On Saturday we had buried my father, and realized that everything we thought about him and now only said to the domain of the memory and could never be contradicted or supplemented by his living reality. With his body, a form of today had disappeared that could not return.
Sunday I got on the train to France and on Monday morning I sat with a mustache to give answers to questions from the well -known Questionnaire That Proust once answered, but the answers were not mine, nor those of Proust, they were given by someone from the group of eleven people who, just like me, participated in a theater week around Prousts Swann’s side.
It was a wild transition. Not in theory, because if someone is talking about memory, it is proust and I could and would have been able to quote everything from his book, which struck me more than usual, but the ‘three -dimensional reading club’ that three actors in the country house had organized Le Grippault was not about swinging in beautiful sentences. On the contrary. Those sentences had to suffer pretty well, because how do you, for example, bring the sensations on the scene of Swann when hearing the phrase in the music that the love between him and Odette has accompanied? “About that sorrow she used to speak to him” (“She” is here that little musical phrase that omits him as “a confidant of his love”) “about that grief that his own without him could ever get rid of it”-I read the sentences repeatedly hopefully and at the same time the same thing for those in the hope, but I thought it was the same in the hope in the hope in the hope in the hope in the hope in the hope in the hope, but in the hope, but the same person in the same way in the same to them, in the hope of the same participants, in the same. not. And I myself became no different from that, I stayed the reader who always calls ‘felt-how-and-where-this-is’. The one who also wondered: “Why am I, now, here?” And who then answered: “Because it’s good to be somewhere else,” but who was not really somewhere else.
So you can’t get anywhere, even if you are somewhere.
One morning we looked at two figures in pink floral Babydolls, who exactly at the same time pronounces their text: “When Françoise, after seeing that my parents lacked nothing …” They sounded a bit mechanical and articulated exaggerated and a little later they also made stiff, peculiar movements. The passage in which the conversation between the bedridden aunt Léonie and her maid Françoise is displayed was very strange. And where I would probably have found an unattractive thought at home behind my desk, pink packages, voices and choreography, I enjoyed it now. A young woman sang how Swann is right on the wrong window, not with his beloved Odette and it was an exciting story. I saw the parents of the narrator walking gently walking over the terrain and I spit my ears to hear about the pistachio ice cream that Swann took twice. I stewed in a nightjaponnetje on ‘my mother’ to beg her to come and say goodbye.
Not for the first time I realized how important it is that we are also our bodies in time, and how easily I sometimes forget that, although I was just pressed with my nose in a different way. Theater is really about being where you are, where your body is, now. There was always a new reality, completely present and completely made up.
Lawing back was not included.