Sunday, February 15, 2015


I've taken to reading Marcel Proust again. Not every day, and not for long. Why? Because Proust reminds me of the subjective skew of recollection. He said, she said, I said, they said. Two individuals can share individual cups of coffee, or view a sunset, or walk a walk. Naturally (and organically, for that matter), their recollections of the shared experience are radically different. Infinitely different. We like to think otherwise, especially when being sentimental, but memory and recollection -- and thinking, if you will -- occupy idiosyncratic spheres that do not ever correspond or overlap perfectly. When you think of it (or feel of it), that's what literature purports to do: to re-create the event, the experience, the wonder, the immediacy, the "it." But it always falls short.

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