A
They are those worlds that the young Marcel rediscovers, bewildered,
every morning, in the first pages of Remembrance of Things Past, in the
vertigo of the moment when consciousness emerges like a bubble from
unfathomable depths.
117 That world of which vast territories are then
revealed to him when the taste of the madeleine brings back to him the
flavor of Combray. A vast world, a map of which Proust slowly unfolds
during the course of the three thousand pages of his great novel. A novel,
it should be noted, that is not a narrative of events in the world but an
account of what’s inside the memory of a single person. From the
fragrance of the madeleine at the beginning, to the last word—“time”—of
its final part, “Time Regained,” the book is nothing but a disordered,
detailed meandering among the synapses of Marcel’s brain.
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