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


Tuesday, September 01, 2009
I remember that during the Second World War my parents and I escaped from Sarajevo which was under Nazi and Quisling rule, to the zone of Yugoslavia occupied by the Italians. They were more lenient toward the Jews. We landed in Split but after a few months the Italian authorities decided that we must be dispersed to and confined on neighboring islands. We ended up on the island of Korcula, in the village of Vela Luka, renamed Valle Grande by the Italians who had annexed that part of Yugoslavia. Vela Luka was a small primitive fishing village of about five thousand inhabitants. We rented an “apartment” from some local peasants. ( I was then about nine years old.) There was a large street level room which served as kitchen, dining room, and living room. The floor was of some material which sloughed off every time you swept it so that there was never a time when you felt that you had finished the sweeping job. There was no plumbing though there was a sink with a hole in it through which dirty water was collected in a pail below. The pail was then emptied into a pit where a pig owned by the peasant family was confined. A set of stairs without a banister led upstairs to the bedroom which was closed off by a trap door. (You had to be sure that the trap door was closed at night so that you wouldn’t fall through.) My parents and I shared the bedroom; they in a large bed and I in some sort of palette with a mattress. The mattresses were filled with straw and the ticking had a hole in the middle into which one inserted one’s hand to redistrubute the straw when it got lumpy. A door from the bedroom led to a sort of balcony off which was a toilet consisting of a wooden bench with a hole and a cover. Below was the cesspool. It got brutally cold using the bathroom in the winter.

Above the bedroom was a set of stairs leading to a storage room which was infested by rats. The rats never visited downstairs but ran very loudly at night and we dubbed the whole sound “horse races.” We stored potatoes and big demijohns of olive oil up there.

One time my mother was trying to do some frying in the kitchen and had opened a new oil demijohn. She noticed suspicious hairs in the pan and found on examination that a number of mice had gotten into the container and drowned. Obviously we threw away the whole thing but when she later talked to a doctor friend of ours, he said that if she had not noticed that, the food would have been lethal. (A very young man with a young wife. A very negligent kind of doctor. Later we heard that he had been shot by the partisans, I forget why.)



posted by alma 9:57 AM
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