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Waiting to Live

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Asa Don Brown

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“Gilberte had still not come back to the Champs-Élysées. Yet I very much needed to set eyes on her, as I could not even remember her face. When we look at the person we love, our inquisitive, anxious, demanding gaze, our expectation of the words which will make us hope for (or despair of) another meeting tomorrow and, until those words are spoken, our obsession fluctuating between possible joy and sorrow, or imagining both of these together, all this distracts our tremulous attention and prevents it from getting a clear picture of the loved one. Also, it may be that this simultaneous activity of all the senses, striving to discover through the unaided eyes something that is out of their reach, is too mindful of the countless forms, all the savours and movements of the living person, all those things which, in a person with whom we are not in love, we immobilize. But the beloved model keeps moving; and the only snapshots we can take are always out of focus. I could not really say what the features of Gilberte’s face were like, except at those heavenly moments when she was there, displaying them to me.”

LoveProustMarcelproustGilberteswannLoversdiscourse
Book:In the shadow of young girls in flower
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“There was a mild, damp wind blowing. It was weather I was quite familiar with; and a sudden feeling and presentiment ran through me: that New Year’s Day was not a day that differed from any other, not the first day of a new life when I could remake the acquaintance of Gilberte with the die still uncast, as though on the very first day of Creation when no past yet existed, as though the sorrows she had sometimes caused me had been wiped out, and with them all the future ones they might portend, as though I lived in a new world in which nothing remained of the old except one thing: my wish that Gilberte would love me. I realized that, since my heart yearned in this way for the redesign of a universe which had not satisfied it, this meant that my heart had not changed; and I could see there was no reason why Gilberte’s should have changed either. I sensed that, though it was a new friendship for me, it would not be a new friendship for her, just as no years are ever separated from each other by a frontier, and that though[…]“it was a new friendship for me, it would not be a new friendship for her, just as no years are ever separated from each other by a frontier, and that though we may put different names to them, they remain beyond the reach of our yearnings, unaware of these and unaffected by them. Though I might dedicate this year to Gilberte, though I might try to imprint upon New Year’s Day the special notion I had made up for it, as a religion is superimposed on the blind workings of nature, it was in vain: I was aware that this day did not know it was called New Year’s Day, and that it was coming to an end in the twilight in a way that was not unknown to me. What I recognized, what I sensed “in that mild wind blowing about the Morris column with its posters, was the reappearance of former times, with the never-ending unchangingness of their substance, their familiar dampness, their ignorant fluidity.”

LoveProustMarcelproustGilberteswann
Author:Marcel Proust
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“Mas ni desde la óptica de las cosas de menor significado somos los hombres un conjunto materialmente establecido, semejante para todos, y del que cualquiera puede saber, tal como si fuésemos un documento de condiciones o un testamento. Nuestra naturaleza social es una construcción del pensamiento de los otros e incluso esa acción tan sencilla que denominamos " ver a uno que conocemos" es parcialmente de índole intelectual. Completamos el aspecto físico de aquel que tenemos frente a nosotros con la sumad e los conceptos que elaboramos sobre él, la imagen completa que nos formamos de él está compuesta en su mayor proporción por esos conceptos, los que terminan por insuflar en tal medida sus mejillas, por establecer con tal absoluta adhesión el corte de sus narices y por darle tan sutilmente el tono a lo sonoro de su voz, como si esta no fuese otra cosa que un traslúcido envase. En cada ocasión en la que observamos ese semblante y escuchamos dicha voz, aquello que se aprecia son esos conceptos.”

MarcelproustPor El Camino De Swann
Book:Swann’s Way
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“Algumas coisas são inexplicáveis pra quem está de fora. Existem códigos secretos que só pertencem aos que partilharam a mesma mesa, o mesmo quarto, as mesmas brincadeiras, os mesmos pais. Talvez cumplicidade e camaradagem sejam as palavras certas pra definir esse tipo de amor, que começa com um "não me entrega que eu também não te entrego", e segue vida afora compreendendo os traumas ocultos, as dores disfarçadas, a raiva acumulada, a alegria infantil, a inércia justificada. Mesmo longe, as mãos se reconhecem e se apoiam. Mesmo sem palavras, o entendimento é real. E no fim das contas, é aquele olhar cúmplice ("não me dedura por favor...") que nos levanta e aquece. É aquele olhar que justifica e valida a beleza da vida, do mundo, das pessoas. E, de alguma forma que não sei dizer, traz alívio e paz. Não posso imaginar que aquilo que dividimos há tanto tempo me apazigue como fazem essas lembranças. Nada de mim está mais lá, apenas a memória de velhos pijamas de dormir e a voz suave de mamãe contando histórias pra explicar a vida e justificar o amor.”

PassadoFamíliaPaisAmor De IrmãosIrmãos
Author:Fabíola Simões
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