The Proust Book Club: An Introduction

1.
The problem with finishing Proust is that there’s nothing left to read. I’m sure Swing Time is just as excellent as everyone says, but it felt like a slog to me, and I stopped close to the end, with only 40 pages left to go. It sits on my bookshelf, unfinished. The same went for my book group’s March pick, a classic, Les Liasions Dangereuses. I tried some novels that I’d been meaning to read for months, but they didn’t matter anymore. Nothing seemed interesting. Apparently, this particular form of boredom is common for anyone who has finished In Search of Lost Time. Anne Carson describes it as “the desert of after Proust:”
There’s a kind of glacial expanse that opens where nothing seems worth reading and all you want is for Proust to start over again, but of course he can’t and so you read, in a desultory way, things about Proust or criticism or biography, but it’s not the same and eventually you just give up and realize you’ll be in Proust withdrawal for a while and then life will sort of go on in a grayer level.
Like Carson, I picked up criticism and biographies of Proust, as well as Alain de Botton’s How Proust Can Change Your Life. De Botton’s book was especially depressing, like reading the tour guide of a country you’d just visited, and wouldn’t be able to return to for many years.

Knowing I might feel bereft, I stretched out the final volume, Time Regained, for as long as I could. For me, it was the most compelling part of the novel because it spoke so directly to the writing process. After years of frittering away his time at social events, Marcel has a strange and unexpected revelation when he’s on his way to yet another party. While crossing the courtyard outside the Guermantes mansion, he jumps out of the way of a car, nearly tripping on some uneven paving stones. The feeling of disequilibrium brings back a strong memory of Venice—a memory as strong as the one that famously came to him when he dunked a madeleine in a cup of tea and his childhood visits to Combray bloomed in his mind. All at once, Marcel understands the work he must do to write the book he has dreamed of composing.

In a startlingly direct 200-page passage, Marcel describes what writing is, what memory is, and how writing and memory allows us to translate our experience of life—our consciousness—into art. He explains the way that our deepest-held impressions are accessed through our senses, by the sound of a bell, the feeling of paving stones beneath one’s feet, or by the taste of a cookie dipped in tea. In Proust’s philosophy of memory, the majority of our recollections are intellectualized narratives; these are voluntary memories. But involuntary memories are those that come to us when we encounter a physical sensation that seems to put us in two worlds at once: the past and the present. These types of memories dissolve time, and they also, Proust observes, dissolve the ego:
These [memories], on the contrary, instead of giving me a more flattering idea of myself, had almost caused me to doubt the reality, the existence of the self.
To forget oneself is one of the great joys of writing, possibly the greatest joy, but we’re not living in a moment when people are encouraged to forget themselves. Social media, our most popular narrative form, is all about intellectualizing memory, and crafting a narrative of self that gives a particular impression. But these curated memories don’t have much correspondence to what people actually think or feel. Furthermore, most of us aren’t aware of their most deeply buried memories, the ones that shape our experience of life. If you want to find out your true impressions, Proust says, you must push away the distractions of everyday life:
As for the inner book of unknown symbols…if I tried to read them, no one could help me with any rules, for to read them was an act of creation in which no one can do our work for us or even collaborate with us. How many for this reason turn aside from writing! What tasks do men not take upon themselves in order to evade this task! Every public event, be it the Dreyfus case, be it the war, furnishes the writer with a fresh excuse for not attempting to decipher this book.
I read those words on Tuesday in February. I know it was a Tuesday because my son has swimming lessons on Tuesdays, and, having read Time Regained for longer than I’d intended, I was in a rush to pick him up from school and take him to class. Still, I arrived at the YMCA pool in a spaced-out mood.

Usually I bring my smartphone down to the observation deck, so that I can check emails and read the news while my son takes his lesson, but on that day, prodded by what I had read, I left my phone in the locker room. I brought my book group’s February selection—Bluets, by Maggie Nelson—but I didn’t open it. Instead I stared at the pool, occasionally searching for my son’s swim-capped head. The scent of the chlorine was strong and I drifted into memories: my lifeguard training as a teenager, an unhappy time when I swam lap after lap on Saturday mornings in a pool that left my hair greenish. I changed among girls I didn’t know and who didn’t seem to like me particularly. The bathroom smelled strongly of bleach. Later, I found out that I didn’t even enjoy lifeguarding, but I did like the confidence it gave me in the water. I love to swim laps in the ocean and out to the middle of lakes. I want my son to have the same love of swimming when he’s older, but I don’t know if that’s something you can actually pass on.

My son finished his lesson and I dried him off with a white towel worn from industrial washings. We put his suit in the noisy drier that I’m certain is damaging to the fabric of his swimsuit but which he loves to operate. I wondered if he would remember any of it—the noise, the chlorine, the shower stalls—years from now.

2.
That same Tuesday, my husband and I went to a lecture by the philosopher Daniel Dennett. He was promoting his new book, From Bacteria to Bach and Back: The Evolution of Minds, which addresses the evolution of human consciousness. As we waited to attend the lecture in a very long line outside of a warehouse near Brooklyn’s Gowanus Canal, I noticed that the majority of the people in line were looking at their smartphones. It was an unremarkable observation, but waiting in a long line had gotten me nostalgic for my 20s, when free lectures were a way of life. Except, back then, no one had smart phones. Instead, you had a book, or a magazine, or you made idle conversation with your friend or the friend of your friend who arrived first. If you called someone on your phone, the people around you were slightly annoyed to be put in the position of eavesdropping on your one-sided conversation. Everything was a little bit awkward, and a little bit boring. But on that night in Gowanus, nothing was awkward. No one was bored. Everyone was on their phones, doing as they pleased: playing games, texting, posting, reading, scrolling, commenting, joking. It was great, maybe? Or it was sad? Were these even the right questions to ask?

It was a mild night, for February. Above the sky was faded New York City black, with the streetlights glowing orange. The sidewalk was cracked and uneven and there were puddles at the curb, reflecting the lights. The gutters were dirty with trash and debris. People waved to approaching friends and companions, removing earpieces in advance of hugs and kisses. They showed each other images, lit by small glowing screens. They checked the time. Many human behaviors remained the same. But a certain lull was gone.

There was also, harder to pinpoint, a disengagement from the physical world. I probably wouldn’t have been aware of it if I hadn’t just read Proust’s theory of involuntary memory, and the role of sensory input in the formation of thoughts and memories. I wondered how many people waiting were absorbing anything about waiting in line with these particular people at this particular moment in time. I wondered if it mattered. I wondered if the online world, that abstract place of arguments and images, comments and shares, likes and links, was becoming, or had already become, larger in people’s imaginations than the world of paving stones and dirty puddles, telephone poles and night skies, elevated trains and guard rails, dropped gloves, car horns, peeling paint, swiftly moving clouds, and strangers standing close enough that you can smell their floral perfume. I wondered if I was a foolish, stubborn person, willfully out of touch with a new social language, a new way of being human.

During his lecture, Dennett discussed his theory that consciousness is a mental process that has evolved over time and exists on a spectrum across many living creatures. He argued that human consciousness is unusually powerful because it allows us to be aware of our capabilities. That is, a spider can make a complex web but as far is we know, a spider is not aware of its web-making skills. From our awareness comes an ability to be intelligent designers; we don’t have to wait on the slow-moving, trial-and-error process of biological evolution to grow our species. We have cultural knowledge, such as language, music, and cooking, to help us survive and thrive.

When describing the transmission of ideas among humans, Dennett refers to memes, a word that originates with Richard Dawkins’s book The Selfish Gene. Dennett defines memes as “a kind of way of behaving (roughly) that can be copied, transmitted, remembered, taught, shunned, denounced, brandished, ridiculed, parodied, censored, hallowed.” Words, Dennett writes, “are the best examples of memes.” He likens memes to viruses, looking for a host in a human brain. He sees them as similar to genes in their ability to replicate. He’s deeply interested in artificial intelligence, which he sees as a new stage of human evolution. His ideas are controversial among philosophers, and to be honest, I’m still working my way through his very long, very dense book and don’t completely understand his theory of consciousness, nor the arguments of his detractors. But his book was the one that brought me out of my post-Proust reading drought, I think because he looks closely at human habits, the way that Proust does.

After the lecture, there was a Q&A, and an attendee asked Dennett for his view on religion’s influence on culture. Dennett said religion was a meme, a way of behaving in the world, and like all memes, its chief goal was to spread among humans. He didn’t think there was a point in assessing religion as good or bad for humans. His verdict: “Religion is good for itself.” Hearing that, I couldn’t help applying the same formulation to social media: “Social media is good for itself.” There is really no point in deciding if social media is good or bad. It is now part of our cultural evolution and there’s no going back. Like religion, it is sometimes a means for justice and compassion. And like religion, it is also sometimes destructive and divisive. I thought of all those people, waiting outside, their heads bent over their phones, as if in prayer. I realized that my discomfort with social media is similar to my discomfort with organized religion. I am sympathetic to its allure, and in awe of its power to organize communities and bring about social change, but I am alarmed by the way it creates a new reality for people.

3.
That was February. Now it’s June and I’ve been taking a break from social media for the past few months. For me, that meant quitting Instagram, neglecting my Tumblr feed, and ignoring online comment fields. I also removed email from my phone, which made the biggest difference in my daily routine. I hadn’t realized how much I was checking email. I also wasn’t aware of how often I was taking photos with the thought of posting them to Instagram. It’s a relief to have those small decisions—Should I check email? Should I take a photo? Should I post a photo?—removed from my life. There’s still plenty of distractions on my phone, but I stare into space more than I used to, and I pay closer attention to strangers, and passersby. My life feels quieter and more relaxed, but also lonelier. If I wasn’t living in a place with a busy street life, and where I know a lot of my neighbors, I think I might feel very isolated. I keep noticing how often people refer to things that have “happened” on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Slack, and in the comments section.

But do the things that happen on social media actually happen? Do they have any basis in reality? This is the question I keep returning to. I know that what happens on social media affects reality, and it affects people’s perception of reality, and maybe that’s enough. But I also know that when I meet people in real life after following them on social media, the online version of the person usually becomes irrelevant. A person’s social media profile is kind of like the publisher’s summary on the backs of novels. Maybe it draws you in, or maybe it turns you off, but it likely has very little to say about the actual experience of reading a particular book. It’s better to open the book at random and read a few pages, just as it’s more informative to meet someone in person. Even an extremely self-aware person, who is “good at social media,” has aspects of their personality or physical presence that they would never think to display. It’s also just very difficult to represent yourself on media platforms whose parameters are designed with the intent, above all, to grow and replicate a larger network. (Remember, social media is only good for itself.)

The difficulty of knowing yourself is one of Proust’s central themes, and one I’ve touched on several times throughout my posts. For most of In Search of Lost Time, Proust explores this law of human perception through social life, as he gently exposes the hypocrisies and delusions of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. He’s so good on other people that you barely notice that his narrator, Marcel, is a struggling writer, a person who tries, and fails, repeatedly, to undergo the self-examination necessary to write. It’s only in the final volume that Proust addresses the difficulty of discovering (or rediscovering) a reality that is worth expressing:
The work of the artist, this struggle to discern beneath matter, beneath experience, beneath words, something that is different from them, is a process exactly the reverse of that which, in those everyday lives which we live with our gaze averted from ourselves, is at every moment being accomplished by vanity and passion and the intellect, and habit too, when they smother our true impressions, so as entirely to conceal them from us, beneath a whole heap of verbal concepts and practical goals which we falsely call life.
I underlined that passage with the passion of an undergraduate, feeling as if I’d discovered the secret of writing—of life, possibly. Yes, my true impressions were constantly being smothered. Because what else is social media but a process fueled by vanity, passion, intellect, and above all, habit? What else is so much of Internet content, with its barrage of hashtags, inspo, links, and #goals, but “a whole heap of verbal concepts and practical goals which we falsely call life”?

I feel naïve writing these things, and when I first started thinking about this post, I wanted to title it: How Proust Convinced Me to Give Up My Smartphone. But to write that essay, I’d have to give up my phone, and I don’t want to. My phone makes certain parts of life really easy, and it also makes it easier for other people to be in contact with me—important people like family members, friends, neighbors, and my son’s teachers and caregivers. There’s also the fact that I’m writing this essay on a platform that uses social media and mobile apps to distribute its content. I can be as morose and confused as I want about the proliferation of social media, but the reality is that I have become habituated to its many uses.

This is the struggle of modern life, an irony Proust touches on throughout In Search of Lost Time, as he encounters new technology like telephones, airplanes, and motorcars. He loves the convenience of calling his grandmother, and yet he experiences new strains of melancholy when he hears her voice through the receiver. One can only imagine the new forms of jealousy he would have encountered if his beloved Albertine had been on Instagram. And yet he would have adapted. Habit, “that skillful and unhurrying manager,” would have interceded.

Louis C.K. has a joke about how quickly we adapt to technology, the joke being that the first thing we do after achieving an amazing technological advancement—like flight—is to complain that it could be better. For Louis C.K., this is evidence of our fundamental ingratitude and unhappiness, but Dennett might say that our rapid acclimation to new technology is the special gift of our species, the thing that has allowed for our wild success in reproduction and survival. I think Proust’s observations on the power of habit bridge both views. Reading Proust became a habit for me, and it’s one I still miss, months later. Certain books, Proust writes, can be a lens for your life, a way to see more clearly. His novel certainly did that for me. Years from now, I’ll read it again, when I need to see the world with fresh eyes.

Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons.

1.
Around this time last year, I attended my 15-year college reunion. According to my friend, who organized the reunion, the 15-year reunion is usually the least well attended. This makes sense when you think about life stages. At the 10-year reunion, my classmates were around age 32, and most of us — or, at least, the ones who came to reunion — had not yet had children and were still free to drop everything for a weekend party. But by age 37, many of us had procreated; so many, in fact, that our class sponsored a bouncy castle and pony rides on the quad to entice families. For the first time, my classmates brought their spouses along, partners who were perhaps alluded to at the five- and 10-year reunions but were now sitting on the grass beside them, cradling an infant or chasing after a toddler.

Even though I’d gotten married and had a child of my own, it was strange to see my classmates with their families. I kept noticing tired, balding, and out-of-shape men hanging around the girls I used to know — girls I ran with on the cross-country team, girls I watched Ally McBeal with in the TV lounge, girls I gossiped about boys with, in the library. I couldn’t figure out why everyone had married older men. I thought to myself that I was lucky to have married someone I met in college, someone my own age.

For the first meal of reunion, my husband and I sat with another pair who met in college, as well as two other couples that we see every year or so at someone’s wedding or party. I thought that everyone looked pretty much as they always had. Maybe the men had a little more silver in their hair and maybe the women had a little more dye, but in general, the class of 2000 was looking good — except for those extraneous spouses, at the other tables! Again, I was struck by how old they all looked with their drawn faces. I couldn’t help wondering why so many of my classmates had gravitated toward middle-aged partners. I started to theorize about it; maybe it had to do with technology? We were the last class to grow up without email or cell phones in high school. Maybe that was a significant divide, maybe it was easier to date a person in his or her 40s, rather than a younger person whose personality had been shaped by social media. Yes, I thought. That had to be it. We, the Jimmy Carter babies, had more in common with Gen Xers than Millenials. Of course we would be more attracted to them.

It wasn’t until midway through lunch on the second day, while nursing a bit of a hangover, that I realized that my vision was compromised. I was gazing at one of the unknown spouses, a woman whose lined forehead made me think I shouldn’t be so judgmental about Botox. I tried to guess her age. Her dress was slightly out of style, like she’d bought it years ago and only wore every now and then. Her sandals looked comfortable, a tad Mom-ish. I decided that if she wasn’t at least 40, then she had to be pushing 40. Some rational part of my brain — the part no longer pickled in beer — asked at what age did one begin to push against 40? The immediate answer was 38. I had just turned 37, which meant I was in my 38th year. Goosebumps rose on my arms as I realized that I was probably around the same age as this woman I was so harshly examining. Also, we were wearing basically the same outfit.

I did a very slow double take as a reassessed my classmates. They still looked young to me, in fact remarkably youthful, considering that they were all pushing 40. It hit me that I had no idea what any of them really looked like; that when I saw them, I was seeing the smiles and gestures of kids I’d first met almost two decades earlier, on a sunny September afternoon in 1996. I looked at my husband, whose not-yet-balding hair was nevertheless quite silvered. I’d always thought of it as majority pepper, but maybe it was majority salt? Then he turned and smiled at me and it was the same gap-toothed grin I’d known for years.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Do ever think that you really have no idea what I look like anymore?”

He laughed. “You always get like this when you have a hangover.”

2.
My reunion mistake was a Proustian mistake, and it’s one of the things that spurred me to revisit In Search of Lost Time. There’s a scene in the last volume of In Search of Lost Time, which I have a vague memory of reading in college, when Marcel attends a party in Paris after being away from the city for a long time. At first, he can’t find his friends among all the old people in attendance. Then he realizes: the old people are his friends! It’s a beautiful and poignant moment, but I don’t think I fully appreciated it at age 21. I found myself thinking of that scene during reunion, after I realized my mistake. I thought: now I understand that scene. My next thought was that I’d like to read it again. In the back of my mind, I had always thought I would read all of In Search of Lost Time before I was 40. The reunion forced me to admit that the deadline was closer than I’d realized.

This morning, I read another scene about the way love and time warps our vision; it’s a very celebrated passage in Volume III, in which Marcel gets a brief, unvarnished glimpse of his grandmother. He’s been away from her for several weeks, visiting with his friend Robert de Saint-Loup, and when he returns home, she doesn’t hear him enter the room where she’s sitting. There’s a hair of a second when Marcel is not quite sure he has entered the right room and in that moment, he sees his grandmother as she really is, not the woman whose face and gestures are defined by the love he feels for her:
We never see the people who are dear to us save in the animated system, the perpetual motion of our incessant love for them, which, before allowing the images that their faces present to reach us, seizes them in its vortex and flings them back upon the idea that we have always had of them, makes them adhere to it, coincide with it.
What Marcel sees, instead, is a woman who lives in the “world of Time, that which is inhabited by the strangers of whom we say, ‘He’s begun to age a good deal.’” For that split second, instead of seeing his beloved, morally perfect grandmother, Marcel sees an old woman, “red-faced, heavy and vulgar, sick, day-dreaming, letting her crazed eyes wander over a book, an overburdened old woman whom I did not know.”

It’s the cruelty of the physical description that makes the last line hit so hard. And Marcel is no less cruel, a few pages later, when he meets his friend Robert’s mistress for the first time. Robert has built his mistress up to be a lovely young woman who is sensitive and intelligent in addition to being physically charming. But upon meeting her, Marcel recognizes her as the prostitute he met in a brothel, years before. He can’t believe that this is the woman that Robert goes to such great lengths to please, and marvels at “how much a human imagination can put behind a little scrap of a face, such as this woman’s was, if it is the imagination that has come to know it first.”

Shortly after Robert introduces Marcel to Rachel, two young women walk by and call out to Rachel, asking her to join them. They are noticeably of a lower class, “two poor little tarts with collars of sham otter-skin.” Rachel rebuffs them, but Marcel can see that Robert is shaken by the encounter:
Robert detached himself for a moment from the woman whom out of successive layers of tenderness he had gradually created, and suddenly saw at some distance from himself another Rachel, the double of his but entirely different, who was nothing more nor less than a little whore.
Again, the severity of that last line makes the revelation hit hard; it is akin to my judgment of the extraneous spouses, people who exist in the world of Time, unlike my classmates who I see through the scrim of fond memories. As much as I like the idea that the people we love are created out of “successive layers of tenderness,” like some strange and subconscious artwork, I also find it unsettling. I want to see the world clearly, without layers of fantasy and nostalgia. And I think I want to see the people I love clearly, too — or at the very least, through one of the less intrusive Instagram filters.

Then again, I’m well aware that that layers of tenderness and nostalgia may be what make long-term relationships last. They help us to see the best qualities in our friends, spouses, and colleagues, and to ignore or laugh at weaknesses. They help us to be less cruel in our judgments, and kinder in general. But in writing and in art, layers of tenderness are not as useful or desirable. I think what’s most disconcerting about Marcel Proust’s repeated examples of our inescapable subjectivity is his insistence that we do not know our own habits of mind; and yet our perception and experience of the world is profoundly shaped by them.