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


Thursday, July 16, 2009
I remember watching the moon landing in a hallway in a hotel somewhere in Italy. It was on a cheap black and white TV. We never saw TVs in Italy (once we watched Daniella, or maybe her baby brother, watching cartoons in Italian, but that was it). But all the adults were clustered around the moon-landing, so the hallway was full of stopped foot-traffic. I wasn't thrilled: I guess my space-age kid attitude was more: "It's about time."

Two footnotes:

I was (and am) sure that Aldren said "one small step for a man." Otherwise it made no sense.

I was thrilled, oddly, by the slingshot flights around the moon that preceded the moon landing that spring. There seemed something really exotic about flying to the dark side of the moon, flying farther into space than the moon itself, and then hurtling back to earth, all using unexpected and unscience-fictional effects of gravity. And the dark side of the moon still retained some mystery then. No one had ever seen it. It had only bee photographed very recently and sparsely. That seemed like a new world.


posted by William 1:44 PM
. . .
0 comments
Comments:

Post a Comment





. . .