Proust And His Fucking Cake

I have this idea that you don’t necessarily get Proust, on some level, until involuntary memory becomes an aspect of sheer mental weight. Until you’ve been above ground long enough to have filled up with significant mass of memory.  And, when you lay down, gravity makes it fall into your conscious mind.  The slightest things trigger it at night, now.  Ghost hands tugging at the rope of a trapdoor with forty-odd years of memory balanced precariously atop it.  The door drops and memories tumble out across the front of my head, unordered and unbidden and often uncomfortable. I notice it a lot, these days (and nights).  The nature of presomnal reverie has changed hugely as I’ve gotten older.  It’s an odd thing, to see the workings of your brain change over time. Frankly, it’s not as fun as it used to be, and this may be one reason why old people are cranky.

Fuck you and your fucking little cake.

 

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