Proust Reaches Across Time to Grab Me

Marcel Proust, over a century ago:

If only I had been able to start writing! But, however I set about it (all too similarly, alas, to the resolve to give up alcohol, to go to bed early, to get enough sleep, and to keep fit), whether it was in a spurt of activity, with method, with pleasure, in depriving myself of a walk, or postponing it and reserving it as a reward, taking advantage of an hour of feeling well, making use of the inaction forced upon me by a day’s illness, the inevitable result of my efforts was a blank page, untouched by writing, as predestined as the forced card that you inevitably end up drawing in certain tricks, however thoroughly you have first shuffled the pack. I was merely the instrument of habits of not working, of not going to bed, of not sleeping, which had to fulfill themselves at any cost; if I offered no resistance, if I made do with the pretext they drew from the first opportunity that arose for them to act as they chose, I escaped without serious harm, I still slept for a few hours toward morning, I managed to read a little, I did not overexert myself; but if I tried to resist them, by deciding to go to bed early, to drink only water, to work, they became annoyed, they resorted to strong measures, they made me really ill, I was obliged to double my dose of alcohol, I did not go to bed for two days, I could not even read, and I would vow to be more reasonable in future-that is to say, less wise-like the victim who allows himself to be robbed for fear of being murdered if he puts up resistance.

This year, I’ve hunkered down and committed to reading Proust’s In Search of Lost Time.¹ I am currently in volume three, The Guermantes Way. It is extremely slow going, but astonishing.

One of the reasons I love reading (or viewing, for that matter) a work from long before my own time is connecting on an emotional level with universal ideas. Love, fear, anxiety, pride; all the timeless aspects of the human experience. It’s as if Proust has written my own thoughts down for me and presented them with far more beauty and candor than I could ever muster. It’s thrilling.

The above quote is essentially something I have written countless times. I have notebooks, planners and notes apps²s chock-a-block with some variation on it. All I need to do is write more! And then it trails; writing about writing but not writing, and on to the next thing without publishing.

Proust, if nothing else, inspired me to share this quote. So I don’t forget.