{"id":39973,"date":"2012-10-15T11:30:24","date_gmt":"2012-10-15T15:30:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=39973"},"modified":"2013-04-20T17:56:21","modified_gmt":"2013-04-20T21:56:21","slug":"in-search-of-lost-time","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2012\/10\/15\/in-search-of-lost-time\/","title":{"rendered":"In Search of Lost Time"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

It is, all told, a strange summer. Down the street from my apartment, children play inside of plastic bags. Glaciers shed ice the size of Manhattan. Scientists find that sharks smell in stereo. Horoscopes are cited as primary sources at social gatherings. Restlessness flows. For three consecutive nights I dream exclusively of vacuuming a garden snake. <\/p>\n

\nOn a Sunday afternoon I detour from fondling impractical kitchenware at Pearl River Mart and go where I go when I need to stop time: to visit my grandfather at his loft on West Broadway. He is eighty-four, a sculptor, a Southerner, tall and round bellied, deaf in one ear from an adult case of mumps. His face bears an impressive mustache and bifocals as large and wide as safety goggles. Alzheimer\u2019s is smoothing the lines of his memory, a stone turning in water.<\/p>\n

He has lived in this apartment since 1970, and from what I can tell it has hardly changed; it could easily be a soundstage from an early Woody Allen film, with its leather seats shaped into dripstones by decades of party guests, its ceramics and abstract art, the copy of Joe Brainard\u2019s I Remember<\/em> that had taken up permanent residence in the bathroom long before it carried any personal symbolism. The front half of the loft is still a studio, with a meticulously labeled array of tools and materials, despite the fact that these days my grandfather is physically, psychically unable to work. For the last few years I\u2019ve kept keys under a conditionality: just in case<\/em>. In this case it only means that I let myself in.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you up to today?\u201d I ask my grandfather, to which he replies, \u201cJust trying to have a brilliant idea.\u201d <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\n\u201cMe too,\u201d I say. We give it a minute but we both come up short. We agree to have a drink. <\/p>\n

\nPropped up at the kitchen counter, we treat ourselves to bourbon, crackers, pickles, more bourbon. Even in the early stages of Alzheimer\u2019s, conversation can be ouroboric. At a certain point there is a chocolate cake. \u201cOne slice of this, it\u2019ll send you up to heaven,\u201d he says. He takes a bite. A few minutes later he follows up cheerfully: \u201cTry that chocolate cake. One slice will send you up to heaven.\u201d Shortly thereafter he wants to lie down, so he asks if I\u2019ll help out with a project. This usually means a chore, and I say yes.<\/p>\n

The task this afternoon is sifting through and organizing two large cartons of cassette tapes. I sit on the floor and extract symphonies by Bach and Schoenberg, albums by the Beatles, multiple recordings of Carmen<\/em>. There is inexplicable miscellany like Putumayo\u2019s Turkish Groove<\/em>, something called Romance in Spain<\/em>, and transcendental meditation curricula, the latter still sealed. I also find thirteen of the fourteen tapes of Marcel Proust\u2019s Swann\u2019s Way<\/em>, twenty hours and thirty minutes of slippery, tangled prose read cover to cover by a British actor, as its author surely never intended.<\/p>\n

\u201cPop,\u201d I say. \u201cHave you listened to this whole thing?\u201d I walk one of the tapes over to the couch.<\/p>\n

\n\u201cOh,\u201d he says. \u201cThat\u2019s a wonderful book. Fantastic. Have you ever read Proust?\u201d I tell him no, marking the first time I\u2019ve ever offered an honest answer to that question. I have tried on several occasions, but I can never leap the madeleine. <\/p>\n

\n \u201cPut one of those tapes in,\u201d he says. We sit for a little while, listening diligently at first, then talking over the melody, our own language loud and coarse in comparison. I remember, appropriately, helping my grandfather prepare for a trip to Tokyo several years prior. He was still in good shape then. I watched him pack a suitcase with khaki shorts, four green T-shirts, and a purple tie, followed by socks and toothpaste, fiber supplements. Chasing these necessities: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man<\/em>, Lolita<\/em>, and what appeared to be the complete works of Virginia Woolf, all on audiocassette.<\/p>\n

The flight from New York to Toyko is thirteen hours. Lolita<\/em> alone spans eleven. And so I had to ask.<\/p>\n

\nI learned that my grandfather had purchased a portable cassette player on Canal Street, which he wore while biking around the city. He found this to be a serviceable method of ambient-noise avoidance, one that he wished to export to Japan. When only one ear is translating the world, street noise can make a man crazy. Sam\u2019s plan was to explore the neighborhoods of Tokyo with a tape going at full volume. Walking through Ueno Park or past the Yasukuni Jinja shrine, he would be willfully deaf to the background of foreign language. For whatever it\u2019s worth, I consider this one of the greatest pleasures of traveling; it can bring such solitude. Instead, my grandfather would reach into his jacket pocket and, with the squeal of the play button, be transported to England to buy flowers with Clarissa Dalloway.<\/p>\n

The strange summer rolls over into a stranger fall. The neat compartmentalization of my life begins to feel like a game of Tetris in unskilled hands. One night I stay up late, reshelving the books in my apartment. Into my hands slips Swann\u2019s Way<\/em>, spine unbroken, a single dogear to be seen around the five-page mark. As often happens at three A.M. <\/small>on a work night, one thing leads to another. I find myself downloading the entirety of the Swann\u2019s Way <\/em>audiobook, and I sit up in bed listening until it pulls me into sleep.<\/p>\n

Audiobooks have never appealed to me. I need to be visually grounded in a text if I plan to stay there for a while; listening to information at length, even prose, makes me feel like I am perpetually running to catch up. Yet in the weeks that follow, I listen to Swann\u2019s Way<\/em> everywhere. I have to play the first few chapters over and over because the words don\u2019t stick; John Rowe\u2019s voice folds into itself, a harmonious sludge. It soon becomes clear that I will listen to every chapter in this fashion, a realization that arrives with the knowledge that my purpose for listening is not narrative driven.<\/p>\n

I listen to Swann\u2019s Way <\/em>on my commute, in subway cars so crowded I emerge smelling like someone else\u2019s cologne. I listen to it on an airplane to Germany, seated next to a young boy in a yarmulke who spends hours coloring, his drawings executed with a precision that borders on the technical. I listen in a borrowed car to Swann\u2019s Way<\/em>, in the kitchen, and in Bed, Bath & Beyond at the height of allergy season as I overstay my welcome in the humidifier aisle. Though I\u2019ll never claim to have a complete grasp on the plot, I will admit to finding a deep comfort and peacefulness in the tumbling and stacking of clauses, the gentle and constant narration.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve never turned to literature to block out the world. I know that some readers do, and I understand the value of this practice. But even in instances of escapism, reading has always opened the world to me. What the audiobook does is something different: it puts the world not on hold, but simply on mute.<\/p>\n

\nBut have I read Proust? I can\u2019t say that I know.<\/p>\n

\nI return to the loft on West Broadway to help with another small project: clearing the bookcase. What I find are mostly art books, oversized hardcovers that might be collector\u2019s items if my grandfather hadn\u2019t treated them like regular paperbacks, dog-earing the pages, tearing and scratching the covers:if he hadn\u2019t treated them lovingly.<\/p>\n

\nI know I will find it before I do. And eventually, from between the Fannie Farmer Cookbook<\/em> and a volume of Alexander Calder lithographs, emerges a copy of Swann\u2019s Way<\/em> to match my own: pristine cover, crisp pages, and the newly unfamiliar text, entirely unread.
\n.<\/p>\n

Anna Wiener lives in Brooklyn and works at Barer Literary.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It is, all told, a strange summer. Down the street from my apartment, children play inside of plastic bags. Glaciers shed ice the size of Manhattan. Scientists find that sharks smell in stereo. Horoscopes are cited as primary sources at social gatherings. Restlessness flows. For three consecutive nights I dream exclusively of vacuuming a garden […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":418,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[7942,8226,966,163,905,725,969],"class_list":["post-39973","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-audiobook","tag-family","tag-lolita","tag-memory","tag-proust","tag-swanns-way","tag-virginia-woolf"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nIn Search of Lost Time by Anna Wiener<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"October 15, 2012 \u2013 It is, all told, a strange summer. 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