Mon cher Marcel (twice)

Although it is a downright shame that I have not completed La Recherche (the name which I overheard a group of schoolchildren recognize in front of the portrait of Marcel Proust at the Musee d'Orsay)- being near the end of the fifth book, it is still with a great deal of enthusiasm and excitement that I went to visit the Musee Carnavelet and the Cimitere Pere Lachaise, for in the former was assembled some of the furniture from the various places that Proust lived (though arranged in a somewhat haphazard manner, given the space), but which still gave off a quiet air of mystery.  In particular, I was drawn to the dark blue silken fabric, of which a small piece was cut by the owner (who, in the book Proust's Overcoat, we are made to understand was crucial in hunting down and preserving material fragments of the great author's life). Also, while it is not easily seen at all, there is quite an indentation into the chair, leading one to imagine the countless hours spent by the master sitting there, whether dreaming, writing, thinking or perhaps sleeping.  This was followed later on by a late day (near closing time) visit to Pere Lachaise, that final resting ground for many of the "famous" (many now forgotten by time)- among whom Marcel Proust was one of the legion of the dead.  There he was, underneath the black slab, no indication of who or what he had done, and just his name- accompanied by some withered flowers and a small stone, to which I added my own (having learned that in the Jewish tradition, that a stone is left on the grave, despite my often wondering whether Proust ever considered himself to be of that tradition, and guessing that he could probably never resolve it one way or the other), but, religion or otherwise, faith or not, the true faith he had was to be a writer, and in this respect, his name shines for me, mocking the idle life that I lead and wondering when I am going to write something "serious" myself.

dear, dear, dear Marcel...

to whom I add a stone and a kiss