Looking for Proust on the Swann path
Yesterday, perhaps in a futile attempt to recover the lost time, I felt an uncertain experience of Dêja-Vu, of which I am not yet fully convinced, but of which I wonder, vanity of vanities, if it was really a dream or a dream or I was a propitiatory victim in the holocaust of an unexpected dysfunction of the vigil, the disease of the poets, as I understand, related to that unique state, to which some melancholy navigators refer to as reverie.
I think, if I remember correctly, my intentions were to meet Swann; Make me the encounter with him, try to win his confidence with the weapons of seduction, and once in my field, to smear without violence the secret of his way. But, nevertheless, to meet Swann- thought- I had to find that literary celestina that was Marcel Proust.
Walking, then, through the surroundings of the pond of the good retreat – where that excellent grumpy of Don Pío Baroja placed his cheerful nights and the, then recently released and therefore the novel house of wild beasts attracted the enthusiasm of infants and older The faces of all those who crossed me, thinking about which of those masks the spirit of that lucky son of the muse would be hid but also, of ‘discreetly homosexual and maniac of literature’.
I thought, in my discreet wandering, and very much, that the world is not made for those other winks of love; winks not exempt from innocence, in some cases, which, however, as a rue that seems to be mention misunderstood machismo and misunderstanding. ‘Long live the bonfires’, -I told me, I know, thinking that Spain remained that ‘non plus ultra’ of the country that cling desperately to its Byzantine pyromania and where, if there is no jubilee bull to deal with, there are cabinets whose door is Better close again, in the name of that terrifying ‘coconut’, which is the bad decency understood.
During my walk, paradoxically unknown paths of well -known nostalgia, I watched some clouds, whose color intuited that the sky, jealously faithful to its own original laws, would soon paint colors of the Greco, which would overshadow the earth with the banners of chaos. And those clouds, messengers of forgotten gods in the archetypal oceans of the unconscious, similarly speaking, an asteroid that he intended to do with the tents of the Pacific pond, which the other, makes millennia, did with the dinosaurs.
In the end, thinking about Proust, and thinking that memory, after all, is not, but a thick labyrinth where the memory of the memory resides, I understood that Swann’s path is the story of the path of any of us, inside or Out of that selective observation of penalty and glory, known as good society, whether or not you are released from its chains, oppressions and vanities. A story- just to this complementary circumstance- of those everyday, but desperately intense, where love, the great mocker of all time, wants but cannot. That he comes and goes, like the twin brother of any wind of the spirit. And of which, however, it can also be said that he gives himself, sometimes the approval of stopping where he wants enough time, with seductive determination, as to get the miracle that a person feels sufficiently Fortunate to think, that after all, that tyrant father who is the old Cronos, has granted him the approval of a truce, to prepare him with a flash of what the mystics define as eternity.
Notes, references and bibliography:
- José María Valverde, in his prologue to the edition of Proust’s novel, ‘On the path of Swann’, by RBA Editores, S.A., Barcelona, 1995.
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