Throughout Swann’s Way the reader is compelled to view a number of seemingly mundane events and circumstances through the peculiar lens of a complex and often baffling character. The author manages to present such a convincing psychological portrait of Swann which is so complete in its nuances and minutia that it is as if the author has created an independent entity with thoughts of his own. Throughout the section describing Swann’s unfortunate love affair the reader is exposed to a mélange of Swann’s sentiments, some of which reflect the author’s sentiments, some are universal to the human condition, and still other appear to originate out of the depths of Swann’s own eccentricities. One paragraph, beginning on the bottom of page 458 and extending to the top of 460, is a fine example of the layers of complexity interwoven into the narrative. It is at once a social commentary, a moment of absurdity in the mind of Swann, and from a different perspective a sentiment which is easy to relate to despite all the time which has elapsed since the era of this novel.

Without entering Swann’s innermost thoughts, this passage would appear underwhelming. Swann entrusts his friend to care for Odette and then goes alone to a social engagement. He enters a lavish estate complete with a stable, which has guards posted around the property. He is introduced to two men at the party. That description summarizes all of the concrete events that occur within those two pages. Internally, however, there are volumes waiting to unfold. Swann is relieved to be leaving Odette in “good company”, yet seems unable to enjoy his night without her. He generally takes no pleasure in events not related to Odette, and particularly detests his obligation to make appearances at high society functions such as these. He views the presentation of such parties as artificial, and scorns the hosts of such events for falsely glorifying their own lives by meticulously cultivating a social setting. He feels totally disconnected from the social scene, and inwardly amuses himself by dramatizing the people he meets and comparing them visually in his mind to portraits or imaginary figures.

Swann arrives late, and finds himself ensnared in a conversation which he would normally have avoided. Perhaps due to their severe nature or even military background, Swann paints a picture in his mind of what kind of characters he’s speaking with based on their general demeanor and a cursory first impression. The omission of any dialogue between the characters may indicate that Swann was not interested in what they had to say. He repeatedly describes the men in the room as fierce and even war-like, and suggests that something in the body language on one man that he meets strikes him as so hostile that he questions the man’s intentions despite his friendly words. Swann seems to feel as though he is in a room full of hostile soldiers and everyone is against him.

Whether or not this passage offers us a glimpse into the thoughts of the author himself, it evokes a clear sense of disillusionment with bourgeois superficiality. Swann is put off by the idea of hosting a party as a means of not only achieving social standing, but more specifically the idea of essentially attempting to create a fictitious version of one’s personal life to present publicly. He discusses with almost palpable boredom the frivolity of displaying one’s clothes for status as he describes his usual grand entrance. He would normally arrive conspicuously dressed in an overcoat, only to reveal the “tails” underneath, all the while so wrapped up in his own thoughts so as not to give any but the most superficial notice of his surroundings.

As Swann enters the party he has an amusing exchange with the first people he meets. He describes the partygoers as “tall, magnificent, idle footmen who were drowsing here and there upon benches and chests and who, pointing their noble greyhound profiles, now rose to their feet and gathered in a circle round about him” (Proust 459). Unless we are to believe that a group of princely lackeys revived themselves from suspended animation and rose up at the sight of him, then this section clearly indicates that we have entered the realm of Swann’s imagination. Here Swann’s fantasies reveal more about his character than even his thoughts. He shows himself to be self-centered as he imagines himself the life of the party to the extent that others rise into reanimation the moment he walks into the room. As Swann is approached and greeted by someone at the party, Swann sizes him up and immediately associates him with some brutal torturer from the Renaissance, although it is not clear what about his appearance inspires such imaginings other than a “ferocious aspect” and an “implacable air to take his things”. Swann imagines this man’s pleasant demeanor and gentleness towards himself to be in such contrast with the man’s apparent strength and capacity for savagery that Swann seems to think he must be merely pretending to be nice to him.

If one was to psychoanalyze Swann’s character as if he were a living person, it would appear as though Swann’s paranoia is a projection of his own misgivings onto others around him. It’s difficult to know whether the author could have intentionally woven that much subtlety into his character at the time the novel was written, however being a contemporary of Freud it is a possibility that this was intended. Since Swann himself puts on “airs” and often pretends to engage in a social scene for which he has contempt, it is natural for him to assume the same type of false intent in others. He also describes the man he meets’ lackey as a displaying “all the dumb agitation of a wild animal in the first hours of its captivity.” (Proust 460). The projection that this man is somehow subservient to the other may indicate part of Swann’s motivation for moving through the social ranks despite any conventional sense of ambition. Perhaps he would simply rather be the one who appears strong and conceals his disdain beneath a mask of cordiality than remain vulnerable at as one who is perceived as farther down the ranks. So far in the reading it’s impossible to determine whether Swann always views gatherings with such paranoia as to assume that people are out to get him or if it is only because of some aspect specific to this gathering. In a sense this interaction could be seen as foreshadowing, because whether or not Swann’s mistrust of these people says anything about himself has no bearing on the legitimacy of his worries.

To take a broader view, Swann’s paranoia and inner conflict serve as a commentary on bourgeois society which still holds true to this day. Inwardly Swann is openly scornful of the falsities of society life, while he ironically perpetuates this behavior through his own attendance. The interface between public and private life, as best seen in this passage by Swann’s opinion of people that host such parties as a form of false self promotion, creates a sense of insecurity in Swann. He is obliged to keep up with society for fear of the consequences of falling down the social ladder. In modern times, middle class Americans still value to a great extent keeping up appearances and presenting displays of wealth and status outwardly to society. This obsession with superficial appearances is intended to present an image of middle class people as even wealthier or happier than they actually are through displaying material possessions or appearing publicly to garner social status. Swann’s character is at times so realistic that in a sense his motivations appear to hold true to those of many of the middle class in the present day. His disillusionment and somewhat pathetic attempts to find solace with Odette are the natural reaction to a quite “unnatural” and artificial society that he is compelled to participate in, just as many people of the middle class in modern times have sensed a void in their ability to derive happiness from their day-to-day conduct and have sought many avenues to add meaning to their lives. We commonly speak of angst when describing any number of situations where frustration with society takes hold, just as Swann exhibits throughout this novel.

At times In Search of Lost Time has the dense richness of poetry, and just like any other art it often takes on a life of its own and can assume meaning that may not have even been intended by the artist. This single paragraph from a voluminous work was crafted with enough detail that it offers a window of insight into a character so real that it’s as if the reader has entered the thoughts of a living person. To delve into the layers of Swann’s internal monologue reveals much about his character, his views on French society at that time, and also voices a commentary about the middle class so universal that it appears to hold true in modern times.

I recently reached a conclusion about which direction I would like to explore in the creation of my memory project, but for quite a while I was between two ideas and had a hard time weighing the benefit of one over the other in terms of the personal and academic growth to be gained. The two projects call for radically different methodology, and although I was ultimately able to decide with conviction on a course of action, I will list both here. This will give me a means of reflection on my intentions and also an opportunity for class members and professors to share their own insight into my processes and ideas.

My first idea was to delve into the topic of memoir writing by focusing on a specific aspect of my identity: my Jewish heritage. I would have sought to use a historical context to describe a “collective memory”, of society’s view of Judaism and establish a connection between this broader context and its influence on my own memories and experiences. My plan was to do some introspective writing into my own thoughts and feelings about being Jewish, which is a part of myself which I never fully embraced.

I would have liked to research the vastly different implication of being Jewish throughout history, and how that has changed in modern times. In our society Jews have assimilated more than ever before, and so I was raised with a drastically different view of my own heritage and religion than that of the preceding generations. Even from a young age I sensed that there was a negative connotation associated with being Jewish. At some distant point on the frontier of memory I shied away from it for fear of being singled out and discriminated against. I would like to research the historical context of anti-Semitism and its far-reaching influence across time other than just the Holocaust. I would use my writing and historical research to demonstrate anti-Semitism not as something of the past to be forgotten or as an isolated incident of the present, but a continuous and interrelated phenomenon. Although Middle Eastern politics are a complex and often emotional issue, I would even go so far as to suggest that anti-Semitism might be a factor in the world’s perception of the conflict in Israel in some ways. The clearest example of this would be recent political protests across Europe that have quickly morphed from being anti-Israel to attacking Jewish communities just as in the days of the pogroms.

Although there would be a lot to be gained from delving into these topics, my interests and abilities are a little more aligned with creative writing and I would like to explore the practice of that through a much different project concept. A couple of years ago, while working as an assistant in a Physical Therapy office, I had the pleasure of meeting an extraordinary woman who is recovering from the effects of a debilitating car accident. Throughout the months of working closely with her on her rehabilitation, we eventually transcended our professional relationship and became friends. During our lengthy PT sessions she had ample time to confide in me about her life. She told me about her childhood in Trinidad, her career in the police force and appointment to detective, and the tragic accident during a high-speed pursuit that left her in a coma. After a long and difficult recovery she applied to law school, where she studied abroad in Italy despite having to rely on two crutches. She eventually became assistant District Attorney, and was well on her way to District Attorney when a second car accident nearly made her a quadriplegic. It was at this point that I met her, as she began the recovery process again.

Her story is astounding, and speaks to her determination and indomitable spirit. I would especially like to focus in on those elements and qualities that have allowed her to persevere through so much adversity. Her story is already the subject of various news articles, but none that delve into the depth of her character the way I intend to. I hope that by recording her thoughts on this and her life’s story, I will be able to inspire others just as I was inspired. In addition to the learning that can come from the process of recording her story, there is the added benefit of being able to explore the project’s effects of my own ideas and experiences through my weekly journal. I didn’t want the fact that choosing this topic would be far more enjoyable work to be the deciding factor, but I believe there is merit in going with the first instinct and doing work that is both enjoyable and gratifying, which is how I have arrived at this conclusion for a project.

For anyone that is interested I will provide links below to some articles have already written about her compelling story:

http://nypost.com/1999/05/27/being-a-n-y-cop-nearly-killed-me-isabelle-redmans-amazing-car-crash-comeback/

http://nypost.com/2004/06/17/shields-of-honor-survivor-ex-cop-among-nypd-medalists/

http://www.nydailynews.com/archives/boroughs/sacrifice-not-forgotten-article-1.582527

We set off down an unfamiliar trail with the sun already high in the sky, presiding over a forest newly vibrant with the warmth of early summer. As we walked in tense anticipation I was keenly aware of how the sunlight would filter down through the trees to flicker across my face, the fleeting glow of which provided me with a temporary distraction and much needed respite. It was to be my third season as a camper in the 11^th summer of my life, and already I was beginning to grow acquainted with that sinking feeling which so often escorts me to the precipice of change.

Unsure of exactly where we were headed, the sight of a figure in the distance walking towards us on the trail did little to quell my discomfort. My uneasiness jerked me from the moment, and as I briefly disconnected from my surroundings and withdrew inwards I found myself thinking back to the events which had brought me to that point. For the past two summers I had been a camper at a fairly normal, if a bit rustic, camp called Timberlake which is part of a greater community of camps called Farm & Wilderness. When we arrived to Timberlake on the first day to check-in, earlier that bright morning, my mother had been the first to receive the news. After what seemed like ages she emerged from the main office with shock and dismay written plainly on her face. “There’s been a mix-up with the paperwork” she told me. “I’m sorry, but if you want to go to camp your only choice is to attend Flying Cloud or spend the summer at home.”

This was a difficult piece of news. As innocent as I was to the ways of the world, my mother may as well have told me she was shipping me off to the Congo. From my limited perspective I couldn’t fathom a more sudden and momentous change, nor a culture more radically different from my own. Nearly all that I had heard of Flying Cloud came from legends passed between Timberlake campers around the campfire. Although all of the camps had slightly different themes of focus such as hiking, farming and gardening, or skills typical of boy scouts, Flying Cloud stood out for its extreme emphasis on survival and primitive living skills. Its campers were said to possess astonishing ability in these areas and their exploits were a frequent topic of gossip. Due to their primitive encampment’s remote location embedded deep in the Green Mountains 9 miles away from the rest of the camps, we would only see them at large and infrequent all-camp gatherings. They would hike all the way down to these events and emerge from the forest like woodland creatures, often barefoot and shaggy. They smelled of smoke and adorned themselves with unfamiliar artifacts as though a part of some lost tribe, which only validated the rumors for me. One popular tale told of a barbaric rite of passage where new members were initiated by being cast out into the wilds for several days with nothing more than a pocket knife and a potato to make use of as they could. The rest was shrouded in mystery, and the subject of much speculation.

Although the little that I knew was surely intimidating, I found myself inexplicably drawn to the idea of Flying Cloud. Rather than share my mother’s dread at the prospect of the switch I was able to swallow the knot of anxiety welling up inside me and give myself over to the new experience. In a sense it was a stroke of luck, because at that age it would have been difficult for me to take matters into my own hands and initiate such a drastic change myself, even if I did find the idea of Flying Cloud strangely appealing. With abrupt certainty I said my farewells to my friends at Timberlake as if in a daze and we set out in search of the dirt road leading to my mysterious new home. I had never been on a dirt road before, and barely had time to absorb the experience before the car rolled to a halt. After traveling several miles, it seems that the road had ended without explanation in an overgrown clearing bordered by crumbling cliffs and rubble. Puzzled, my mom double checked to make sure we had gone the right way before we got out of the car looking for a sign.

It was as we were struggling uphill on a rugged footpath which we presumed to lead in the right direction that I spotted the figure walking towards us. My mind came back into focus just in time to process the introduction of one of the Farm & Wilderness directors who had come to assist us with our luggage. As we all walked together back to the car, he assured us that we were indeed on the right path. The camp is so rustic as to be made inaccessible by motor vehicle, and so the only way to reach it by car is to park in the “gravel pit” and then walk about a mile. Although he had come to help us with the luggage, he took one look at the engorged behemoth of a duffel back that we had packed for Timberlake and began shaking his head. “Mind if I take a look?” he said as he unzipped the bag and began sorting through my belongings. “There’s no electricity of any kind at Flying Cloud, so you won’t be needing these” He said as he pulled out assorted flashlights, headlights, and camping lanterns. “or these” as a watch, alarm clock, and phone were also expunged. “And all this bulky cotton clothing won’t be any use when it’s wet. It won’t keep you warm, plus it’s heavy and hard to dry in the sun’” After all of the electronics and other superfluous items were removed I was surprised to see that my remaining possessions were light enough for us to carry together.

As we made our way up the narrow trail while hefting my newly shameful materialistic cargo, I was introduced to the reality of camp Flying Cloud through the explanation of the director. Flying Cloud was founded in the 60’s by a Native American counselor at Timberlake by the same name, who set it up as a primitive encampment and began teaching survival skills as taught by Natives of his tribe. When Flying Cloud himself died in the Vietnam War, the role of providing guidance to the camp was passed on to other Native Americans in the nearby community, and so over the years there has been a continuous tradition of learning survival skills passed down directly from indigenous people. In keeping with the values of simplicity and community of the camp, there is no electricity or running water. Instead the campers are expected to take turns working for the benefit of the community. Each morning one group of campers pumps water out of a well, while another cooks for the group over an open fire. Still more campers drag dead branches in from the forest while others chop the branches into firewood and set the wood to dry. Every so often all the campers rally together to bring up food from the “gravel pit.” Food is refrigerated in an ice house that is supplied each winter by dedicated campers that cut the ice out of the pond and bury it in saw dust. The counselors mostly just oversee the process and provide guidance along the way, while allowing campers a great deal of freedom and independence.

“Well, here we are” said the director after his lengthy briefing. “Is this the camp?” I said, with apprehension.  All I could see was a clearing where the trail seemed to reach an end. As I stepped cautiously to the edge of the clearing I saw a sight I will never forget. Nestled into the warm lush forest from which we had emerged was an open meadow brimming with waist-high grass moved by the breeze like the windswept pool of a secret oasis. All along the periphery of the meadow were towering teepees covered in primal murals scrawled along white canvas. They stood tall and proud as the trees along the edges of the forest like sentinels keeping watch, exotic monuments the likes of which I had never seen before. It wasn’t long before I was assigned to one of them, and a counselor who was introduced to me as River Holds the Stone was handing me a shovel and asking me to help dig a trench around the new teepee. Somehow they had divined that it might rain the next day and they were concerned about our stuff washing away in a deluge should the torrential rain flow through the teepee. “Don’t worry” I said to my mom as she was getting ready to leave “I think I like it here”.

Not only did I like it, after 4 summers as a camper at Flying Cloud its impact on me was an indelible mark that I carry with me to this day. In my final summer I had the honor of being selected as drumkeeper for ceremonies, which was a sought after leadership position. I became good friends with the firekeeper that season, and he later invited me on a group trip to Africa which was to be my first international journey, the spark that lit many fires. The summers I spent at Farm and Wilderness were an important refuge for me and a crucial part of my development. Not only did I derive many of my values from my summers there, but it was a safe space to heal from my parent’s divorce where I could find a sense of self. In an effort to avoid “cultural appropriation” the camp has since moved away from its roots in Native American culture and spirituality and developed its own unique traditions, I consider myself lucky to have had that experience and cherish insight which it has afforded me. I will always believe in the healing power of nature and put my faith in the bonds that a tight knit community can foster. The decision to attend Flying Cloud that summer was like a stone tossed into still water, whose concentric ripples continue to span outward and reverberate through time.