11/01/14

'Many years had elapsed during which nothing of Combray, except what lay in the theatre and the drama of my going to bed there, had any existence for me, when one day in winter, on my return home, my mother, seeing that I was cold, offered me some tea, a thing I did not ordinarily take. [...] She sent for one of those squat, plump little cakes called "petite madeleines", which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted valve of a scallop shell. And soon, mechanically, dispirited after a dreary day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shiver ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me [...] I feel something start within me, something that leaves its resting place and attempts to rise, something that has been anchored at a great depth; I do not know yet what is it but I can feel it mounting slowly; I can  measure the resistance, I can hear the echo of great spaces traversed.'

- From Swann's Way by Marcel Proust (trans. C.K Scott Moncrieff)

The above is an extract from one of my favourite novels, the first volume of Proust's magnus opus In Search of Lost Time, the poetry of which I have always considered profound and spellbinding. This famous 'madeleine epsiode' in which the speaker unlocks the unconscious realms of his childhood memories with the scent and taste of a cake dipped in a cup of tea, feels especially resonant today and while I won't claim to have experienced anything quite as powerful as Proust's reminicence, this Saturday does feel familiar of a time in the not too distant past during which I would wile away the hours with a volume of twentieth century literature & a cup of tea (oh & most likely cake if I was lucky) The transition between these leisurely afternoon of essay plans and course reading and my current routine of working nine 'til six & collapsing into bed at the end of the day has been difficult although I try to remember how easy it is to forget the intensity of the stresses of tweaking my final dissertation draft.

This afternoon, however, will be one of leisure as I respond to my body's pleas to slow down and resist the stacks of washing up that await me two floors down - tired, bunged up and with a chest bruised from coughing, I am not planning on doing much beyond reading a few pages of my copy of Katherine Manfield's Selected Stories that I unearthed in my local Oxfam Books yesterday for £2.99, eating vegetable soup with a stack of buttered bread and perhaps making a start on another granny square.

The other sickbed companion I am grateful for this afternoon is the winter issue of Betty Magazine. Aside from its thoughtful and beautifully curated content, the central message of the magazine, one that encourages people 'to embrace who they are and celebrate it', is a vital one that I feel grateful for having grown up with the glittery likes of 'Mizz' and 'Girl Talk'. In our increasingly fragmented & disparate culture, I also delight in Betty's local focus on pioneering Broadway Market businesswomen 'Meringue Girls' and their proud commitment to small business. Pick up yours from your local independent today. 

I'm off to curl up with my copy now &, while I may nip out to post a letter or downstairs to par-boil some potatoes, today's mantra is most definitely: the world can wait.

Speak soon - O.