Word: proust
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...didn’t cut his hair as short as he wanted and it reminded him of how his wife never cooked his steak as much as he wanted. It was enough for one idea to remind him of another. It’s not like in Proust where it is a commonality of sensation. It’s more abstract. I started noticing this process in myself as well. For example, I was jogging with my ipod and I had it on shuffle and not all songs can be jogged to and so I kept clicking until...
...pseudo-problems” at best and, at worst, fanning the flames of irresponsible politics. But in the late Richard Rorty, we have a philosopher from the analytic tradition who became its Judas, who boldly addressed continental thinkers like Nietzsche, Freud, and Heidegger, and writers like Proust, Yeats, and Nabokov...
...will to power,” and Heidegger’s “being.” For this reason, Rorty believes that philosophy is done best in the context of the novel, because the novel seeks to express solely the contingent. Proust is his ideal, because Proust wanted to create his paradise out of contingency, out of his self alone, and wanted to define himself forever both to stave off oblivion and to prevent other people from defining him in words that were...
...American, disquieting in its silence, its indifference, its quotidian Frenchness. Absent is the cheesy but stirring spectacle: the miniature U.S. flags, the festooned Uncle Sams, the hot dogs and watermelons, the magnificent fireworks. Sitting in the Luxembourg garden (possibly the most beautiful place in the world) while reading Proust with a cheap but delicious bottle of Bordeaux, glancing up occasionally at kids kicking a soccer ball or the many menageries of pretty French girls, one wouldn’t even know the U.S. existed. Except for a group of picknickers munching on McDonalds...
...elegant double helix of the DNA molecule, Western science has illuminated the vastest contours and the most infinitesimal particles of the universe. The arts, surely, are more subjective, but Saul Bellow puts it well when he quips, “Who is the Tolstoy of the Zulus? The Proust of the Papuans? I’d be glad to read...