The Way by Swann’s - 4

I have a terrible memory for names, whether in “real” life or in books. This often means I don’t know what’s going on in “real” life or in the book I’m reading. What I sometimes do in novels, when I come to a name, is to let my eyes slide over the letters and assign it a random auditory snippet in my mind. It’s kind of like a sound doodle.

This is probably not the best way to read and understand a book, but there it is. I am often in the position of pondering who a character is because I cannot place the name.

But here’s the thing: even though I don’t always understand what’s going on, I don’t feel deprived. I feel like I’m a stranger in a foreign country eavesdropping on the doings of the locals. As a foreign visitor I can’t be expected to understand everything I see and hear, but that doesn’t mean I don’t find the goings on fascinating.

It’s actually a very pleasant way to experience a book. That’s exactly what I’m doing with Proust. I’m the strange uncle from across the ocean who sits in the corner, not saying much, but paying attention to everything, letting the sensations of the events around me fill up my head.