À la recherche du temps perdu

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Month: April, 2017

Quotes from Testaments Betrayed

Try to reconstruct a dialogue from your own life, the dialogue of a quarrel or a dialogue of love. The most precious, the most important situations are utterly gone. Their abstract sense remains (I took this point of view, he took that one, I was aggressive, he was defensive), perhaps a detail or two, but the acousticovisual concreteness of the situation in all its continuity is lost.

And not only is it lost but we do not even wonder at this loss. We are resigned to losing the concreteness of the present. We immediately transform the present moment into its abstraction. We need only recount an episode we experienced a few hours ago: the dialogue contracts to a brief summary, the setting to a few general features. This applies to even the strongest memories, which affect the mind deeply, like a trauma: we are so dazzled by their potency that we don’t realize how schematic and meager their content is.

When we study, discuss, analyze a reality, we analyze it as it appears in our mind, in our memory. We know reality only in the past tense. We do not know it as it is in the present, in the moment when it’s happening, when it is. The present moment is unlike the memory of it. Remembering is not the negative of forgetting. Remembering is a form of forgetting.

We can assiduously keep a diary and note every event. Rereading the entries one day, we will see that they cannot evoke a single concrete image. And still worse: that the imagination is unable to help our memory along and reconstruct what has been forgotten. The present – the concreteness of the present – as a phenomenon to consider, as a structure, is for us an unknown planet; so we can neither hold on to it in our memory nor reconstruct it through imagination. We die without knowing what have lived.

—- Testaments Betrayed: An Essay in Nine Parts, Milan Kundera

Karenin’s Smile

Was reading the passage about Tereza and Karenin, where Milan Kundera wrote that our love for animals was our link to paradise, where everything was pure, including love. Then I was suddenly reminded of an early episode in my life and was seized by an enormous remorse. The remorse was so great I could not believe I had buried it in my heart among all the other insignificant memories. It concerned the first guinea pig we had. I was probably seven or eight. We were so excited by this little creature we kept grabbing it and throwing the poor thing about with our gloved hands, laughing and screaming all the while. The same evening it was dead. My mother just dumped it together with the other household garbage, its lifeless body out-stretched and half visible through the white garbage bag. We could have at least given it a decent burial, but instead it was just there, cramped together with the leftover of our dinner, its white belly pressed against the plastic film. The worst part of the remorse was that I could not recall my feeling remorse for killing a life. The next guinea pig lived a long life with us, if that was any kind of consolation.