Letters to the Lady Upstairs by Marcel Proust – digested read

‘I pray the fighting does not reach Paris – though what will be will be, as the Duchesse de Guermantes used to say while walking among the periwinkles
and forget-me-nots’


Your letter gave me so much desire to see you, and then at the very moment that I received the letter, I realised you had left, for that is the very nature of an epistolary exchange, a state of joyeuse tristesse in which the two parties converse at a distance yet never enjoy the pleasure of meeting, but still one that is perhaps best suited to those whose temperament is steeped in a desire to recreate through memory, though one cannot say for certain, since memory informs our comprehension of ourselves and yet somehow obscures it, hiding our latency, our very identity through our inability to discriminate between the trivial and the consequential, creating an endless stream of consciousness that reminds me, much like the fragment of the César Franck quartet I fleetingly heard while I lay ill in bed, that through the fissures of memory comes understanding.

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