Un Amour de Swann
I was reading (I swear) for class...Marcel Proust as a matter of fact...
"...and in the evening, after dinner, if she wished to stay at home in deshabille, if he had been forced to stay beside her, to do what she asked..."
...and the word deshabille gave me the oddest sense of deja vu. I fancied that in a dream once I had read that exact word and in this dream it conjured instantly in my mind images of the freckled boy in the transgressions of infedility. I seem to remember waking up and being very disturbed. Dreams tend to affect my waking emotional state. Dreams, in the end, are just as real as waking life aren't they? They are real to me. I still experience them - their emotion. When I was talking to the freckled boy on the phone that morning, he couldn't help but notice my agitation as he is apt at doing despite my best deceptive efforts (a clear difference between us since I have never been able to decipher the difference between the smoke and the screen). He assured me that it was nothing more than my worst fear.
"And yet he would have liked to live until the time came when he no longer loved her, whe she would have no reason for lying to him, when at length he might learn from her whether, on the day when he had gone to see her in the afternoon, she had or had not been in bed with Forcheville."
"There were even days when he was not tormented by any suspicion. He fancied that he was cured. But next morning, when he awoke, he felt in the same place the same pain, the sensation of which, the day before, he had as it were diluted in the stream of different daytime impressions. But it had not stirred from its place. Indeed, it was the sharpness of this pain that had awakened him."
"When our happiness is no longer in their hands, how calm, how relaxed, how bold we become in their presence!"
"He remembered the gas-jets being extinguished along the Boulevard des Italiens when he had met her against all expectations among the errant shades on that night which had seemed to him almost supernatural and which indeed - a night from a period when he had not even to ask himself whether he would be annoying her by looking for her and finding her, so certain was he that she knew no greater happiness than to see him and to let him take her home - belonged to a mysterious world, to which on never may return again once its doors are closed."
If Proust were alive - I should like to tell him to shut the fuck up.
"...and in the evening, after dinner, if she wished to stay at home in deshabille, if he had been forced to stay beside her, to do what she asked..."
...and the word deshabille gave me the oddest sense of deja vu. I fancied that in a dream once I had read that exact word and in this dream it conjured instantly in my mind images of the freckled boy in the transgressions of infedility. I seem to remember waking up and being very disturbed. Dreams tend to affect my waking emotional state. Dreams, in the end, are just as real as waking life aren't they? They are real to me. I still experience them - their emotion. When I was talking to the freckled boy on the phone that morning, he couldn't help but notice my agitation as he is apt at doing despite my best deceptive efforts (a clear difference between us since I have never been able to decipher the difference between the smoke and the screen). He assured me that it was nothing more than my worst fear.
"And yet he would have liked to live until the time came when he no longer loved her, whe she would have no reason for lying to him, when at length he might learn from her whether, on the day when he had gone to see her in the afternoon, she had or had not been in bed with Forcheville."
"There were even days when he was not tormented by any suspicion. He fancied that he was cured. But next morning, when he awoke, he felt in the same place the same pain, the sensation of which, the day before, he had as it were diluted in the stream of different daytime impressions. But it had not stirred from its place. Indeed, it was the sharpness of this pain that had awakened him."
"When our happiness is no longer in their hands, how calm, how relaxed, how bold we become in their presence!"
"He remembered the gas-jets being extinguished along the Boulevard des Italiens when he had met her against all expectations among the errant shades on that night which had seemed to him almost supernatural and which indeed - a night from a period when he had not even to ask himself whether he would be annoying her by looking for her and finding her, so certain was he that she knew no greater happiness than to see him and to let him take her home - belonged to a mysterious world, to which on never may return again once its doors are closed."
If Proust were alive - I should like to tell him to shut the fuck up.