We are a long distance from Swann’s Way in years, in
attitudes, and in wear and tear. Events trigger echoes from our personal
histories – it is wonderfully self-indulgent.
I find that the recollections are stream of consciousness, just like
Proust, and filled with time traps where it is easy to get lost. I do.
Although time has calcified dominant views, and as someone
who really prefers plants and animals to humans the switch to autumnal colors
and smells is better fodder for daydreaming. Later sunrises reveal and confirm Spinoza’s
pantheism so we can carry on and grow older with no grace whatsoever. I would surely prefer starting and finishing
each day floating in fall tranquility, but everything intrudes.
The animals do not drive vehicles. The trees and plants do not operate bulldozers,
whose backup signals reverberate all day long for extraordinary distances even
in the countryside. The garden is not self-absorbed
and tribal, but humans are. Perhaps we are all destined to be reclusive.
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