One fine evening of utter despodency I decided to order the biography of Proust, thinking to myself, how fascinating it would be to read in depth about this wonderful author, and I go ahead and make the purchase. When the book arrived, I was like wtf, it is fatter than a chinese sumo wrestler. So anyways, now that it has graced my presence, I realize what a mission it is going to be to complete it, and I have only traversed about twenty pages of the nine hundred something that it is made of.
Of the many authors I have read, what I most love about Proust is that, as a writer he was pretty pro-active in encompassing all the senses of a human being within the limited and narrow cage of verbosity. Even though his stories were not the stories one would naturally expect, they were scattered bits of moments and recollections captured together and glued with a lot of descriptions of people, geography, the weather and his infinitely strange attachment to his mother, ‘maman’ we all love our mothers, that is an irrefutable truth, however akin to Freud’s oedipal complex theory, here we find Proust initiating his awareness of his surroundings through his mother as the common denominator.
Stories have a strange way of telling themselves, whether through the mouth of a horse, or a relentless branch waving to the sky shamelessly for want of attention. We find how altruistic these attempts are, that they may not appear to fit in with any pre-defined mold, yet each voice seeks to be heard and that is where the slow and silent journey of transcribing begins. We trace our lives back to the root, the seed of conception, and ruminate over our hearts. How, many a times we step on these delicate organs, push them behind our sights in order to have a clearer view of where we are going. All stories have a begining, and they eventually tell us when it is the right time, to put our pen on the paper.