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Then. Now.
(2 minute read.)
Du Temps Perdu.
I find myself thinking about death more nowadays… and the demise of that little thinking lab and idea factory which sits on my neck.
I miss yesterday. Not literally, of course, but the times when I was younger. I miss wives, and my young children. I regret not having made better use of my time, and it does genuinely sadden me.
No matter though… as I've said before, 'life moves on, inexorably forward, and there's of course no point looking back with regret'. (And mostly, I don't.)
So, my focus has to be on going forward, making the best of the perhaps 5-15 years I might have.
Hhhmmmnnn… perhaps I should stop writing, and get out into the sun. (I'd originally began writing this note as a creative break from work on a business project.)
The 'Du Temps Perdu.' sub-title of this note is of course a nod to Proust's 'In Search of Lost Time' novel about the meaning of life, memory, and how the past can impact the present.
Thinking about themes in the book…
I agree that memory can intrude on the present, for better or worse, often involuntarily triggered by sensory input.
And I've empathy with the narrator, searching for his identity and the meaning of life. Like them, I've tried social climbing and love, but the former was a false pursuit and the latter is something which currently evades me (to the extent that I deeply love someone with whom I'd want to be were I just a few, no more than ten, years younger).
And yes, of course we do change with time—become variants, different versions, of ourselves.
Perhaps, as the narrator eventually discovers, art is the only true purpose one can find, as it allows one to capture our past and lost selves.
For Proust, the 'art' to which he refers is primarily literary. He believed writing could capture the intricacies of memory, perception, and emotion in a way that almost nothing else could.
As a strong believer in the value of personal journals, I consider this doesn’t have to mean creating polished, publishable work; it’s the process of observing, reflecting, and understanding that matters.
Even in a private journal, the act of shaping thoughts on the page can help us make sense of what we feel and experience. That in itself can feel like an artistic purpose, giving our experiences coherence and depth.
Anyway… life moves on etcetera, so where's that sun I mentioned earlier?
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