Author: fraalb11

Close Reading: Saint-Loup’s Death page 226-229

May 17, 2015 / fraalb11

For this close analysis we will begin by looking at the bottom paragraph on page 226 which ends on the first half of page 229. This paragraph discusses the death of M.’s good friend, Robert de Saint Loup. The section follows the narrator’s mentioning of the only real characters of the book who belong to the real family name Lariviere. These characters (and soldiers) are described as sublime, a word defined as “such excellence, grandeur, or beauty as to inspire great admiration or awe”. A bridge is formed between these character’s sublimity and that of Saint-Loup, a quality of his which is the focus of the concerned paragraph.

We begin the paragraph with the revealing fact that M. has been “rendered incapable of travelling”, halting his departure from Paris, due to hearing the news of Saint-Loup’s death. We are shown the extent of the narrators sorrow when he describes to us that he had “remained shut up in [his] room, thinking of him” for several days. What follows in this paragraph could very well be the thoughts which he formed in his time of mourning; a narration formed for the death of his friend which was meant to be explained not only to us, but to himself as well, as an aid to his acceptance of Saint-Loup’s death.

This narration begins with M. highlighting the qualities which made Saint-Loup extraordinary. Readers learn that Saint-Loup died while covering the retreat of his men; a selfless death which aligns alongside Saint-Loup’s admirability. Saint-Loup is separated from others in the mind of the narrator as he explains Saint-Loup’s differences in opinions. M. continues to describe that “never had any man felt less hatred for a nation then he”, and that Saint-Loup had “thought that William II had tried rather to prevent the war than to bring it about”; an opinion that contradicted many who held some sort of blame against Germany in the time of WWI. M. reflects on the last words of his friend, which happened to be the opening words of a Schumann song, in which M. reacts with embarrassment to it’s ironic germanistic notions, belonging to the culture of those who killed him. Of course Saint-Loup hadn’t been an enemy of his state, rather this consideration for his enemies culture came about from an open-mindedness.

M. goes as far as citing “supreme good breeding” as the source of Saint-Loup’s positive traits, one which “eliminates from his conduct all trace of apology or invective” (a word defined as the abusive or venomous language used to express blame or censure or bitter deep-seated ill will). The readers and the narrator alike gain a sense of purity which becomes associated with Saint-Loup in this paragraph; a character whom M. refers to as “Symbolic” in his behavior to “efface himself before others”. This idea is only reinforced by M.’s first memory of his friend in which his first impression was made “in an almost white suit”. M. remembers the movement of his friend in an almost majestic way, comparing it to the movement of waves, forming an almost angelic, perhaps christ-like image of him.

M. has clearly been impacted by the death of Saint-Loup, “the special being”. Their friendship had extended beyond a physicality, and had been fulfilled “beyond the limits of what [he] should have ever thought possible”. However, the importance of M.’s relationship with Saint-Loup had only been realized after his death, much like the genius of a writer is only realized after the author passes away. But why had Saint-Loup’s death become so important? Perhaps because he had turned into yet another Ideal. M. himself explains how Saint-Loup’s importance came to be in the following passage;

“The fact that I had seen him really so little but against varied backgrounds…Only had the effect of giving me, of his life, pictures more striking and more sharply defined and for his death a grief more lucid than we are likely to have in the case of people whom we have loved more.”

And what of those “whom we have loved more”?

“[They are] with whom our association has been so nearly continuous that the image we retain of them is no more than a sort of vague average between an infinity of imperceptibly different images”, which “Satiate” our affection for them.

In this description we see that M.’s friendship with Saint-Loup had become an object of M.’s desire. The relationship between these two stood with unsatiated affection due to M. only seeing Saint-Loup in brief moments. Because of this our narrator is left with “the illusion that there was possible between [them] a still greater affection of which circumstances alone have defrauded [them]”.

M. ends by drawing a parallel between Saint-Loup and another “living form”; Albertine. Both of these two no longer exist “except in the state of memory”; specifically the narrator’s memory. M. shares with us a further sense of Irony in the fact that these two individuals had ultimately lived short lives despite being the ones who said to M. “You who are ill…”, and who had taken care of him. In conclusion, M. forms an association between the deceased, in their “first” and “final” images, with an impressionistic mental image; that of the sun setting over the sea.

A response to Walter Kirn

May 16, 2015 / fraalb11

Article: http://tinyurl.com/powcc2b

Walter Kirn embodies the theme of time and memory in his blog article for The New York Times. The relevancy to this program is thrown into the mix when the intro includes the question, “what if marcel Proust kept an Instagram?”. Readers follow the author’s recounting of his own memories with his children who, at the time, were actively flicking away their lives on social media. The proposed question enticed me to ponder, only to conclude the following: if Proust could use Instagram today, I’m sure we’d find his followers clicking away at the “like” button under a sepia-filtered iphone shot of the church in combray. I am also sure we could still find the impressive 6 volume set of ” In Search of Lost Time”, whether It be in the form of books or in the changed form of a blog or youtube series. However, I do not feel that social media would strip away the analytical qualities which we have come to associate with proust. Whether my assumption is correct, or not, really comes down to the everlasting psychological debate of nurture versus nature. Regardless, my point is that social media or journaling isn’t as negative as It was implied as.

Personally, I sense a connection between the author and Proust. Both individuals led a life (or at least a portion of it) before the convenience of cellphone cameras and wireless technology. The author describes memory as an imaginative act; one which people first imagine what we want to keep. Proust seems to do this in his own literature, highlighting and emphasizing his own specific memories. This memory selection in turn becomes the formation of one’s own personal life-narration, and it is a process which still stands today.

In regards to the authors children, I would say that they are apart of a larger collection of generations which include my own. My peers, the authors children and I have been absorbed by media and technology for our entire lives. This lifestyle is one which I seek to advocate for; a lifestyle where social media is an outlet for self-expression (however little creativity it may require). Social media has not replaced the formation of one’s own life narration. Instead, it has become a tool to help create our story. I would argue that social media can become a valuable life tool.

In contrast to Walter Kirn, I have journaled. Walter Kirn romanticizes the qualities of memories and of how it is written in a “smokey synapse”. He cites the absence of his journaling as a point of pride. However, my own experience with journaling has proved increasingly practical. I recently sifted through these entries, in addition to Instagram photos and old Facebook messages from my prepubescent years. The reflection of a physical documentation has gifted me my own personal insights and has thrown me into a past; one where the time’s mindset, the day’s weather, and the activity’s sensations could be re-lived. Archiving my thoughts and life has shown me where I have been physically and emotionally and has helped me decide clearly where I want to go. The utility of this documentation then reflection begins to resemble the basic idea of why we study history.

To the author;

Mr. Kirn, the beauty you see in the struggle of memory is the quality which makes us human, and behind that is the quality that makes us exist. We are beings of the now, limited to perceiving and acting upon the present moment. This limited access to the past, and unattainable knowing for the future is our biggest weakness. In some sci-fi story we could be all knowing beings; masters of time. In this reality, we are not. However, the tracking of our lives has the potential to broaden the extent of what we can recall from our lives. It can provide some existential outlook and perhaps bring us closer to being our own masters of our own universe. I encourage you to start your diary; it’s never too late.

Post Trauma, But Without The Disorder?

May 2, 2015 / fraalb11

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

These are the stages of the Kübler-Ross model (a.k.a the Grief Cycle), in which I really am intrigued by the extent of this cycle’s exclusivity towards the variable of a loss and the qualities which define it. A Loss, in one of its definitions most simplest forms, is the fact or process of losing something or someone. However to be at a loss for someone or something is also a true occurrence for people. This sense of being at a loss could be defined by the state or feeling of grief when deprived of someone or something of value. I noticed that both of these definitions do not limit themselves to the experience of death, which leads me to ponder over my own experience with that of the Grief Cycle, and whether or not it has, or will ever come to a close.

The Kübler-Ross model, within it’s five stages, suggests a type of emotional conclusion to the experience we have while undergoing the process of mourning — Acceptance. However, from recent personal experience, I have seen these particular stages reappear from where it once went away, specifically within the following months of my grandfather’s death. In one way or another these stages are triggered by unrelated occurrences, for example, the parting of a close friend visiting me on the weekend, who’s departure left me with a sense of loneliness to which I immediately associated with that same feeling I had four months earlier (during the funeral). The weeks leading up to this departure past by as usual, but in the act of saying goodbye to my friend and returning to my dark and empty room, I had somehow been thrown back into the emotional state of depression I experienced when returning from my final goodbye to my good ol’ abuelo. My mother (the daughter of the deceased) had a similar reaction when seeing an old man waiting for the bus stop, just as her own elderly father had done so frequently before. Both her and I had thought the grief was over, yet we kept coming across some sort of reminder to the emotional pain we had experienced; reminders which were often unrelated in its immediate nature.

These experiences occur without prediction, but by no means are they hindering to everyday life. We do not suffer continuously, nor was the event enough to establish a disorder such as PTSD, but these moments in which we remember our troubles brings about an anxiety for when the next episode will occur, or worse, an episode which perpetuates an overall lifetime’s worth of sorrow. These low points of life occur for the majority of people, and they cause the scars which form our own personal identity. The experience of all this sadness can be quite disheartening, but my own mind is soothed when remembering that the feeling of sadness is only one of many facts of life which contribute to the human experience. Life is not ill-fated, it is a large potential. Optimism returns upon the acknowledgments of these thoughts – such as those charmingly expressed within the video below.

We all experience low points; You, me, Marcel and Butters (the name of the cartoon characters in the video above). We also all long for happiness. Often in our own search for lost time it is easy to return to sorrowful moments, but do not forget to return to those moments of bliss as well.

The Past Two Weeks

April 15, 2015 / fraalb11

I believe it to be right for me to apologize for the lateness attached to this post — life has carried on at an erratic pace, spreading my attention thin within its wake. You see, my focus never is entirely consistent, for my thoughts are too often swayed by other matters of life, love, pain and happiness. All of these emotions flow in and out of me, and it is in fact tiring. I frequently look forward to the weekends as a break from the chaos, anticipating the time of leisure, only for it to slip by in the blink of an eye. Come Monday morning, my eyes are as baggy as ever, and I have fulfilled a false sense of restoration, and acquired a false sense of preparedness for the next week to come. However, these past weeks have changed that. In a way, all this time had made me undergo a transformation. My eyes are still baggy, yet I can’t help but feel as if they are now open – aware and conscious of particular details in my life – most importantly that of what I own, and what I don’t. In this transformation I have discovered a loss; that of time. It has been fourteen days in this program; fourteen days in which I have been in search of lost time.

Week 1

This adventure had started at the turn of this scholarly quarter. I immediately fell in love with this program, which had showcased all its glory from the start. My first day was the Wednesday of that primary week. The day had opened up with what I deemed to be a very philosophical reading of Marcel Proust’s intro to “Swann’s Way”. We had discussed the themes presented in the first handful of pages, one of which stuck to me most – the idea, this theme, that distinguished my perspective over life, between the reality of the physical world, and the reality of a very internal world. “How profound,” I had thought, “how real”.

This idea of separation between two realities was so legitimate in my eyes, so sound in my mind, that it had placed a new-found filter on the way I perceived the world. It was a beautiful thought, however it was equally disheartening. I went home that evening and was greeted by my family. I looked into the eyes of each of the members of my household; my mother, father, brother, grandmother and lover all looked back at me with a similar fondness. To them, my greeting was a normal, almost habitual occurrence, yet these moments dug deep into my own conscious. Those loved ones, who’s eyes I looked into, might have seen in my return, in a way, a sort of background noise – irrelevant to the thoughts and worries already occupying their mind. But I saw these moments as an embodiment of our love. I became sad. I had realized that their love for me was not so simple – It was a sense of care produced by a collection of memories, experiences, thoughts and ideas entirely distinct from my own, and from one another. I had longed for it to be simpler than that, questioning to myself, “why can it not just be love?”.

By the end of that week I had developed a sort of existential crisis. The end of the first week concluded with a viewing of “Boyhood”, a film following the lives of a family over the course of many years. The main character was very much within my generation, and had many experiences which I could relate to. To say the least, I was emotionally invested in the film, and overwhelmed by the process of watching our protagonist’s adolescent life flash by in a matter of hours. Afterwards, I had reflected on my own life, which also seemed to pass by in what felt like a similar amount of time, and I became frightened at what the reality of my situation was; scared by the amount of time I had actually lived out, up to this present point. It was not only until I remembered the end of the film that my hope and happiness was restored. The ending scenes portrayed our the protagonist, who’s childhood ended, now at college, awaiting the potential of his future. I felt calmed, and my sense of control over my life was restored. Perhaps it was because the end of this boy’s story was so closely related to the start of mine — at the age of eighteen and at the cusp of adulthood.

Week 2

Talk about a turnaround… The first week of this program had left me feeling uncertain for my future. But I believe I have discovered my own personal ailment, thanks to this second week of school. Monday’s lecture was focused around the studies of French history; its revolutions, periods of enlightenment, the rise of the thinker and the Impressionist movement [an artistic style that I am quite fond of]. This uncertainty of the future, which tortured me at points, was replaced by a hope inspired by its unknown potential (thanks to the studies of a much more sturdy past; one which produced historical conflicts, beautiful art movements, and intriguing social change). I found comfort in hearing the thoughts of past philosophers, who also seemed to question. Whether it was about our place in the world, or the purpose of individualism, I knew that I was not alone in my existential crisis.

Week two had also called for the submission of our own memory project proposal. I had loved the study of French history so much that I had decided to continue European studies, this time, under the scope of Nazi-Germany. I saw this project as my own opportunity to make history, through my own interpretation of it. The program had not only assigned me to this work – it had ultimately provided me with the motivation to complete it. I look forward to updating others on my findings.

Vade Mecum

April 5, 2015 / fraalb11

Vade Mecum; a book for ready reference or something regularly carried about a person. Vade Mecum is a latin phrase meaning go with me. The first known use of the phrase VadeMecum dates back to 1629, in which the item it was named after could also be called monk book. Imagine this book in all its leather-bound and stained glory. An item which emits a pleasing leathery scent and holds within its casing a collection of fibrous pages. This beautiful book piece can be made into high quality – one so great that it can throw the beholder back in times of castles and churches, where robe-wearing believers spent their time scripting away in candle lit rooms. Where the only other light source was that of the suns rays shining through the stained glass, illuminating the portrayals of religious scenery of love, life or horror.

A journal like a Vade Mecum could prove to be the perfect gift. A gift which takes its form but holds a sort of treasure within its sentimental utility. The value of this book could also prove frightening for those who are unfamiliar to writing, for its journaling purpose chronicles the passing of time that ultimately concludes with the writer’s death. Yet here this treasure lied, resting upon a plastic table around a hundred others, only waiting to be purchased away from its creator – a middle aged woman sitting upon her lawn chair, behind the table, happily shaded away from the summer sun by her booths tent.

In a somewhat humorous contrast, there I was, on the opposing side of this woman’s table. I stood on that downtown Portland road where I was left vulnerable to the sun’s heat. The pits of my arms had already stained my shirt, and the crowd of people behind me – who flowed through the streets of this fair like a steady stream – emitted a gross collection of body heat which only further developed the production of sweat drops under my hairline. One could easily imagine the discomfort I could have felt in that time, yet my mind did not bother for such physical pitties; for, you see, my mind was fixated solely on the depth and beauty of this leather bound book.

In these similar moments I could also feel the woman’s own sight fixated on me, through her large, egg-shaped sunglasses. Perhaps this vendor was only on her toes to make a sale, but I had always enjoyed imagining that she could see my soul – one so often enchanted by ideas of mysticism and escapism. Perhaps the piqued curiosity I portrayed only screamed to her how much of a potential customer I might have been – if not for the fact that I was a broke high-school student at the time (not much has changed since then). Alas, the continuation of my Portland trip had returned, and it was only because of the price of a Vade Mecumm that I had left the city empty handed.

TIme passed by leading to the entry of a new year. It was January 18th, a day of dreary weather, however the greyness of such a day had no effect within the atmosphere of my home. That day was one in which my eldest brother had visited me, and in his hands was a gift as easily receivable as his likeable personality. This brother of mine had dropped onto my lap the familiar shape which I had seen so many months ago. I looked upon the gift, in all its leathery goodness, and immediately opened it to smell its pages once again. I had recieved my first monkbook, my own Vade Mecum, and I had applied my pen to it as soon as I was once again alone. Little did I know at the time of the experience that would follow the next year.

The receiving of this gift was my own turning point. I had not journaled before, yet I knew it as traditional to start each entry with the date. The process of filling these pages had turned into what seemed like the unravelling of my own story. I had scripted my life’s ups and downs and before I knew it, when coupled with this program, I was in the middle of an existential crisis. However negative it may seem, such an experience is enlightening, and I had developed a level of self-consciousness that had never been there before.

In Search of Lost Time

The Evergreen State College