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, November 23, 2003
I remember The Sign of the Dove on Third in the seventies. We'd pass it a lot in taxis, and once we walked past and I got to look inside. I was awestruck by its beauty, and it became for me the El Dorado of restaurants, the place you'd want to go to if you could go anywhere. My parents were mildly amused by this, and by my atavistic awe of at least this feature in their lives, that they went there some time. There was something marvelous about the way the idea of the Dove, or the pictured dove on the sign, and the beautiful mildness of its brilliantly suffused interior went together. And then it was the only building with a light facade, a kind of afterimage of pink, on the entire street. How could there be any question about the food in a place that made all sensory experience somehow luxuriantly visual: made seeing into a constant, gentle, caressing luxury. I found it breathtaking. When I was old enough to go there it was -- of course! -- mildly disappointing. (I think the first time I went in was with Margot, in college. We had drinks, but they were booked for dinner. It was probably a couple of years later that I ate there.) But only mildly disappointing, just part of the general dim sense of disappointment that is part of adult experience of what you'd longed to experience as a child. So to say that it was mildly disappointing is to say that it sustained as well as anything in the world possibly could sustain its earlier beauty for me. It was all it should be: everything the high and dazzling adult experience I longed for could come to. That was less than I thought, but I was still glad that it wasn't the fault of The Sign of the Dove.


posted by william 4:04 PM
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