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and just as there are freezing blasts and balmy currents, winds from
the north and from the south, so too the Proustian character varies
according as the gust of existence blows from the C6te de Meseglise
or the C6te de Guermantes. There is nothing surprising in the fre-
quency with which this writer speaks of "c6tes" since, the world
being a meteorological reality for him, he naturally thinks in terms
of quadrants.
I suggest, then, that an inspired rejection of the external and con-
ventional form of things forces Proust to define them by reference to
their inner form, their internal structure. But this structure is of a
microscopic sort, which explains why Proust had to get so ab-
normally close to things, and why he was led into poetic histology.
More than anything else his work resembles those anatomical
treatises that the Germans entitle, for example: UberfeinerenBau der
Retinades Kanninchens, "On the microstructure of the retina of the
rabbit."
Microscopic interest signifies an interest in details. An interest in
details requires prolixity. The atmospheric interpretation of human
life, and the minute analysis used in describing it, inevitably impose
upon the works of Proust an attribute that might well appear to be a
defect. I am referring to the peculiar fatigue that the reading of
these volumes produces in even their most devoted admirers. If it
were merely a question of the usual fatigue that feather-brained
books secrete, there would be nothing more to say about it. But
the fatigue that comes with reading Proust has very special charac-
teristics and has nothing to do with boredom. With Proust we never
get bored. It is very rare that even a single page should be lacking
in adequate, indeed ample, intensity. Nevertheless, we are always
ready, at any moment, to leave off the reading of Proust. Moreover,
throughout the work we feel ourselves constantly halted, as if we
were not allowed to advance at will, as if the rhythm of the author
were always slower than our own, imposing a perpetual ritardando
upon our haste.
Therein consists both the drawback and the advantage of im-
pressionism: in the volumes of Proust, as I have said, nothing
happens, there is no dramatic action, there is no process. They are
composed of a series of pictures extremely rich in content, but
static. We mortals, however, by our very nature, are dynamic;
we are interested in nothing but movement.
When Proust tells us that the little bell jangles in the gateway of
the garden in Combray and that one can hear the voice of Swann
who has just arrived, our attention lights upon this event and
gathering up its forces prepares to leap to another event which
doubtless is going to follow and for which the first one is prepara-
tory. We do not inertly install ourselves in the first event; once we
have summarily understood it, we feel ourselves dispatched towards
another one still to come. In life, we believe, each event announces
its successorand is the point of transition towards it, and so on until
a trajectory has been traced, just as one mathematical point suc-
ceeds another until a line has been formed. Proust ruthlessly ig-
nores our dynamic nature. He constantly forces it to remain in the
first event, sometimes for a hundred pages and more. Nothing
follows the arrival of Swann; no other point links up with this one.
On the contrary, the arrival of Swann in the garden, that simple
momentary event, that point of reality, expands without progress-
ing, stretches without changing into another, increases in volume
and for page after page we do not depart from it: we only see it
grow elastically, swell up with new details and new significance, en-
large like a soap-bubble embroidering itself with rainbows and
images.
We experience, thus, a kind of torture in reading Proust. His art
works upon our hunger for action, movement, progression as a
continual restraint that holds us back; we suffer like the quail that,
taking flight within his cage, strikes against the wire vault in which
his prison terminates. The muse of Proust could well be called
"Morosidad" (Sloth), his style consisting in the literary exploita-
tion of that delectatiomorosawhich the Councils of the Church
punished so severely.
We can now see with abundant clarity how the Proustian cycle of
elemental "inventions" is structured. We can now see how his
modification of ordinary distance and form is the natural conse-
quence of his fundamental attitude towards memory. When memory
is taken as one material among others for the intellectual recon-
struction of reality, we only avail ourselves of that bit of remember-
ing which we can use. Instead of allowing it to grow according to
its own inherent principle, we move beyond. In reasoning and in
simple association of ideas, our soul effects a trajectory, passes
from one thing to another, our attention progressing by means of
successive displacements. But if, turning our backs on reality, we
throw ourselves into the contemplation of memory, we see that it