Warning: This post deals with racy stuff. Use discretion there now.
Someone in my gaff was recently reading Joanna Rakoff’s 2014 memoir, My Salinger Year, a book that I haven’t yet read. As I am the Proust expert in residence, in the aforementioned gaff in which I live at least, I was consulted about a reference to Proust in Rakoff’s text, which ran along the lines of some male discussing Proust with Rakoff. He is rather proud of the fact that he has managed to read Proust in its entirety and brags about it. The blogger has a straight face. Rakoff asks him what his favourite part in the seven volume work was and he tells her that he particularly enjoys when the narrator of In Search of Lost Time, Marcel, is appraising his lover Albertine and describes how she seems most attractive to him when she’s asleep.
‘Yes,’ I intoned solemnly, ‘I think that passage occurs in the fourth volume, Sodom and Gomorrah,’ which I had just finished, though I wasn’t sure.
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure that its in Sodom and Gomorrah,’ I intoned again, just as solemnly and no more sure than I initially was. Imagine my surprise when reading the fifth volume, The Prisoner, and found the passage in question and that I had contrived the memory of having read it before I really had, which is a very Proustian moment in itself, justifying the unreliable nature of memory and demonstrating how pretentious fools will generally condemn themselves out of their own mouths.
If one was to pursue the intertextual dialogue that The Salinger Year here establishes between itself and The Prisoner as an interpretative avenue, one would be led to believe that this man is an intensely jealous obsessive and the female narrator should run a mile from him.
There are a number of passages in The Prisoner which describe Albertine as she sleeps, one of the most revealing one reads as follows:
“When I came back she would be asleep, and I saw before me the other woman she became when seen full face…My jealousy was being calmed, for I felt that Albertine had become a creature of respiration and nothing more, as was shown by her regular breathing, the expression of this purely physiological function, which in its fluidity lacks the consistency of either speech or silence; lacking all knowledge of evil, this sound, which seemed to be drawn from a hollow reed rather than a human being, was truly heavenly for me who at those moments felt Albertine to be removed from everything, not just materially but morally; it was the pure song of the Angels.”
The reason that Marcel feels himself to be most in love with Albertine when she is unconscious is because he has a deep seated fear of Albertine’s alterity, her status as ‘other.’ Albertine is an autonomous human being, with her own desires, impulses and opinions, the nature of which the narrator reflects on constantly and finds himself unable to cope with. When he is asleep, the narrator sees Albertine as empty, a blank canvas for the projection of his desires, suggested by the use of the terms ‘hollow reed,’ and ‘creature of respiration’ truly a macabre duo of images of Albertine as being simultaneously dehumanised and emptied out.
Marcel’s jealousy borders on a kind of psychosis. At a soirée arranged by Mme Verdurin (but hi-jacked by the Baron de Charlus, much to Mme Verdurin’s chagrin), Marcel hovers around the borders of a conversation between Charlus and Brichot, as mysteriously silent as ever. The two are estimating the extent to which society people are unfaithful to their spouses. Charlus picks a figure out of the air and Brichot essentially agrees, plunging Marcel into a crevasse of doomed speculation about what Albertine might be up to in his absence and finds himself unable to enjoy the rest of the night.
Proust elsewhere notes that Albertine is that impossible kind of person, one who is prematurely woken up by someone else and is in a good mood. Not only that, she seems positively ecstatic. I think, by the by, that whatever about Marcel’s seemingly infinite amount of money and leisure time, this is the most egregious example of Proust’s liberty-taking with reality. Marcel convinces herself that turning over in Albertine’s sleeping mind is pure gaiety; her mind is absolutely directed towards pleasing him, towards complying with his wishes. He also satisfies himself physically while she sleeps. In one particularly grotesque sequence, he describes how he moves Albertine’s body around without her consent according to his needs. It’s really awful.
While Albertine is dozing, she invites Marcel, who, in her half-awake state she believes to be one of her female lovers, to initiate sex. She gets about one word into her proposition before she regains her sense of her surroundings, saying only ‘casser,’ the French word for ‘break.’ (What this is suggestive of I would have no idea, if the footnotes weren’t present, by the way.) It’s not that this reveals that Albertine is having an affair, that she is gay and possibly not attracted to Marcel at all, but that she frankly expresses her own sexual desire, in a space (bed) and at a time (while asleep) in which Marcel imagined Albertine to be his and his alone. This makes what happens such a betrayal in his eyes.