Protective over Proust

Just like it was yesterday, clumsily handed to me and my twenty-some-odd classmates, were four pages. At first attempt, I received one page 14, two page 15's, and one page 17. Then at second attempt, two 14's and a combination and clutter of the remaining. Finally, disheveled and wearing chalk on his back, he handed each of us one page 14, one page 15, one page 16, and one page 17.

It was Spring, our class was [for the most part] all present, just as it was most days. Some there for the literature, some for the view and wise words of the figure at the front of the classroom, and some because they had no other choice. I was there for all three. That day, like many other days during that gorgeous spring, he had opened the classroom window to let life in.

What we had in front of us, I assumed, was just another excerpt from just another well respected writer. I was dead wrong. Maybe for the others these mix-matched papers held the same value as all the ones we received prior, but not for me. Little did I know that the print on these pages were to become something I forever treasure.

When he began to read the excerpt from Marcel Proust's "A Remembrance of Things Past" in his strong English accent the words felt to me like home. Although Ive never heard any bit or part of Proust's work it had such a strong sense of familiarity, intriguing every ounce of me.

Love...when we love something we hold it near, we protect it from negativity, and do all that we can to keep it safe. When we speak its name we know the warmth thats attached to the sound.

Mused but quiet, as I was often during this class, I began to fall in love with the words that I heard and the print that I read. I remember taking those four pages home and rereading them five times at least, just to be sure I was grasping every letter, every word.

This blog was created as "A little escape from your life into mine" and Ive shared much with its readers, but Proust's writing was something that I've kept to myself. Fearful of misunderstanding, or worse, disregard, Proust remained mine.

You may think this is silly and if you do thats okay. Those of you who believe so are the ones that I'd keep Proust from in the first place. But for those of you who are looking to read something beautiful and fragile and nostalgic please read this excerpt. Also, note that although this excerpt was found on a religious site Marcel Proust was in fact a Mystical Atheist. I only used this site because it was as close as possible to what I was given on that lively spring day.