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, December 15, 2002
I remember how loud the ticking of the clock was at my uptown grandmother's apartment. At least once I remember that it kept me up. I remember also the hiss of the steam from her radiator, which was a puzzling sound to me, but comforting somehow from the start. I remember that the fruit she served after dinner -- after desert -- was very different from the fruit we had downtown. The apples were larger and mealier, the grapes more globular and more sour, and with larger seeds. I naturally assumed this had something to do with her, part of the package, with its advantages and disadvantages, of the food she prepared. I remember how much I disliked fruit after desert, and how oddly alkaline (I would have called it dry) water tasted after fruit. Or her water, after her fruit: it seemed to me that her water was subtly different too, less rich and round. I suppose this was an artefact of the glasses we drank from and of the less inviting metal of her fixtures. I remember reading a novelization of Get Smart! on her couch once -- this would have been before I read the Nordoff and Hall Bounty trilogy, doubting that anything written could get me to laugh if I didn't want to. (I liked Get Smart! partly because my friend Marc Bilgray was an avid fan.) But I was wrong: the first paragraph had Maxwell Smart carefully looking right, then left to make sure his entrance into a building is unobserved, then falling flat on his face as he trips over a shoeshine boy. I think I learned from that book that when he enters the phone booth in the opening credits, he's not ducking but going down an elevator. No one believed me when I explained this. I remember his shoe-phone. Later, when I started reading John Ashbery intensively, I came upon a line, in "Fantasia on The Nut Brown Maid," I believe, in which the speaker asks, "And who am I, talking into my shoe," which I assumed referred to Maxwell Smart. Now I'm not so sure anymore.


posted by william 12:39 AM
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