PROUST AND THE DOUBLE "I"
1013
of the sage in the twilight of
his
life. But that experience is made
up of so many inaccuracies and misunderstandings, so many grudges
and vanities which have remained unassimilated, and of so many
deaths, that what he sees as a resurrection of memories, far from
being the restoring to life of what had once been life, is nothing but
the assiduous rehashing, in a surly or self-satisfied manner, of the
leftovers. And how could he, indeed, restore to life what no longer
exists, since at the same time it has ceased to exist within him?
Memory does not revive what is dead, for isn't death oblivion?
Now, whatever is a handicap, a danger, or a pretense for the
author of memoirs becomes freedom, ease, and art for the fictional
narrator. His "I" has no memory, no past of its own. He is not
bound by faithfulness to fact. He can cover the flowery tapestry of
his grandmother's armchair with old rose silk, turn the grandmother
into a great-uncle, and her armchair into an English saddle, change
the surroundings of his childhood, and instead of losing his own
virginity in the arms of the cook, he can exchange it for that of
his young cousin. He can do everything, because all these things have
been lent to him so that he may do what he pleases with them.
Who lent them to him? The author. From whom did the author
take them? The man. What then are the laws which regulate these
loans, these borrowings, these metamorphoses? Here is where the
novel begins.
Here, first of all, begins the work of art. For these gifts made by
the author to the narrator are not entirely gratuitous. The freedom of
the latter is a conditional freedom, a freedom under surveillance, con–
ferred upon him by his transition from the fidelity of fact, inherent
in memoirs, to fiction, and is counterbalanced by his obligation to make
good use of this freedom. In other words, out of this chaotic material,
rather meager in the last analysis, he must fashion a work of art
which must be true, alive, well-built, and significant.
Where the author of memoirs stumbled at every step, fell into
shadowy gaps, and walked on a road littered with his own dead
selves, the narrator selects, animates, invents, and regulates. He
creates a universe of his own, according to the universal laws of
creation. His goal is to reach the full expression of himself which is
the only genuine aim of
art,
while respecting, illustrating, and clari-
