Dreaming with Proust

Parisian sleep remains the most undisturbed‚ restful reverie that I have experienced. The City of Light not only harbors the dreams of men from modern times‚ but also retains the visions of people from the past. Iron streetlamps line the boulevards and sidewalks along the main river‚ which cuts through the ancient heart of the city. After straining my lazy Texan legs across the hilly labyrinthine streets of Paris all day‚ I am exhausted. Despite being a bustling hub of modern art‚ haute couture‚ and good old-fashioned class‚ Paris remains peacefully quiet at night. My teeny tiny hotel on the Left Bank leaves only one thing to be desired: air conditioning. The summers here are hot and lush with green trees‚ but shade cannot keep the humidity from my skin. At night‚ a cool breeze rushes through the storied buildings and up into my dimly lit room.

While resting alongside the Seine in a hotel where Oscar Wilde spent many of his nights‚ I begin to dream of the stars‚ en français of course. Marcel Proust's ghost hangs in my mind from a portrait I saw near the Sorbonne while walking. His richly sweet voice echoes alongside the river‚ lulling me to sleep:

Le seul véritable voyage‚ le seul bain de Jouvence‚ ce ne serait pas d'aller vers de nouveaux paysages‚ mais d'avoir d'autres yeux‚ de voir l'univers avec les yeux d'un autre‚ de cent autres‚ de voir les cent univers que chacun d'eux voit‚ que chacun d'eux est; et cela nous le pouvons. . . avec les pareils [des hommes grands]‚ nous volons vraiment d'étoiles en étoiles.[i]

The only true voyage‚ the only bath in the Fountain of Youth‚ would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes‚ to see the universe through the eyes of another‚ of a hundred others‚ to see the hundred universes that each of them sees‚ that each of them is; and this we can do with the spirits of [great men]; with men like these we really fly from star to star.

The ability to visit another world through another person's perceptions emerges as Proust's main goal. It is necessary to reach into the histories and the perceptions of writers before us to understand how they affect places and time. In order to understand his view of Paris and bourgeois life‚ Proust allows me into the imagination of his own great mind through his writing; his ghost urges me to picture his life as an academic and Frenchman in high society. Proust's insight into how humans connect to each other through both emotion and experience pushes me further into my fantasy.

Marcel Proust is born in Paris July 10, 1871 to a Catholic father and a Jewish mother. Despite his mother’s ethnicity, Proust does not consider himself to be Jewish. Anti-Semitism across France during the late nineteenth century encourages him to consider himself as a Frenchman rather than claiming his mother’s religion. Proust’s Paris is a city full of lively stylishness and affluence. The Tour Eiffel has just been erected, and the first shopping centers are opening along the Champs-Elysées. As early as his beginning years of adulthood, Proust develops his own theories of sentimentalism and sensuality. Struggling with his homosexuality, Proust declares that he wants be remembered as moral and aims to remain pure throughout his early twenties. After his year of voluntary military enlistment, Proust begins to develop his ideas of memory and recollection of images in the mind. Proust states that memory itself is not like a vase in which all contents are able to be extracted with ease. The force and imagery of memories must be triggered by tastes or smells at variant times; remembrance “of things past” is dependent upon situational triggers. Proust’s interests in psychology, philosophy, and art scatter throughout his fictional work.

With their yellowed portraits at my back and the Seine slowly shouldering away through the north‚ the dream begins: I join Proust in his parlor just before his first meeting with Oscar Wilde. I am drinking expensive imported tea from the British Isles‚ and Proust is sipping coffee from the south. At the ripe age of twenty one‚ Proust is already beginning to experience high society while studying law at the Sorbonne. He was raised in a well-off family‚ with enough personal determination to study in military school before returning to Paris for higher learning. Proust invites Wilde over to his apartment for a drink with me‚ but his "perfumed‚ puffy Irish giant" did not linger with us for very long. Upon discovering Proust's heavy‚ dark furniture‚ Mr. Wilde says‚ "How ugly everything is here‚" and leaves.[ii] Proust immediately informs me of his shock: "Not only is he elegant and discerning‚ but above all‚ the voluble quality of his French amazes me." The warm afternoon air swirls around us as I finish my tea. The lavishly draped walls of Proust's parlor room attract my eyes, and I rest in silence nervously.

Monsieur Proust‚ as he insists I refer to him in the most proper manner‚ assures me that he is quite all right after Wilde's subtle rejection and asks‚ "Mademoiselle‚ would you like to take a walk down Boulevard St. Germain near the Jardin du Luxembourg? I quite prefer the Parc Monceau‚ but I was there just yesterday."

Knowing fully his intentions are innocent‚ I confess how much I adore the Latin Quarter and reply‚ "Oui‚ bien sûr." A tête-à-tête with Marcel Proust‚ how can it be true! Of course I cannot resist sharing a promenade with such an amazing man. Marcel and I stroll in the slow‚ Parisian way toward L'école des Sciences Politiques in the Sorbonne where he studies law‚ political science‚ and philosophy. With curiosity I ask‚ "What is your purpose in studying here?" He describes the evolution of the Sorbonne‚ life in Paris‚ and its impact on his writing.

Proust notes‚ "I entered the university to attain a degree in law and another in literature. My intent is to work on my literary sketches during my free time. The most important part of being here is cultivating the elegant families and friends that I make here and carry from military school.[iii] "Paris is such an amazing city! The architecture‚ the music‚ and the sensualities of lively urban days… How do you integrate your physical surroundings and emotional environment into your writing?" I can tell at this point that M. Proust detects my sharp American accent‚ but he accepts it with a smile. Renowned for seeming extraordinarily pretentious and classy‚ Proust insists upon fine silk cravats and elegant dress. His snobbery‚ if it must be called that‚ appears only through his meticulous nature and standards for himself in speech and behavior. Even in dreams‚ his speech flows on into the heavens with style and fluidity. We enter the Jardin du Luxembourg off Boulevard Saint-Michel‚ passing the Panthéon and the Université Paris.

The arched metal gate invites us onto the main path of the garden. Symmetrical lines of trees grow evenly on opposite sides on the way. The garden itself is larger than an American suburban park‚ enclosing the Palais Luxembourg and all of its splendor. Baroque monuments and nineteenth century sculptures surround the main fountain near the center of the garden. Many amazing men and women are honored through busts and statues here‚ most having been erected in Proust's early lifetime. We walk leisurely‚ soaking in the scenery and the calming beauty of the garden. I remind him of my question adding‚ "What do you see when you look into the world to write?"

Proust speaks slowly‚ guiding me through the narrow paths of the park‚ past the little children watching the puppet show and the lovers on benches. He points to the sailboats floating in the Luxembourg pool and says‚ "I prefer to work with emotional impressions of the city rather than working in minute photographic details. Literature which is satisfied to 'describe objects'‚ to give merely a miserable listing of lines and surfaces‚ is the very one which‚ while styling itself 'realist'‚ is the farthest removed from reality‚ the one that impoverishes and saddens us the most‚ for it sharply cuts off all communication of our present self with the past.[iv] " As I nod for his continuation‚ he plunges his voice across the avenues of the Latin Quarter. "Think on the sailboat for example. I would rather relate how a child feels releasing his toy across the open water‚ rather than describing the geometric lines and colors of each little boat in the pond. The subjective impression is for the writer what experimentation is for the scientist‚ but with this difference‚ that with the scientist the work of the intelligence precedes‚ and with the writer it comes afterwards."

In a surreal and velvety manner‚ I soon find myself poised across the table from M. Proust at a café on the Champs-Elysées. Untouched by the sudden‚ seamless jog across the city‚ we sit with our parasols and our fine French café crèmes‚ sipping in the traffic that meanders down the busy street. The sun has set before us‚ bringing dark shadows to the city. . . Meanwhile the restaurants are closing‚ and their lights begin to go out. Under the trees of the boulevards there are still a few people strolling to and fro‚ barely distinguishable in the gathering darkness.[v] As we relax in the night air‚ Monsieur Proust muses over his fascinations with art and philosophy. He tells me that he particularly enjoys Balzac and Gide who I also enjoy. He inquires‚ "Have you read any French literature? Literature is the way to self-discovery. We don't receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves."

Feeling slightly out of my element‚ I tell him the truth: "I have read a lot of short stories‚ especially Francophone literature‚ but very few classic French novels unfortunately. I've read Hugo‚ Baudelaire‚ Maupassant‚ and Lautreamont as well‚ but I regret that I have not read any Flaubert or Colette." Proust avoids correcting my horrendous verb conjugations and asks me how I am enjoying Paris. "I love it here‚ the city's style is amazing! It is so modern and decadent. How do you like it here‚ having lived here all of your life?"

The seasoned Frenchman‚ in spite of his youth‚ shakes his head in amazement and stubborn exasperation. "I adore the city‚ but I hardly love its modernity!" he exclaims. "Does anyone really imagine that these motor-cars are as smart as the old carriage-and-pair? I dare say. . . I was not intended for a world in which women shackle themselves in garments that are not even made of cloth. To what purpose shall I walk among these trees if there is nothing left now of the assembly that used to meet beneath the delicate tracery of reddening leaves‚ if vulgarity and fatuity have supplanted the exquisite thing that once their branches framed?[vi] Indeed‚ I prefer traditional elegance to these 'modern' fancies and trifling fashions."

Smiling through his stereotypical "French" idea of hanging onto the past‚ I agree with Proust for a moment in his traditionalism and savor the historic sights of Paris. The cultural layers of the city’s story continue to grow; centuries of artists, writers, architects, dreamers, and transients have worked to enrich the history of Paris. Proust’s sense of the City of Light and his ideas about it reverberate through the night. Casually‚ I ask him what his favorite place in all of Paris is. He replies with a smile and stirs from his chair: "The places which we have known belong now only to the little world of space on which we map them for our own convenience. None of them was ever more than a thin slice‚ held between the contiguous impressions that composed out life at that time; remembrance of a particular form is but regret for a particular moment; and houses‚ roads‚ avenues are as fugitive‚ alas‚ as the years.[vii] Therefore I love my Paris as it is‚ as it was‚ and as I remember it when it comes to me."

As Edmund White notes, Proust believes in a unique concept of memory. In the world of his sentimentalism, Proust states that memory is not “like a vase in which all contents—all the things we have felt in the past—are available simultaneously.[viii]” The heart, because of its inherent irregularities, filters out certain memories over time. Memories only flood back into consciousness involuntarily when triggered by certain stimuli. The advent of certain tastes, smells, or sights may trigger other sensations or remembrances of things over which a person has no control. Proust’s focus on the heart as an authority over memory appears extremely modern and corresponds with certain Freudian ideas. Freud’s ideas of memory influence Proust and other authors who are preoccupied with the subconscious and the role of memory. Proust stresses the involuntary nature of memory, integrating the idea of self with the past and memory’s effects.

My mind recalls France as a painting with colorful fingers of shadows and light. The trees of the Tuileries Gardens sway in a stretched woeful sigh. I am entranced by my memories of Paris; I often daydream of sitting alongside the duck ponds, writing of how it feels to be on the edge of the earth. Accordions, metro cars, and people blend into a sweet synesthesia. The pleasures of travel, blended with gourmet flavors and photographic memories, heighten in the weight of reality. Coming back to America unchanged seems impossible; a moment on the Champs-Elysees changes memory for life. Seeing Proust’s world through his eyes enriches the normal scenery of my every day existence. Photographs emphasize Proust’s reasoning against the model of a vase as memory. Pictures, often taken out of sequence or at the imperfect time, symbolize the temporality of memory—it is only through rediscovering a scene that a person can begin to experience other sensations with remembrance. The painting from which I recall Paris is a montage of mined ideas and themes from the visual miscellany of France.

We stare out into the swaying radiance of the night‚ spotting the newly erected Tour Eiffel on the horizon across the river. Proust asks me where I am from‚ but before I can answer I find myself awake on the opposite side of his city. Shrouded by a vivid and hazy elation‚ I wake up to find the city almost as it was in the dream. The horrid "motor-cars" zoom down the avenues beneath my feet where Proust once walked with friends‚ for pleasure‚ or for his work. The buildings and hallmarks of his life provide an active landscape of his view of Parisian bourgeois life.

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