Journal Entry #9

June 2nd, 2015

As I plow through the pithy center of Time Regained, I find myself unexpectedly satisfied by the sudden shift that the author takes from the cryptic wordiness of earlier volumes to the frank, more straightforward tone of this final chapter in his anthology. Proust has achieved a sort of immortality by distilling the essence of his life into a work which he has artfully encapsulated for future generations to ponder. This is the ultimate sense of regaining time: reaching back through writing to recapture the most memorable moments of one’s life while simultaneously casting those experiences far out into the future. I can imagine Proust at the point of his life when this was written; in and out of the sanatorium, nearing his end, bedridden and frail, squinting at the page as he urgently records his thoughts in the dimly lit twilight of his chambers. Reading his novel is like opening the pages of Proust’s mind. Naturally as he neared his own end and the completion of his life’s work, he would want to impart to the reader a final message of inspiration, if not for our sake then simply to find meaning in his own project. Throughout the work, not only does the reader roll on the sea of Proust’s consciousness to be tossed around in the tempest of his thoughts or to drift along through the vast expanse of his endless metaphors and poeticism, but now we are peeling back a new layer where Proust is thinking about thinking. He is analyzing his own work.

It is as though he is giving instructions to any writer who would be inclined to follow in his footsteps by describing his perception of the art of writing itself. I like his idea that creating art is an instinct that we all possess. He believes that although the ability is innate in each of us, to indulge it requires so much force of will that most people don’t heed their inclination. He also professes that the best writing isn’t something that can be intellectualized or contrived, but to be truly great one must call on a deeper form of self expression. While we all have experiences that are common enough that anyone can relate to them,  if a writer can synthesize their own memories then they can use their experiences to express something of themselves that transcends the ordinary and is unique to themselves.

In this way a single fictitious character in a novel could represent the culmination of years of observations, experiences, and memories on the part of the author and the essential traits of 50 or more people encountered in daily life. He compares his lifelong observations to a painter recording through use of a sketchbook. “…In the end the writer realizes that if his dream of being a sort of painter was not in a conscious and intentional manner capable of fulfillment, it has nevertheless been fulfilled and that he too, for his work as a writer, has unconsciously made use of a sketch-book.” (Proust 305) Rather than simply parroting the manners of others, Proust believes that writing about them as characters gives them new meaning, and draws out essential truths in their behavior. He says “The stupidest people, in their gestures, their remarks, the sentiments which they involuntarily express, manifest laws which they do not themselves perceive but which the artist surprises in them.” (Proust 307)

This section contains one of my favorite lines of Proust. In my mind’s eye I can imagine Proust living his last days as a tortured soul even more vividly than in the scene of the film which depicts him dictating the novel from his bed. He writes:

“…A writer’s work, like the water in an artesian well, mount to a height which is in proportion to the depth to which suffering has penetrated his heart.” (Proust 318)