit what the past is, the only indisputable fact is death itself, the life that precedes it forever is still debated. The rich and powerful, after all, can fall more, so it can interpret bounces on the road.

A young man chose a relationship with a young woman. How much is this? One is a narrator named Albertine. This, after all, is fiction, although it claims to be a record of memory. They are not married. In the community they live in, this can be a problem. People, after all, can begin to think … And then who will say that they will remain faithful to each other, true to themselves, or agree which self, community, secret or construct will succeed? And what about the “choice” of the young lady? Can they be asked? Of course, they can.

Proust seems to be well aware of this transmutability of his self. For if it were not a real thing in itself, if it depended on the successive form of the hours in which it appeared to me, the form which has become the object of my memory as the imaginary curve of my magic lamp depends on the curve. of the colored slides, does it not represent in its own way the truth, the direct truth, that each of us is not one person, but consists of many people who do not have the same moral value and that if there was a cruel Albertine, that does not mean that there were not others, he who enjoyed talking to me about Saint-Simon in his room, he who, on the night when I told him to part, said sadly: “This pianola, this room, to think that I shall never see any of these things again” and, seeing the feeling with which I told my lie, exclaimed with sincere sorrow: “Oh, no, anything instead. rather than being unhappy, I promise I will never try to see you again.” After that I was no longer alone. I felt the wall that separated us disappear. Therefore, by realizing that she existed as several people, different but at the same time, the narrator puts her Albertine, the object of her desire, into a type that creates unhappiness. This role does not please him, because it makes him unhappy and the solution is not to see him again, a situation that neither of them wants. Or so we are told…

But were they both lying? Or just one of them? And, when we are truly honest with ourselves, how many of us can be sure of who we are or, indeed, what we desire? Is what we claim to desire just a momentary connection to the self we want to project, a fleeting charm we can take to convince others that we do, in fact, have humanity? Is the purpose of a public figure to create fake news, a false identity story, whose only test is whether we can sell it for others to buy? Albertine can exist in my memory only in the case where he appeared to me successively during his life, that is, divided according to a series of fractions of time, my mind, to re-establish unity with him, I made him one person, it was upon this person that I wanted to bring a general judgment, so that I knew that he had lied to me , whether he loved women, so that he could freely associate with them. he had left me. What this young woman had to say probably put an end to my doubts about Albertine’s behavior. But was the woman who was washing herself telling the truth?

And then, when we create that desired image and present it, does it still represent the person who created it? Time passes, and gradually everything we have said as a lie becomes true; I had learned this very well from Gilberte; the carelessness I had caused when I couldn’t hold back my tears had ended up being a real thing; Gradually life, as I told Gilberte with a false formula that later became true, life has pulled us apart. I remembered this, and said to myself: “If Albertine allows some time to pass, my lie will become true.” And now that the worst times are over, shouldn’t I trust that you will let this month pass without returning? If you come back, I will have to give up a real life which I am certainly not in a position to enjoy yet, but which as time goes on may begin to give me attractions while my memory of Albertine fades.

And if we create the concept of our goals, fleeting though they may be, does it release what we thought? Or are we viewed as a mishmash of our own misguided intentions? “Oh, no. Monsieur, you can’t cry like that, it’s not good for you.” And when he tried to stop my tears he showed his displeasure as if it was raining blood. Unfortunately I received a cool air which stopped the effusions he hoped to indulge and perhaps, therefore, he was sincere. Her attitude towards Albertine was, perhaps, the same as her attitude towards Eulalie, and, now that my wife could no longer derive any advantage from me, Francoise ceased to hate her. However, he felt bound to make me see that he well understood that I was crying, and that, following the sad example set by my family, I did not wish to ‘let it show.’ “Don’t cry, Monsieur,” he swore to me, in a soft voice, this time, and intending to show his testimony instead of showing me any sympathy. And he continued: “It was bound to happen; he was very happy, poor creature, he did not know how happy he was.”

And isn’t fact just another form of fiction? … such is the cruelty of memory. Sometimes the reading of a novel that was completely painful brought me back sharply, because some novels are like a great bereavement but for a while, they end our habits, bring us back to the reality of life, but only for a few hours. , like a nightmare, since the power of habit, the old forgetfulness, the pleasure that brings it back to us because our mind does not have the power to fight it and recreate the reality, dominates to an infinite degree about an almost hypnotic suggestion. it is a good book which, like all advice, has a passing effect. You see, nothing, not even a myth, lasts.

And to what extent are we influenced by height? Are our beliefs true because we want to believe them? Can we really have a purpose? Moreover, when they see for a moment people whose lives have no purpose, they will see, one after another, in the people they associate with, the most obvious qualities, exclaiming in amazement at the miracle of a certain townsman who was walking. in the country you discover grass, or on the contrary grow it like a microscope, give endless comments, stumble over even the smallest mistakes, and often use both of these processes interchangeably in the same person. In Gilberte’s case it was the first of all these little charms that M.’s ineffectual perspicacity. and Mother. de Guermantes was introduced: “Did you see how he pronounced some of his names?” Tshawekazi said to her husband after the girl left them; “It was like Swann, it was like I could hear him talking.” I was going to say the same thing, Oriane. “He’s smart, he’s like his father.” “I think you are much more than he is. Think how well you told that story about bathing in the sea, you have an interest that Swann never had.” “Oh! but, after all, he was very clever.” I’m not saying that he wasn’t smart, I’m saying that he wasn’t interested,” said M. de Guermantes in a voice of complaint, for his gout made him angry, and when he had no one else on whom he could vent his anger. it was the Duchess who showed it. But because of his inability to clearly understand its causes, he chose to have the spirit of being misunderstood.

And in the final analysis, which, if we keep any faith in Christian salvation will never happen, and, if we don’t, it happens all the time, we can understand that all the basis of what we have done, all the moral compass that we enforce. , the sentimental view we adopted, was caused by misunderstanding, deception and misinterpretation. So, where are we? Certainly not in any faithful heaven, forever, but forever in life, at once the ruler, the king of what we project and the beggar of how we are received.

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