Once I get this current issue wrapped up (by Friday, I pray), I’ll have more time to write a few longer pieces on which I’ve been dabbling away. Meanwhile, here’s a passage from Proust that I read this morning. He’s gazing at Albertine, asleep in his bed.
In this way, her sleep realized to a certain extent the possibility of love: alone, I could think of her, but I missed her, I did not possess her; when she was present, I spoke to her, but was too absent from myself to be able to think of her; when she was asleep, I no longer had to talk, I knew that I was no longer observed by her, I no longer needed to live on the surface of myself.
The phrasing’s a little too precious, compared to some of my favorite passages of his (I’ll share more of them later), but you can discuss among y’selves.
