I remember / je me souviens
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For those limbic bursts of nostalgia, invented by Proust, miniaturized by Nicholson Baker, and freeze-dried by Joe Brainard in his I remember and by Georges Perec in his Je me souviens.

But there are no fractions, the world is an integer
Like us, and like us it can neither stand wholly apart nor disappear.
When one is young it seems like a very strange and safe place,
But now that I have changed it feels merely odd, cold
And full of interest.
          --John Ashbery, "A Wave"

Sometimes I sense that to put real confidence in my memory I have to get to the end of all rememberings. That seems to say that I forego remembering. And now that strikes me as an accurate description of what it is to have confidence in one's memory.
          --Stanley Cavell, The Claim of Reason


Sunday, September 01, 2002
I remember Kruschev. I called him Nikita after his visit to the United States when I was about five. He looked like my uptown grandfather, and had a twinkle in his eye. When the triumvirate of Gromyko, Kosygin and Breshnev deposed him, I was surprised. Why didn't he just order them stopped? Everyone was concerned about this, and I now see scared. We talked about it in school. I remember that Kruschev was sent to his dacha on the Black Sea. A year or so later Life Magazine had an article about how he was writing his memoirs there. I looked forward to them. I was glad he had projects. Then a little after that he died. So he wouldn't have run the USSR much longer anyhow.

I remember that my uptown grandparents, in the antique wooden desk with a glass-doored bookcase where I found the Bounty trilogy that I devoured so avidly later, had The Don Flows Home to the Sea and its sequel, And Quiet Flows the Don, Russian novels which later turned out to be plagiarized. (I'm blanking on who wrote them.) I loved the evocative titles -- I liked the idea that a lord -- a don like Don Quixote -- would somehow turn into a flowing thing, like a river, and flow home that way. And that he would do so with a dignified serenity. Whatever made this make sense must have been whatever innate mythography makes river gods and river-personifications in fertility myths make sense. When my ninth grade classmates, in a fit of generalized exuberant destructiveness at the end of ninth grade grabbed my copy of Ulysses, which I was still struggling with, still proud of, I got my uptown grandparents to get me Finnegans Wake, a book I knew (from my father who nevertheless misinformed me a bit about it) to be even more extreme than Ulysses. (I'm not sure about the sequence here, since my grandparents inscribed it to me for Hannukah of 57-something. But I think I may have prevailed upon them to get me my Hannukah gift months early. I believe we got this at the Brentano's now where B. Dalton is on Fifth Avenue. Or it might have been at Scribners, where my grandmother would sometimes get me sheet music.) Well, all those to say that much later, in the Anna Livia Plurabelle section of Finnegans Wake the rivers do come to life (as Anna Liffey does herself), and I may have been receptive to this because of the Don, or for the same reason as I was receptive to the idea of a Don turning into a river.


posted by william 7:50 AM
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