Leucothea's veil

. . . and each of these Albertines was different, as in every fresh  appearance of the dancer whose colours, form, character, are transmuted according to the innumerably varied play of a projected limelight. It was perhaps because they were so different, the persons whom I used to contemplate in her at this period, that later on I became myself a different person, corresponding to the particular Albertine to whom my thoughts had turned; a jealous, an indifferent, a voluptuous, a melancholy, a frenzied person, created anew not merely by the accident of what memory had risen to the surface, but in proportion also to the strength of the belief that was lent to the support of one and the same memory by the varying manner in which I appreciated it. For this is the point to which we must always return, to these beliefs with which most of the time we are quite unconsciously filled, but which for all that are of more importance to our happiness than is the average person whom we see, for it is through them that we see him, it is they that impart his momentary greatness to the person seen. To be quite accurate I ought to give a different name to each of the 'me’s' who were to think about Albertine in time to come; I ought still more to give a different name to each of the Albertines who appeared before me, never the same, like -- called by me simply and for the sake of convenience 'the sea'--those seas that succeeded one another on the beach, in front of which, a nymph likewise, she stood apart. But above all, in the same way as, in telling a story (though to far greater purpose here), one mentions what the weather was like on such and such a day, I ought always to give its name to the belief that, on any given day on which I saw Albertine, was reigning in my soul, creating its atmosphere, the appearance of people like that of seas being dependent on those clouds, themselves barely visible, which change the colour of everything by their concentration, their mobility, their dissemination, their flight-- like that cloud which Elstir had rent one evening by not introducing me to these girls, with whom he had stopped to talk, whereupon their forms, as they moved away, had suddenly increased in beauty—a cloud that had formed again a few days later when I did get to know the girls, veiling their brightness, interposing itself frequently between my eyes and them, opaque and soft, like Virgil’s Leucothea. ("Within a Budding Grove" II.346)

Exploring this transformation to the image of Leucothea's veil.  The rough progression of nouns here (skipping a few): 

Albertines 

dancer

colors 

form 

character

play

limelight

persons 

I 

memory

surface

belief

manner

point

time

name

me's

Albertines

sea

beach 

nymph

story 

weather 

day

soul 

atmosphere 

appearance

seas 

clouds 

color

concentration

mobility

dissemination 

flight

cloud 

Elstir

evening 

girls

forms

beauty

cloud 

days

girls

brightness

eyes

Virgil’s

Leucothea

Transformation of images/metaphors:

       We begin with a multiplicity of Albertines.  In each one resides the "appearance of a dancer," with  transforming elements of "colours, form, character"-- changing from shifts in hue to the more radical alterations of shape and essence-- all under the guiding influence of the "limelight."  The image of the dancer provides a sense of movement, lightness, and grace, while the "varied play" of the stage light intentionally directs viewers' attention and alters their perceptions. The dancer becomes a blur of movement and color, leaving us to wonder what could possibly be the "real" nature of the dancer, of Albertine?  But what we can answer about this question, Proust speculates is more about the viewer.  We discern latent pieces surrounding the overall narrative of Albertine, her colors, forms, and characters. Then it is an act of belief to reconcile our narrative to the person under scrutiny, to formulate where the dancer is now and all her past movements into one unfolding dance. Thus the dance emerges from this act of "ris[ing] to the surface" through all the layers of consciousness.  And through surfacing, we move into the next metaphor, the sea.

       Albertine is also like the sea, in that one name simplifies a much more complex entity.  The sea has her mutability as well, and Proust makes her a nymph on the beach under those changes circumstances of clouds and light that form the character of a day, as Proust argues, the very "atmosphere" of the viewer's soul.  What we see by subtle changes in light is not just the moving dancer, nymph, sea, but a changing glimpse of our internal being. Then the focus alters to the clouds themselves: "their mobility, their dissemination, their flight--" as a protective covering shading the otherwise too piercing beauty of the sun's unabashed brightness, parallel to the girls' beauty.  A cloud the narrator finds gives him some safety from too keen a desire-- too keen a vision-- experienced in true Proustian fashion by the narrator wanting what he cannot have.  In the end, this cloud becomes like the "opaque and soft" Leucothea.  More properly the clouds might be Leucothea's veil, but here the "veil" is reserved for the verb "veiling," and the clouds seem to morph into Leucothea herself: her essential grace, her principle of saving.

        Leucothea in The Odyssey was a young woman that became a sea goddess and rescued Odysseus by giving him her veil to wrap around his body and stay afloat in the waves.  Here she connects with Albertine as another young woman and unites the nymph reference, sea metaphor, and cloud/veiling imagery.  Proust transitions us as readers from clouds to the image of her veil: white, soft, covering.  From water vapor to the sea-goddess enfolding the drowning sea-goer to buoy him up in the waves, as the clouds cloak the too brilliant heat and light of desire from the narrator, to also save him from a type of drowning.
Creating atmosphere in the soul.  Saving the soul.

Freewrite

I don't know how this is going to come together. I've been watching stupid television and feeling lazy all day. So, I decided I just needed to write something, even something rambling, incomplete, ungrammatical, silly, and with mixed metaphors.

Upon finishing the translation of Things Past the other day, I had one of those rare but meaningful moments when I remember what it is I love. --Those moments when you're caught up in aesthetic completion, those moments some books make us feel. This book was such an immense labor of time, going through it. And while some passages along the way are vivid, lovely, and wonderful... there are also moments that annoy, as the character wallows in his possessive jealousy or recounts tales of casual sex with milk, bakery, and grocer "girls." (But, now I'm getting side-tracked). Because the experience was one of greater beauty, and lingering on the more annoying aspects makes me forget my larger point. The point is that I'm grateful to be able to appreciate this sort of work of art, to be able to see the bigger picture, to get aesthetic pleasure from a text.

Then there was Thanksgiving, and I began to realize that I should be thankful for who I am --. If you think about it, really, the odds of you being you and me being me were crazy. First, none of our ancestors had to die from plague or a dinosaur (Kentucky science) before some other ancestor of ours was born. Secondly, consider the odds we were up against even with the thousands of eggs and innumerable sperm.... (ok, I wander again). My point is that I'm ok with my own existence. I have been blessed with the ability to feel and experience some few things in unique ways. I don't mean to sound like an ass, although with the egoism involved in blogging, I'm afraid I probably come across that way a lot. (I really try not to). I think there are thousands of ways of appreciating beauty, and we're all given unique insights and ways to contribute to the whole. As an example, I wish I had some insight into the beauty of math. I know some individuals can see in numbers, formulas, and proofs a pleasurable pattern; they perceive a beauty I can only realize exists, but I do not get to personally experience. They have an insight with the universe that deepens it. They add to God's creation by adding to God's experience of her creation.

Many people understand the underlying aesthetic wonder of nature itself, of painting, of music --we all get glimpses of the undercurrents of beauty rippling through different dimensions of our world. We tap into the groundwater now and then, even if it's a short, shallow drink. Still the water is cool and refreshing. Our souls receive life and are enlarged. This is also the spiritual experience. This is also love and friendship. These are the cherished and wonderful things that we all hold very dear.

But to hear a beautiful sonata is only one level. Imagine being Mozart. There is the human working through layers of deeper connection to creativity itself. Bringing back that vision, that touching of the stars, to share with other hearts and minds, not given the direct involvement.

Still, each time someone new experiences a beautiful song or finds something worthy, it deepens the universe's memory and experience of it. What I'm also saying is that we don't have to be Mozart. Each time something beautiful is relived and recreated, we participate in the life of beauty, of the life of art, in life itself (whatever mysterious purpose it has). So, while I do not create works of art, I feel the current of beauty running through them, some more than others. And that is a blessing. It is a gift to get a sense of completion from a text that feels like more than the writer, more than the words, more than myself.

The other day I was reading about a technique where painters use two colors alongside each other to create the impression of a third color. The third color isn't "really" there-- but it's the combination of the two and the human mind's filtering of the experience that gives rise to something more than what simply meets the eye. I feel lucky to get moments of seeing the third color when I read. I think some of us have that wellspring, and while we may often be burdened by thinking so much about something, at times it loses all distinction and becomes a mere blur, we also get the pleasure of a level of understanding not small in its beauty.

This sense, this third color also emerges in our personal lives and relationships. It emerges in our friendships and in our marriages. Think of how in a marriage you become more than a single person; you become a couple. You're both still complete individuals (in good marriages) but a third quality emerges, and that is the quality of you two together. That aspect that comes through is love and the unique way your relationship develops and adds to this world. They say when people are married "two become one," but I see it a little differently. My math doesn't add up I suppose. 1 + 1 = 3 . Again, back to me not understanding math!

Now, I feel the need to step back. Certainly I am a little speck of dust. There are people much, much smarter, more creative, more insightful, more everything. But for my lump of clay, I contribute to God's experience of beautiful things and add my humble love and ecstatic excitement, at least every now and then. That is what I can hope for and can be happy to feel on occasion. To be ungrateful would be to diminish the generosity of a thoughtful gift.

I know too that I have friends that feel and understand similar experiences. I know they access similar points of beauty. I have friends that know more than I do and have deeper wells into areas I do not venture. Some of them participate in the living waters of knowledge, especially specialized areas, of music, or art, of different types of literature, of different languages, philosophies, and ideas. We each have our own way of uniquely experiencing beauty through, being, and beyond ourselves. And while we may not see them all, we can still celebrate them.

Comforting Words

I found some comforting words today upon finishing In Search of Lost Time, the story of my graduate career:

"Our greatest fears, like our greatest ambitions, are not beyond our strength, and we are able in the end to overcome the one and to realize the other."

(I hope so).

This summary also seemed comforting:
"In Search of Lost Time is the story of a man who is unable to bring himself to write. Finally he discovers his theme and decides it is time to begin. And as we finish reading the novel, we realize that it is the book on which he is about to start. Here we have the perfectly formed circle of ‘Time Lost’ and ‘Time Regained’, which was Proust’s original plan."

(In the end, Proust had time & strength to write thousands of pages).
-----------------------------------
Just for my own reference: this article.