I remember / je me souviens

I remember / je me souviens

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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

Monday, October 06, 2003

I remember that on Yom Kippur eve we would go to my uptown grandmother's house for dinner -- a late one, well into darkness, with matzoh ball soup, knoedel, chicken (I remember I liked dark meet then!), 7-Up ("You like it. It likes you."), cole slaw, two kinds of cake (the linzer torte I always demanded, and dobos torte, or her amazing apple and plum tart or nuss torte or chocolate layer cake), and then the strange fruits she served, big and bloated like her arthritic fingers. One Yom Kippur my mother wasn't talking to her, but my father got them talking again by saying it was Yom Kippur (more about this years-long fight in some other post, I hope). Then the next morning, my parents would sleep as late as possible. 10! 11! Noon, one time! Much later than their already late sleep on weekends. At 2 or so we would go back to my grandmother's house and break the fast with cold-cuts (including tongue!) cakes and cafe mit Schlag (which I loved); some of my grandparents' elderly friends -- Vlado Hertz, the probably gay bachelor older than my grandfather almost always. Later, when I was older, I would fast till darkness, but my parents and grandparents never did. In those later days, especially during that period of mild religious mania I've mentioned before, I would go to the Association of Yugoslav Jews service in a brownstone basement on 99th street (where I also went to the Purim party I described a year and a half ago or so). The congregation was largely sephardic, and my downtown grandfather would always go there, so I went with him. He was the only one in the family who wouldn't eat pork or shellfish. My uptown grandfather -- Ashkenazi -- came at least once, for the full day of prayers (I don't think he stayed for the afternoon, but my downtown grandfather and I did). I brought my tallis -- I think I got one for my Bar Mitzvah -- and I remember the different traditions of the tallis. I'm probably not getting this right, but as I recall the Sephardic tradition was not to wear it as often as the Ashkenazis did, so my uptown grandfather put his tallis on when the rabbi and cantor did, but very few other people did so. I wasn't sure what to do, but finally I put mine on.

I remember wanting to wear sneakers, as the orthodox did, on Yom Kippur, but not being allowed to. They looked really fine in their suits and sneakers: they had secret knowledge, a puzzle to almost everyone else, Christian and non-orthodox, but I knew why they wore sneakers (no leather!). I remember in this connection that Schulchan Aurach requires you to eat meat on the Sabbath, as a reminder of the sin of carniverousness that came with the fall and the expulsion. But on Yom Kippur we put that sin away, like all others.

I remember the crushed blue velvet case of my tallis and of my teffilin, and the gold brocade with which Hebrew letters were stamped into the case. I loved the feel of it, and the odd dark plastic (or painted metal) zipper discretely covered by overlapping piping to open and close the bags. It was as though the zipper -- that modern technology I never understood -- consented to be discrete, to accommodate itself to the accoutrements of piety and belief, and to help out in a self-effacing manner, and so confirm the relevance of these ancient ancillaries to devotion. I think that the zippers and the sneakers both spoke to the same thing in me: the moving thrill of something modern subordinating itself to uses which their modern inventors hadn't contemplated, as though the objects themselves took a kind of life from the truth of the tradition to which they contributed their functions. They joined in, and what that meant was that everyone and everything could join in, not in that sublime sense of "declaring the glory of God," but in a more intimate sense like that of New York, and what it meant for me to be told by Hugh Cramer that it was a Jewish city (when it certainly was that but also a million other things as well): the world makes itself available to a way of thinking, makes its universality possible, in a kind of act of friendship which it is always lovely to see the world offering. I still feel that way about New York, but I'm not so sure about the world.

posted by william 10:37 AM
. . . 0 comments
Comments:

Post a Comment

RSS

Email contributions here

Stars and Buttons

Kindertrauma -- memories of scary bits of culture from early life

A weblog on memory and technology

Andy Detskas's I remember site

A high school diary from 1983

Spanish Je me souviens site, soliciting contributions

Lovely French Brainard/Perec Je me souviens site

Old NYC Subway maps! Photos of tokens!

Nicole's I remember site

Blog with a monster! (Still another I remember site)

Pepys remembers

Hearsay anecdotes

Three entries inspired by Brainard

Another I remember site

Brainard's Ten Imaginary Still Lifes

Old Bailey Trials

Yesterdayland

Lost NYC Kids' TV

Pinocchio Theory

1911 Britannica

Find of the Week

object not found

Is this you?

ARCHIVES

02/01/2002 - 03/01/2002

03/01/2002 - 04/01/2002

04/01/2002 - 05/01/2002

05/01/2002 - 06/01/2002

06/01/2002 - 07/01/2002

07/01/2002 - 08/01/2002

08/01/2002 - 09/01/2002

09/01/2002 - 10/01/2002

10/01/2002 - 11/01/2002

11/01/2002 - 12/01/2002

12/01/2002 - 01/01/2003

01/01/2003 - 02/01/2003

02/01/2003 - 03/01/2003

03/01/2003 - 04/01/2003

04/01/2003 - 05/01/2003

05/01/2003 - 06/01/2003

06/01/2003 - 07/01/2003

07/01/2003 - 08/01/2003

08/01/2003 - 09/01/2003

09/01/2003 - 10/01/2003

10/01/2003 - 11/01/2003

11/01/2003 - 12/01/2003

12/01/2003 - 01/01/2004

01/01/2004 - 02/01/2004

02/01/2004 - 03/01/2004

03/01/2004 - 04/01/2004

04/01/2004 - 05/01/2004

05/01/2004 - 06/01/2004

06/01/2004 - 07/01/2004

07/01/2004 - 08/01/2004

08/01/2004 - 09/01/2004

09/01/2004 - 10/01/2004

10/01/2004 - 11/01/2004

11/01/2004 - 12/01/2004

12/01/2004 - 01/01/2005

01/01/2005 - 02/01/2005

02/01/2005 - 03/01/2005

03/01/2005 - 04/01/2005

04/01/2005 - 05/01/2005

05/01/2005 - 06/01/2005

06/01/2005 - 07/01/2005

07/01/2005 - 08/01/2005

08/01/2005 - 09/01/2005

09/01/2005 - 10/01/2005

10/01/2005 - 11/01/2005

11/01/2005 - 12/01/2005

12/01/2005 - 01/01/2006

01/01/2006 - 02/01/2006

02/01/2006 - 03/01/2006

03/01/2006 - 04/01/2006

04/01/2006 - 05/01/2006

05/01/2006 - 06/01/2006

06/01/2006 - 07/01/2006

07/01/2006 - 08/01/2006

08/01/2006 - 09/01/2006

09/01/2006 - 10/01/2006

10/01/2006 - 11/01/2006

11/01/2006 - 12/01/2006

12/01/2006 - 01/01/2007

01/01/2007 - 02/01/2007

02/01/2007 - 03/01/2007

03/01/2007 - 04/01/2007

04/01/2007 - 05/01/2007

05/01/2007 - 06/01/2007

06/01/2007 - 07/01/2007

07/01/2007 - 08/01/2007

08/01/2007 - 09/01/2007

09/01/2007 - 10/01/2007

10/01/2007 - 11/01/2007

11/01/2007 - 12/01/2007

12/01/2007 - 01/01/2008

01/01/2008 - 02/01/2008

02/01/2008 - 03/01/2008

03/01/2008 - 04/01/2008

04/01/2008 - 05/01/2008

05/01/2008 - 06/01/2008

06/01/2008 - 07/01/2008

07/01/2008 - 08/01/2008

08/01/2008 - 09/01/2008

09/01/2008 - 10/01/2008

10/01/2008 - 11/01/2008

11/01/2008 - 12/01/2008

12/01/2008 - 01/01/2009

01/01/2009 - 02/01/2009

02/01/2009 - 03/01/2009

03/01/2009 - 04/01/2009

04/01/2009 - 05/01/2009

05/01/2009 - 06/01/2009

07/01/2009 - 08/01/2009

08/01/2009 - 09/01/2009

09/01/2009 - 10/01/2009

10/01/2009 - 11/01/2009

11/01/2009 - 12/01/2009

12/01/2009 - 01/01/2010

01/01/2010 - 02/01/2010

02/01/2010 - 03/01/2010

03/01/2010 - 04/01/2010

04/01/2010 - 05/01/2010

05/01/2010 - 06/01/2010

06/01/2010 - 07/01/2010

07/01/2010 - 08/01/2010

08/01/2010 - 09/01/2010

09/01/2010 - 10/01/2010

10/01/2010 - 11/01/2010

11/01/2010 - 12/01/2010

12/01/2010 - 01/01/2011

01/01/2011 - 02/01/2011

02/01/2011 - 03/01/2011

03/01/2011 - 04/01/2011

04/01/2011 - 05/01/2011

05/01/2011 - 06/01/2011

07/01/2011 - 08/01/2011

08/01/2011 - 09/01/2011

09/01/2011 - 10/01/2011

10/01/2011 - 11/01/2011

11/01/2011 - 12/01/2011

12/01/2011 - 01/01/2012

01/01/2012 - 02/01/2012

02/01/2012 - 03/01/2012

03/01/2012 - 04/01/2012

04/01/2012 - 05/01/2012

05/01/2012 - 06/01/2012

06/01/2012 - 07/01/2012

07/01/2012 - 08/01/2012

08/01/2012 - 09/01/2012

09/01/2012 - 10/01/2012

10/01/2012 - 11/01/2012

11/01/2012 - 12/01/2012

12/01/2012 - 01/01/2013

01/01/2013 - 02/01/2013

02/01/2013 - 03/01/2013

03/01/2013 - 04/01/2013

04/01/2013 - 05/01/2013

05/01/2013 - 06/01/2013

06/01/2013 - 07/01/2013

07/01/2013 - 08/01/2013

08/01/2013 - 09/01/2013

09/01/2013 - 10/01/2013

10/01/2013 - 11/01/2013

11/01/2013 - 12/01/2013

12/01/2013 - 01/01/2014

01/01/2014 - 02/01/2014

02/01/2014 - 03/01/2014

03/01/2014 - 04/01/2014

06/01/2014 - 07/01/2014

07/01/2014 - 08/01/2014

08/01/2014 - 09/01/2014

09/01/2014 - 10/01/2014

10/01/2014 - 11/01/2014

12/01/2014 - 01/01/2015

02/01/2015 - 03/01/2015

03/01/2015 - 04/01/2015

04/01/2015 - 05/01/2015

05/01/2015 - 06/01/2015

07/01/2015 - 08/01/2015

08/01/2015 - 09/01/2015

11/01/2015 - 12/01/2015

12/01/2015 - 01/01/2016

01/01/2016 - 02/01/2016

05/01/2016 - 06/01/2016

06/01/2016 - 07/01/2016

07/01/2016 - 08/01/2016

08/01/2016 - 09/01/2016

09/01/2016 - 10/01/2016

11/01/2016 - 12/01/2016

12/01/2016 - 01/01/2017

02/01/2017 - 03/01/2017

03/01/2017 - 04/01/2017

04/01/2017 - 05/01/2017

07/01/2017 - 08/01/2017

09/01/2017 - 10/01/2017

01/01/2018 - 02/01/2018

02/01/2018 - 03/01/2018

03/01/2018 - 04/01/2018

04/01/2018 - 05/01/2018

05/01/2018 - 06/01/2018

07/01/2018 - 08/01/2018

08/01/2018 - 09/01/2018

10/01/2018 - 11/01/2018

11/01/2018 - 12/01/2018

12/01/2018 - 01/01/2019

01/01/2019 - 02/01/2019

03/01/2019 - 04/01/2019

05/01/2019 - 06/01/2019

06/01/2019 - 07/01/2019

07/01/2019 - 08/01/2019

10/01/2019 - 11/01/2019

01/01/2020 - 02/01/2020

03/01/2020 - 04/01/2020

04/01/2020 - 05/01/2020

05/01/2020 - 06/01/2020

06/01/2020 - 07/01/2020

07/01/2020 - 08/01/2020

08/01/2020 - 09/01/2020

09/01/2020 - 10/01/2020

11/01/2020 - 12/01/2020

12/01/2020 - 01/01/2021

02/01/2021 - 03/01/2021

03/01/2021 - 04/01/2021

06/01/2021 - 07/01/2021

07/01/2021 - 08/01/2021

09/01/2021 - 10/01/2021

12/01/2021 - 01/01/2022

03/01/2022 - 04/01/2022

04/01/2022 - 05/01/2022

07/01/2022 - 08/01/2022

08/01/2022 - 09/01/2022

09/01/2022 - 10/01/2022

10/01/2022 - 11/01/2022

12/01/2022 - 01/01/2023

01/01/2023 - 02/01/2023

04/01/2023 - 05/01/2023

05/01/2023 - 06/01/2023

06/01/2023 - 07/01/2023

08/01/2023 - 09/01/2023

11/01/2023 - 12/01/2023

12/01/2023 - 01/01/2024

01/01/2024 - 02/01/2024

02/01/2024 - 03/01/2024

05/01/2024 - 06/01/2024

08/01/2024 - 09/01/2024

09/01/2024 - 10/01/2024

12/01/2024 - 01/01/2025

01/01/2025 - 02/01/2025

HOME

Buy Wordsworth, Proust, Baker@Amazon.com

Buy Joe Brainard's I Remember

Try to buy Georges Perec's Je me souviens

. . .