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


Friday, November 21, 2003
I remember Dewar's Profiles, the ad campaign. They always had the back of The New Yorker. There was always a parenthesis that informed you that "Dewar's Profiles" was "(pronounced do-er's White Label)" but I didn't get that this meant that we were supposed to think that Dewar's drinkers were also do-ers. And I always read it as "Dee-wores," ignoring the parenthetical pronunciation, which I didn't much care about because I never imagined I'd be drinking Dewars (and now I try to avoid it still, though Margot and I used to order it as our standard everyday scotch). I was more puzzled by the word "profile," not least because of that bizarre pronunciation (White Label?), a word which also went with The New Yorker, since they had a feature called "profiles" which were long articles on interesting people. What made these profiles? All I knew about profiles were from drawing: they were easier than the impossibly-nosed full-face. Somehow it seemed that the only sense I could really make of this was that the shapes of letters, black against the white page, were like profiles: it was the countour that counted. I don't know when "profile" stopped bothering me as a word in this context. But perhaps it helped me understand -- decades later (!) -- what Michel Leiris meant in his essays on "literature considered as a bull-fight" that the matador turns in profile to the two-dimensional cut of the edge, becomes an edge himself to dodge the edge of the horn. Any cut he receives is then two-dimensional as well, the only cut that a pure surface can suffer, a kind of pealing away of a half-ply. How odd the idea of a life as profile.


posted by william 5:08 PM
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