It has occurred to me after reading the first few pages of Swann’s Way for a second time that Proust writes in a style, that at first, I could not quite put my finger on. His long, smooth, often diverting sentences, like the crisscrossing of a stream over a rocky river bottom, are disconcerting and perplexing. I did not approach the novel prepared for this meandering style of writing; initially finding it bewildering and hard to track. I was almost frustrated by it. It felt unnatural and muddy; one topic overflowing into the next like reflecting light, bouncing off one subject to something new.  I reminded myself that present day readership prefers fast paced, action packed, succinct plot. And as someone who dabbles in writing I had trained myself to not get lost in my own thoughts on the page, to follow a course and stick to it.

Only on my second reading through, where I did not have to concentrate on the story as much as the way it was told, was I able to grasp the feel of the writing. The constant shift and flow to his style reminds me of the way we think and remember. How, in our minds nothing is concrete, everything is fluid. Like in the exercise of concentration where you try and picture a red ball in your mind’s eye for as long as you can. Inevitably your thoughts slink away from the red object and almost without you being aware of, slowly let surface the awareness of the hair that is tickling your nose, or the way your sock is bunched under your foot in an uncomfortable manner. As the thought gradually gains substance you become conscious of it and immediately with some annoyance toss it away, refocusing your efforts on the red ball. However, within seconds your mind is slipping again… a sudden scent in the air dredges up from some recess of your mind the idea of air fresheners, and this thought topples over like a failed Jenga game, scattering pieces of thoughts and memories. One such memory, being the time your mother gifted you that strange automatic spraying air freshener, which sent a spritz of lilac flavored droplets into the air at random times, making a weird “PITZZZZZ” sound. This memory triggers another memory of the time you had your friend over, who slept on the couch and commented on the strange “PITZZZZZZ” noise that kept him awake all night long. This recollection dissolves into the pondering of how your friend is doing, since he started dating that awful girl twice his age, from online. And this thought, like the run-off of rainwater following along an unseen curve of the earth, flows effortlessly into the memory of the time you met your husband online so many years ago, in that loft in Chicago. Which at this moment you recall, is having terrible snow storms. And you are now glad you live in the Pacific North West where the weather is so affable, with its velvety rain showers on misty mornings; where one can sit for hours gazing out at the Puget Sound sprinkled with distant ferries and faded red buoys that dance on the horizon. And the image of the red buoy riding the ocean waves jerks you back into the present. The red ball; completely evaporated by arbitrary memories and thoughts, returns brightly to center stage in your mind. To your horror, you realize the journey across space and time your mind just led you on, has occurred in just a few brief moments. Yet in this fleeting transitory expedition, you have toured a vast amount of places, moments and memories. In just a few seconds your thoughts liquefied and melted, moving haphazardly in whichever direction was simplest, taking you across your lifespan and over distances of miles and miles far away from the red ball you were supposed to be concentrating on!

This exercise brings to light how we often think; a random stream of thoughts, chained together by minor details within memory. We may not be aware of this as we go about our lives, but when we sit quietly and ask our mind to be still, we are suddenly given the chance to observe the way our brain links memories with thoughts endlessly and not always with direction. I find this to be much the same way Proust tells his tale to us. His writing resembles the way we might sit back and reminisce. How our thoughts start on one topic and quickly get diverted onto new paths, one memory triggering the next and so on.

Now as I read Proust I feel aligned with the design of his writing. I let myself relax into the flow of the winding path of his story. I am not disturbed anymore by the sudden shift in direction, or deviation onto a new topic. I feel I am riding the current of this narrator’s memories; a course that flows and detours by the unseen influence of the subconscious. Getting caught for a time in swirling eddies of powerful moments and details, then cascading over the edge into a new channel of memory and thought. Ever moving, ever flowing, like a river.