Proust wrote in and into the network of references, a series of hyper-referential reveries, but those references are his alone. The superhuman effort of his writing is to bring them to life for those of us who weren’t there by explaining and illuminating them—beautifully and brilliantly—but all he is doing is pointing towards the agony of recall that we now, all of us, experience all the time, the sense of being at the centre of something incredibly important, if we could only grasp it, if we could only remember; but that which we think we want to grasp is already slipping away from us, receding and becoming memory.
We have to go into the network, because we cannot go into space, because four and a half thousand years ago they figured out how to colonise space, and a hundred years ago they figured out how to colonise time, but they haven’t yet figured out memory or experience and that is the network.
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