I’ve just had a somewhat heartbreaking epiphany of the Proustian sort. A small epiphany to be sure, but it’s mine and I’ll take it. And no less valid, for having been triggered by a blog entry instead of an uneven paving stone.
I came across a post by Staceyjoy, whose blog I used to read regularly and I really should remember to check in with her more often. Staceyjoy will be fifty this year. Which is most certainly not old, but is not the age I associate with Staceyjoy, though admittedly I haven’t seen her in person in four or maybe even five years now. So I did some math to arrive at her birth year, and then realized that one of the main characters in my current novel would also have turned fifty this year, if he were a real person.
The novel is set in the Lower East Side in 1994, the beginning of the end (in my mind) of a very specific time in New York. A time now lost…a version of New York now lost. And it’s not that fifty is old. It’s that a character I have been thinking of as thirty-six was very suddenly aged, making the leap in less than a second from 36 to 50. Which was then a reminder that we all age, which is a reminder that we all die. And also a reminder of how far New York has moved away from what it was when that character lived and moved around in it, in 1994. The fact that that New York is lost was the main motivation for writing the novel. It’s a fact I’ve been wallowing in since starting the book in 2005. No…I’ve been wallowing in it longer, which was the irritation that formed the seed that formed the book. (Excuse the mixed metaphor.) We all age. The people we love change and die. The cities we love change and sometimes die. Nothing new here, nothing shocking. But the weight of it hit me as that character jumped from 1994 to 2008. Most of all, I fear death. All of my smaller fears–that is, the ones that follow me day by day, the ones that keep me up at night–can also be boiled down to a basic fear of death. (I have a theory that death is all any of us truly fear, but feel free to disagree with me on that point.)
I’m getting terribly jumbled here, and I’m feeling an urge to write this all in one very long sentence, because I’ve sprung open that part in my brain where In Search of Lost Time rules supreme, but I’ll resist as that would amuse only me. What I thought of today, as I mourned the inevitable death and aging of a character who only ever lived in my mind and in my book (and therefore is actually immune to all of this. There’s an irony, hmmm?), was the end of In Search of Lost Time.
I read all of it in one very intense semester in grad school. I do think if you’re going to read all of Proust, it’d be best to try to read it in as short a time as possible, because the effect is quite intense. I wept through the entire end of “Time Regained.” (Spoiler alert) At the end of the 6-book volume of the novel, we finally understand the reason for Marcel’s agelessness. He hasn’t felt himself age, and so neither have we, the reader. And so we are as shocked as he is to find everyone at that final party–everyone he once knew–so completely transformed by time. Odette powerless, Gilberte stout, Marcel himself an old man… And Saint-Loup, sweet Robert dead, and Swann dead too… As a reader you spend many thousands of pages (what? like 6000? I forget now how many miles I traveled) with these people. And then very suddenly, Proust pulls back the curtain to reveal the natural effects of all that accumulated time. He takes these people from you, one by one, and the loss–sudden as it is–is dizzying and devastating. I cried off and on for two days after reading the final page, in fact.
Which is to say what? (Besides that I’m an extremely emotional reader. Some would say that makes me a bad reader, but I couldn’t care less. If I can’t feel a book, I don’t much care for it.) Which is to say I’m afraid to die. Which is to say I’m mourning all of our losses, big and small. Which is to say I need to read the Five Remembrances again. And again. And perhaps again.
I like it when you get all raw.
New York’s still alive. It keeps chugging on, same old loss-of-innocence machine as ever. That doesn’t mean anybody’s got to like it. I don’t, not much, no more.
I like it when you get all raw.
New York’s still alive. It keeps chugging on, same old loss-of-innocence machine as ever. That doesn’t mean anybody’s got to like it. I don’t, not much, no more.
I’m not afraid of my own death – I just don’t relish the death of anyone I have loved – and I’m now at the age where that’s happening with more and more frequency.
Just continue on, one day at a time – I’ve found that planning doesn’t really work that well for me, there’s always something that messes with the plan …
I’m not afraid of my own death – I just don’t relish the death of anyone I have loved – and I’m now at the age where that’s happening with more and more frequency.
Just continue on, one day at a time – I’ve found that planning doesn’t really work that well for me, there’s always something that messes with the plan …
(perhaps this is splitting hairs) i don’t think i fear death. i don’t think i fear my own death and i don’t think i fear the death of others. what i fear are the feelings i will have to feel when others die. i fear i’ll have what it takes to go into and through them and keep on living. and this somehow becomes a fear of living, which is pretty much a fear of loving.
(perhaps this is splitting hairs) i don’t think i fear death. i don’t think i fear my own death and i don’t think i fear the death of others. what i fear are the feelings i will have to feel when others die. i fear i’ll have what it takes to go into and through them and keep on living. and this somehow becomes a fear of living, which is pretty much a fear of loving.
I haven’t read Proust but I felt emotional even reading what you wrote about your character, who is suddenly 50. Emotional for that time, lost. And as for that fear, I’ve noted that it has grown so strong in myself over the last year. Really, to the point that I somehow think that by trying to keep ‘tabs’ on those closes to me, nothing can happen. Of course, that isn’t true and makes it hurt more. And makes the fear bigger.
I haven’t read Proust but I felt emotional even reading what you wrote about your character, who is suddenly 50. Emotional for that time, lost. And as for that fear, I’ve noted that it has grown so strong in myself over the last year. Really, to the point that I somehow think that by trying to keep ‘tabs’ on those closes to me, nothing can happen. Of course, that isn’t true and makes it hurt more. And makes the fear bigger.
Under normal circumstances I’d have quoted Woody Allen: “I’m not afraid of dying. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” Which is to say, not death, but dying (and birthing, as you know, is no walk in the park, either.) But the first thing I read this morning was David Foster Wallace’s suicide. I was also irrationally irritated that no report has an explanation — which is to say, a placebo which would let me get on with my morning.
So good timing, here. Let’s knit.
Under normal circumstances I’d have quoted Woody Allen: “I’m not afraid of dying. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” Which is to say, not death, but dying (and birthing, as you know, is no walk in the park, either.) But the first thing I read this morning was David Foster Wallace’s suicide. I was also irrationally irritated that no report has an explanation — which is to say, a placebo which would let me get on with my morning.
So good timing, here. Let’s knit.
“…I’ll resist as that would amuse only me.”
False! I would eat it up like a delicious madeleine.
“…I’ll resist as that would amuse only me.”
False! I would eat it up like a delicious madeleine.
It is a funny coincidence that you posted this on my fortieth birthday. I spent much of the day thinking about your post and realized that I fear a lack of change. The possibility that the next forty years will be like the last, always waiting for something to happen, waiting for my “real” life to begin. It is not death that I fear, it’s the possibility of a lonely death in a pile of newspapers and cat hair, undiscovered until weeks or months later.
It is a funny coincidence that you posted this on my fortieth birthday. I spent much of the day thinking about your post and realized that I fear a lack of change. The possibility that the next forty years will be like the last, always waiting for something to happen, waiting for my “real” life to begin. It is not death that I fear, it’s the possibility of a lonely death in a pile of newspapers and cat hair, undiscovered until weeks or months later.
But how would/does your character feel about being 50? Your perception of age is so colored by your own age: mine is too. How would a 22 year old feel about 36? The same way a 36 year old feels about 50?
But how would/does your character feel about being 50? Your perception of age is so colored by your own age: mine is too. How would a 22 year old feel about 36? The same way a 36 year old feels about 50?
Dickens changed mine–reading Hard Times and Tale of Two Cities was an eye opener. I read the large sprawling novels too. I don’t think I’ll ever like Bleak House. I do love most of the others.
I had to read Swann’s Way and a few other things in French. I read most of Volume I in English–and never got any further. I should. I really should. I wish I had the discipline to read the St. John’s Program list again. It would be hard to have no one to talk to about any of it though.
Dickens changed mine–reading Hard Times and Tale of Two Cities was an eye opener. I read the large sprawling novels too. I don’t think I’ll ever like Bleak House. I do love most of the others.
I had to read Swann’s Way and a few other things in French. I read most of Volume I in English–and never got any further. I should. I really should. I wish I had the discipline to read the St. John’s Program list again. It would be hard to have no one to talk to about any of it though.
i am really intrigued to read your novel…i moved to ny in 93′ for college and so the ny i lived in was the changing ny you write/speak of in the post. i lived in the l.e.s and also worked there and witnessed so much change in my 5 years and was truly glad to leave when i did.
as for emotional reading, oh lord, i am terrible. i mourn the ending of a book, feel bereft when i ‘lose’ them back to the inert pages of the book and cannot wait for time to pass a bit so i can revisit them. i love that you wrote about this today. makes me want to read and that is such a good thing. 🙂 thanks, cari.
p.s. trilce looks lovely, so comfy
i am really intrigued to read your novel…i moved to ny in 93′ for college and so the ny i lived in was the changing ny you write/speak of in the post. i lived in the l.e.s and also worked there and witnessed so much change in my 5 years and was truly glad to leave when i did.
as for emotional reading, oh lord, i am terrible. i mourn the ending of a book, feel bereft when i ‘lose’ them back to the inert pages of the book and cannot wait for time to pass a bit so i can revisit them. i love that you wrote about this today. makes me want to read and that is such a good thing. 🙂 thanks, cari.
p.s. trilce looks lovely, so comfy
I’m all inspired to be organised to read Proust over next summer (rather the way I attacked Ulysses about four years ago).
I’m all inspired to be organised to read Proust over next summer (rather the way I attacked Ulysses about four years ago).
I think about death a lot, in lots of dofferent ways and not all macabre either. I fear death completely. I fear the finality of something greater than me, out of my control. I fear that which is left behind, without my imprint. I can’t understand those facing the end of their life in a designated time frame and how they can be peaceful, because here and now, it does not seem like a peaceful thing to have happen. Perhaps it is my immaturity which dictates my fear. But it is there. Along with saying goodbyes. Not very good at goodbyes.
I think about death a lot, in lots of dofferent ways and not all macabre either. I fear death completely. I fear the finality of something greater than me, out of my control. I fear that which is left behind, without my imprint. I can’t understand those facing the end of their life in a designated time frame and how they can be peaceful, because here and now, it does not seem like a peaceful thing to have happen. Perhaps it is my immaturity which dictates my fear. But it is there. Along with saying goodbyes. Not very good at goodbyes.
Oh, please don’t say New York City will be lost one day. I’ve lived there part of my life and will never forget NYC. To me, NYC will live forever more, but with lots of changes of course.
To add to the gloom and doom, I have come to the conclusion that the dying part will ALWAYS BE SAD. To the dying. Because no matter what, the dying person will never be joined by the living. It’s not something like a birthday or any anniversary that one gets to share with others. Dying is utterly lonely! It’s a journey that is ending, so final! Once dead, who knows what’s beyond, really?!
This, so far, is what I think of death, my death one day (hopefully not any sooner).
Oh, please don’t say New York City will be lost one day. I’ve lived there part of my life and will never forget NYC. To me, NYC will live forever more, but with lots of changes of course.
To add to the gloom and doom, I have come to the conclusion that the dying part will ALWAYS BE SAD. To the dying. Because no matter what, the dying person will never be joined by the living. It’s not something like a birthday or any anniversary that one gets to share with others. Dying is utterly lonely! It’s a journey that is ending, so final! Once dead, who knows what’s beyond, really?!
This, so far, is what I think of death, my death one day (hopefully not any sooner).
At 59 I am less afraid of death than I am of an incomplete life, of good deeds I did not do, of places I did not have time to visit because I was at work, of being embarassed after I am dead by the bills I may leave behind.
I must say I have renewed respect for you because you finished A la Recherche du Temps Perdu. I start and stop, and every time am seduced to begin again at the enchanting beginning. Some day…
At 59 I am less afraid of death than I am of an incomplete life, of good deeds I did not do, of places I did not have time to visit because I was at work, of being embarassed after I am dead by the bills I may leave behind.
I must say I have renewed respect for you because you finished A la Recherche du Temps Perdu. I start and stop, and every time am seduced to begin again at the enchanting beginning. Some day…
‘He hasn’t felt himself age…’
i’d have to say i often feel this way. i’m not sure i’ll know when i’ll be the adult i thought ‘adult’ was as a child. (i’m not sure that makes any sense). i hold my childhood very close and near the surface, so i imagine when i turn some wonderfully ‘adult’ age, i’ll be shocked.
‘He hasn’t felt himself age…’
i’d have to say i often feel this way. i’m not sure i’ll know when i’ll be the adult i thought ‘adult’ was as a child. (i’m not sure that makes any sense). i hold my childhood very close and near the surface, so i imagine when i turn some wonderfully ‘adult’ age, i’ll be shocked.
have you read anything by Irvin D Yalom? i think that there is a quick explanation of his existentialist psychology at the beginning of Love’s Executioner, but then there’s the textbook Existential Psychotherapy. He writes about four things that humans have to come to terms with – that we will die, that we are essentially alone, that life is meaningless (ie that things don’t happen for a reason), and that we are responsible for ourselves. These four things produce anxiety that we have to deal with.
Anyway, perhaps of interest. I’m not endorsing or championing this approach, your post just brought it to mind. there’s more at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Existential_therapy
hmm, just noticed that Yalom has a book out this year – Staring at the Sun: Overcoming the Terror of Death.
have you read anything by Irvin D Yalom? i think that there is a quick explanation of his existentialist psychology at the beginning of Love’s Executioner, but then there’s the textbook Existential Psychotherapy. He writes about four things that humans have to come to terms with – that we will die, that we are essentially alone, that life is meaningless (ie that things don’t happen for a reason), and that we are responsible for ourselves. These four things produce anxiety that we have to deal with.
Anyway, perhaps of interest. I’m not endorsing or championing this approach, your post just brought it to mind. there’s more at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Existential_therapy
hmm, just noticed that Yalom has a book out this year – Staring at the Sun: Overcoming the Terror of Death.
By chance I just wrote Reading Proust for the Last Time, which contains my reflections on having done just that (probably).
By chance I just wrote Reading Proust for the Last Time, which contains my reflections on having done just that (probably).