Proustism

This site will explore some literary background on Proust, but will mainly focus on introducing the reader to Proust's style of writing. I will relate his writing to some of the things we are learning in Hypertext Class as well as experiment with my own writing.

Name:
Location: Tualatin, Oregon

This is my third year in the MAIS program at Marylhurst University and am excited to begin my thesis the fall of '05. I am the proud mother of 5-year old twins--Logan and Nikki---and have a great husband that has put up with me for 12 years.

Sunday, May 22, 2005

Worlds of Possibilities

Well, it's that time again. I would like to show some of my writing from how the famous scene of the madeleine cake affected me. This scene is famous as it is the entry point for Proust to begin reflecting back on his childhood. When I read this part, I reflected back on my own childhood and a certain food that, today, still takes me back to my grandmother's house.
First, Proust's scene:
"But at the very instant when the mouthful of tea mixed with cake crumbs touched my palate, I quivered, attentive to the extraordinary thing that was happening inside me. A delicious pleasure had invaded me, isolated me without my having any notion as to its cause.......Where could it have come to me from--this powerful joy? I sensed that is was connected to the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it went infinitely far beyond it, could not be of the same nature.....Clearly, the truth I am seeking is not in the drink, but in me.....And suddenly the memory appeared. That taste was the taste of the little piece of madeleine, which on Sunday mornings at Combray when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Leonie would give me after dipping it in her infusion of tea or lime blossom." (pgs 45-47)

Now my own memory:

It would start when my grandmother would take the Swanson's chicken pot pie out of the oven with her gold-colored mitts, and place it upside down on her plate. Gently tapping the bottom of the tin foil pan with her fork, she would carefully lift it off so as not to disturb the crust or leave any stuck on bottom of the pan. She would then place a thin slice of pepper jack cheese on top and wait for it to melt completely before piercing it open with the edge of her fork. A blast of steam came out as she smashed the pie down making sure both the cheese and internal juices were spread evenly across the crust. Then, slowly, she gathered up a bite to eat, pausing momentarily to blow on it, and would wrap her mouth tightly around the fork leaving it there for a few seconds while she closed her eyes like someone who is about to be kissed by their lover. After slowly pulling out the fork she would ask if I wanted a bite, but I always said no, because after tasting it once, I never thought it tasted as delicious as she made it look. So this was my Saturday afternoons, before I went to the grocery store with her and my Auntie Pat, when I would sit at the little yellow kitchen table and watch her take pleasure in every bite while she would ask me questions about what I did during the week.

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