Lawrence Durrell
Justine
As many have said before and many will repeat in the future, one of the joys and benefits of rereading some works is the discovery of the "new" or actually unnoticed elements in the work. Sometimes the "new" brings out new themes or motifs in the work. Sometimes it forces a re-thinking about of the work. This is rare, but it does occur, and this is what has happened with this rereading. In spite of three? or four? readings, I never noticed this before or never realized the significance of it.
Justine is Darley's attempt to reconstruct the events of his life in Alexandria and make sense of it. It is flashback, but with a very interrupted and convoluted narrative. He does not go back and start with his arrival in Alexandria and move forward in a chronological straightforward way to the present. Instead, it is almost impossible to construct a chronology without considerable effort, and perhaps considerable guesswork by the reconstructor. I had always taken this as an example of what many modern writers insist is the way that memories work--not in a chronological fashion, but somewhat randomly and those random memories bring up related memories. This is what it seemed was happening in Justine. But, then I read this, seemingly for the first time.
(What I most need to do is to record experiences, not in the order in which they took place--for that is history--but in the order in which they first became significant for me.)
If this is so, then the events presented us are those which became significant in his reconstruction of his past life in Alexandria, and are not simply the random productions of memory. I don't have time now, but I shall leave a note for my next rereading of Justine. I wonder how this will affect my reading.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Monday, April 17, 2017
Thursday, January 19, 2017
Lawrence Durrell: Justine
One of my New Year's resolutions was to read as much of Lawrence Durrell's works this year as I could. Today I begin with Justine, which is only appropriate since my first introduction to his writings was this work. Several decades ago, I was in grad school and on the reading list for a course in 20th century novels (or perhaps 20th century English novels) was Justine. I had heard of Lawrence Durrell and the Alexandria Quartet, but I had never read anything by him before.
I started reading and was confused and bewildered by the first three or four pages as it seemed to be nothing but randomly placed paragraphs with no coherent plan to structure them. I was a bit dismayed, a complete novel like this! Then the following jumped out at me. It wasn't the first sentence of a chapter, or even of a paragraph. It was buried in a longish paragraph, but I had to stop and read it again, and again. It told me what Durrell was up to. I was hooked. I read Justine and then went on to read as much of Durrell as I could find. Now, it's time to do it again.
The sentence:
"The solace of such work as I do with brain and heart lies in this--that only there, in the silences of the painter or the writer can reality be reordered, reworked and made to show its significant side."
I doubt if it grabs others the way it grabbed me, and I can't explain why. It just did.
I started reading and was confused and bewildered by the first three or four pages as it seemed to be nothing but randomly placed paragraphs with no coherent plan to structure them. I was a bit dismayed, a complete novel like this! Then the following jumped out at me. It wasn't the first sentence of a chapter, or even of a paragraph. It was buried in a longish paragraph, but I had to stop and read it again, and again. It told me what Durrell was up to. I was hooked. I read Justine and then went on to read as much of Durrell as I could find. Now, it's time to do it again.
The sentence:
"The solace of such work as I do with brain and heart lies in this--that only there, in the silences of the painter or the writer can reality be reordered, reworked and made to show its significant side."
I doubt if it grabs others the way it grabbed me, and I can't explain why. It just did.
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Robert Grudin: Time and the Art of Living
III.8
"One need only to try to remember the dishes one ate for dinner on each night of the week past to realize that the things we desire as future and enjoy as present are not necessarily the things we value for all time. In this sense memory sits like an incorruptible judge, oblivious to the minor pains and pleasures of the past even as we unreasonably overvalue identical pains and pleasures in the present and future."
Remember dinners for the past week? I have problems remembering one dinner from the past week, or even a few days ago. It is sobering, though, when I think of the times I have gone out, looking forward to a special meal at a restaurant, and now look back and try to remember when I went to that restaurant and what I had there.
Grudin also calls memory "an incorruptible judge" and seems to imply that it judges what's really important and what isn't. That would mean that I remember only those things that are important and forget only those that aren't. Yet when I do remember something that I haven't thought of in years, I am frequently perplexed as to why that has remained in my memory as it seems so inconsequential, so unimportant.
I think it was Pascal who said " "The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of." Well, maybe memory has its reasons also.
The things you remember--are they always the important things?
"One need only to try to remember the dishes one ate for dinner on each night of the week past to realize that the things we desire as future and enjoy as present are not necessarily the things we value for all time. In this sense memory sits like an incorruptible judge, oblivious to the minor pains and pleasures of the past even as we unreasonably overvalue identical pains and pleasures in the present and future."
Remember dinners for the past week? I have problems remembering one dinner from the past week, or even a few days ago. It is sobering, though, when I think of the times I have gone out, looking forward to a special meal at a restaurant, and now look back and try to remember when I went to that restaurant and what I had there.
Grudin also calls memory "an incorruptible judge" and seems to imply that it judges what's really important and what isn't. That would mean that I remember only those things that are important and forget only those that aren't. Yet when I do remember something that I haven't thought of in years, I am frequently perplexed as to why that has remained in my memory as it seems so inconsequential, so unimportant.
I think it was Pascal who said " "The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of." Well, maybe memory has its reasons also.
The things you remember--are they always the important things?
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Robert Grudin: Which is most important: History or Interpretations of history?
III.4
From his exile at San Casciano, Machiavelli wrote a friend that he spent much time reading the works of ancient writers, adding curiously that he asked them questions which they "answered." What he probably meant was that, like Machiavelli himself, the ancients wrote subtly, that they raised questions in the reader's mind and encouraged him to seek out the answers to these questions between the lines, in the stylistic and structural implications of their work. Good historians treat the past in general this way, asking it questions rather than contenting themselves with its overt and specific messages. And intelligent individuals treat their memories in the same way, realizing that their past is no more finished or dead than their ability to understand it.
-- Robert Grudin --
from Time and the Art of Living
What's most important about history is not the events nor even the overt or specific lessons learned from it. Apparently one should go further than merely look at surface events and look into the questions raised by these surface phenomena. This certainly argues against a literal interpretation of texts and suggests that the important issues are those questions raised by those phenomena.
And, this last sentence seems perplexing to me, for it includes memories as well as history and could one argue that memories can be seen as one's private history?
And intelligent individuals treat their memories in the same way, realizing that their past is no more finished or dead than their ability to understand it.
What does Grudin mean when he says that the past is no more finished or dead than their ability to understand it? Longfellow in his "A Psalm of Life" would certainly disagree here for he insisted that we should "Let the dead Past bury its dead!"
Is Grudin arguing that our past is only as dead as our ability to understand it, or even more curiously is no more finished than (our) ability to understand it?" Does our past change as our ability to understand it changes?
If so, then what is the relationship between our past and our memories of the past?
From his exile at San Casciano, Machiavelli wrote a friend that he spent much time reading the works of ancient writers, adding curiously that he asked them questions which they "answered." What he probably meant was that, like Machiavelli himself, the ancients wrote subtly, that they raised questions in the reader's mind and encouraged him to seek out the answers to these questions between the lines, in the stylistic and structural implications of their work. Good historians treat the past in general this way, asking it questions rather than contenting themselves with its overt and specific messages. And intelligent individuals treat their memories in the same way, realizing that their past is no more finished or dead than their ability to understand it.
-- Robert Grudin --
from Time and the Art of Living
What's most important about history is not the events nor even the overt or specific lessons learned from it. Apparently one should go further than merely look at surface events and look into the questions raised by these surface phenomena. This certainly argues against a literal interpretation of texts and suggests that the important issues are those questions raised by those phenomena.
And, this last sentence seems perplexing to me, for it includes memories as well as history and could one argue that memories can be seen as one's private history?
And intelligent individuals treat their memories in the same way, realizing that their past is no more finished or dead than their ability to understand it.
What does Grudin mean when he says that the past is no more finished or dead than their ability to understand it? Longfellow in his "A Psalm of Life" would certainly disagree here for he insisted that we should "Let the dead Past bury its dead!"
Is Grudin arguing that our past is only as dead as our ability to understand it, or even more curiously is no more finished than (our) ability to understand it?" Does our past change as our ability to understand it changes?
If so, then what is the relationship between our past and our memories of the past?
Friday, January 23, 2015
Robert Grudin: the mind's blind spot
III.3
In the same way that our eyes have blind spots in space, our minds have blind spots in time; areas of time which we habitually or congenitally ignore. My own blind spot is the recent past, the events of yesterday or last week. I experience things quite fully in the present; but then they submerge, not to reappear until they are images on the flat wall of the past. Why is this so? Is there something uncomfortable, raw, undigested, embarrassing about the jumble of experience just behind me? Is it ignored simply because it is too chaotic to make sense? Look at the past day, the past hour: their interruptions, frivolities, compromises, false starts. We may well have good reason to overlook the immediate past, for the immediate past holds the uncensored truth of the present.
I have trouble remembering in the evening what I did that morning or afternoon. This is why I write things down that I want to remember in a small notebook that I carry with me, wherever I go. I call it my non-volatile memory. Even this isn't 100% perfect for sometimes I write so hastily that I can't read my writing (too many years in school taking notes).
At other times I don't put enough information down, so when I do finally stumble across the note, I wonder what it means and why I wrote it. For example, I will come across a note--find and email the name of the author of such-and-such book. Unfortunately I didn't write down the name of the person I was doing the research for.
I suspect we forget a lot that happens recently because we consider it trivial and don't really focus on it long enough to be retained in memory. Something happens and then something else happens that pushes it out of our mind, and so it goes, until a significant event occurs, which remains with us long enough to be retained.
Any thoughts?
Do you have any mental blind spots?
In the same way that our eyes have blind spots in space, our minds have blind spots in time; areas of time which we habitually or congenitally ignore. My own blind spot is the recent past, the events of yesterday or last week. I experience things quite fully in the present; but then they submerge, not to reappear until they are images on the flat wall of the past. Why is this so? Is there something uncomfortable, raw, undigested, embarrassing about the jumble of experience just behind me? Is it ignored simply because it is too chaotic to make sense? Look at the past day, the past hour: their interruptions, frivolities, compromises, false starts. We may well have good reason to overlook the immediate past, for the immediate past holds the uncensored truth of the present.
I have trouble remembering in the evening what I did that morning or afternoon. This is why I write things down that I want to remember in a small notebook that I carry with me, wherever I go. I call it my non-volatile memory. Even this isn't 100% perfect for sometimes I write so hastily that I can't read my writing (too many years in school taking notes).
At other times I don't put enough information down, so when I do finally stumble across the note, I wonder what it means and why I wrote it. For example, I will come across a note--find and email the name of the author of such-and-such book. Unfortunately I didn't write down the name of the person I was doing the research for.
I suspect we forget a lot that happens recently because we consider it trivial and don't really focus on it long enough to be retained in memory. Something happens and then something else happens that pushes it out of our mind, and so it goes, until a significant event occurs, which remains with us long enough to be retained.
Any thoughts?
Do you have any mental blind spots?
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