Recalling the Forgotten: Proust & the Mysteries of Memory

While reading of how a simple cup of tea and a “buttery cookie flavored with lemon zest and shaped like a seashell” immediately and spontaneously flooded Marcel Proust’s mind with an overwhelming sense of joy, the thought occurs: What else can seemingly commonplace occurrences evoke from the depths of our most secluded subconscious? In his article, Marcel Proust: The Method of Memory, Johan Lerer suggests that Proust had a sort of uncanny awareness of the value of introspection, or the psychoanalysis of the self. In mentioning that Proust, unlike his predecessors and contemporaries, invested a significant deal more into thoughts than he did things (a grave critique of his fellow persons of letters), it becomes clear that the mind, in Proust’s opinion, was the truly beautiful and amazing specimen, rather than that which it perceives. Proust’s work “became a celebration of intuition, of all the truths we can know just by lying in bed and quietly thinking.” Yet, while a thorough investigation of the psyche, in a quasi-meditative style, held many secretive riddles to which Proust sought suitable answers, such bedridden philosophical inquiries would prove only so fruitful. Lerer makes note of the work of Brown psychologist Rachel Herz, who, in studying the complexities of Proust’s literature along with the neurological implications of his revelations, found that, indeed, “our senses of smell and taste are uniquely sentimental.” It is no coincidence, then, that Proust should have experienced such an “exquisite pleasure” from such an apparently ordinary snack.

It becomes even more curious when this singular instance in Proust’s life is extrapolated to envelope all of our daily comings and goings. Might we, like Proust, find some deeply hidden, nearly forgotten memory from the taste of a long-avoided food, or from the distinct odor of some place where we have not been in ages? And for that matter, is it not possible that such a revival of sensation and thought might bring us the exact antithesis of “exquisite pleasure,” or any emotional shade of grey falling in between? This presents a rather strange possibility. When one least expects it, he may be immersed in any conceivable emotional state, and without so much as a sign of warning. Proust finds nearly perfect words for the dumbfounding inquiry that strikes at the heart of this phenomenon: “Will it ultimately reach the clear surface of my consciousness, this memory, this old, dead moment which the magnetism of an identical moment has traveled so far to importune, to disturb, to raise up out of the very depths of my being?” Just as Proust, himself, cannot provide a definitive response to such a confounding dilemma, is it more likely than not that we, too, will be unable to reach the solace that he does in The Episode of the Madeleine. At least, for his sake, he finally comes to the realization that the root of his joy is derived from the long-lost memories of a cherished aunt. The most haunting element of this discussion seems to be the problem of discerning this origin. Just imagine the mounting frustration of finding such an impetus as Proust’s Madeleine, experiencing its visceral effects, and being yet unable to arrive at the source of your state of heightened emotional response. Such baffling feelings, without any reasonable explanation, might be comparably horrifying to being drugged with a hallucinogen without your express knowledge. Such maddening futile curiosity might well be simply unbearable.

Paying Attention to Attention: The Instructor-Instructee Cognitive Quandary

Attention may well be one of the single most complex elements of human cognition. Like the young pupils described by Maria Edgeworth in her comprehensive study of attention in an educational environment, how, exactly, can any person selectively apply their attention to the plethora of stimuli present throughout our world, and successfully manage to not become desperately overwhelmed by the prospect of retaining or benefiting from any single observation? This perplexing inquiry relates poignantly to the timeless philosophical query of “whether attention was directed voluntarily or involuntarily towards objects and events” (P & J, 4). Through several anecdotes offered on the matter, each one framing the discussion in a slightly different setting, Edgeworth seems to suggest that these are not mutually exclusive options for the mysterious function of attention as it pertains to the larger issue of human cognition. On the one hand, passively strolling through space and time, seemingly oblivious to one’s surroundings, and only occasionally noting peculiar or exceptional instances, and largely by chance, at that, a person could be said to be engaged in involuntarily attention. On the other, a person might be said to be participating in a voluntary use of attention, conscientiously taking in every detail (or as many as possible given the circumstances) with a concerted effort directed towards the accumulation of useful and advantageous discoveries of the world within which we exist. While this may have seemed to philosophers, at some point in human history, as a logical and, furthermore, necessary distinction, it seems to be Edgeworth’s stance on the matter that this divergence in behavior and cognitive activity are more accurately described as stages of one’s educational development, as opposed merely to representing one’s cognitive type or individualism.

In discussing the most appropriate manner with which to educate a student on new material, Edgeworth mentions the important distinction between the perspective of an educator and that of a pupil. One must not forget that a child learning something for the first time is seeing the topic of focus in a fundamentally different way from the instructor who likely knows the contents of the lesson like the back of her hand. As Edgeworth informs us, “we often expect, that those whom we are teaching should know some things intuitively, because these may have been so long known to us that we forget how we learned them” (E, 3). That is not to say that, through time and exposure, our reliance on attention is at all diminished. Nor is it fair to conclude that the student requires the use of any more or less attention than the teacher to accomplish the same task. Rather, the student is simply in a different, and much earlier, stage of applying attention to the task at hand, and, in turn, is also at an infant stage of interpreting the data collected by the attention that has been invested in said task. A teacher may have forgotten how she has come to know so well something so complicated, and she may, as a result, view a student’s difficulty to grasp the subject matter as a failure to apply the requisite attention, but it is, in actuality, the same amount of attention being applied by both parties (assuming a standard of commitment and initiative on behalf of both, but especially on the pupil). It seems to be different, and drastically so at that, due to the simple explanation that repetition, rather than diminishing the necessary attention invested into a given task, simply deceives the practitioner into feeling as though less attention is required. In reality, the same level of attention is applied to the task for both teacher and student, although it has, through innumerable reiteration, become second nature to the educator, while it remains a mystifying puzzle to the pupil, due to an utter lack of contact with the material in question.  

The Futility of Life and Death

In language similarly inaccessible to that used by Keats in his poem When I Have Fears, yet discussing a matter equivalently relatable, as it pertains to the human condition and basic human nature, Margaret Cavendish’s poem, The Circle of the Brain Cannot be Squared, discusses the inherent desire to uncover that, which is fundamentally unknowable. In her own words, she describes the futility of an investigation “for that, which is hardest to find.” For Keats, the topic of discussion is the inevitable demise we all face, a mystery that rests at the end of each of our lives. Yet, for Cavendish, the quagmire being discussed involves the unfathomable inner-workings of the human mind. Cavendish uses several mathematic, and specifically geometric references to characterize the complex notions surrounding the mind and the root of its unattainable functions. It seems as though the “Circle of the Brain,” being the primary representation of how the mind works, is cleverly apt, given the infinite possibilities available to its beholder. In his article, Brain and Mind in the Long Eighteenth Century, C.U.M. Smith elaborates on the many different theories proposed by such noble minds as Plato, Descartes, Newton, and many others, each offering variations as to the medical explanation of the seamless interactions of the mind, soul and body. In what would appear a similarly scientific and geometric characterization of each proposed rationalization, Cavendish uses the imagery of triangles and squares, along with division and subtraction to indicate the implausibility of managing to “Square a Circle round,” or to explain that which is simply unexplainable. So, just as Keats concludes his sonnet with an admission that he cannot escape the scythe of death, it looks as though Cavendish has similarly succumbed to the realization that the mind cannot, and never will, be fully grasped by any of the hard sciences. While we can continue to divide and subtract, to break down elements that we believe to be true in search of answers to the ultimate questions, there is little hope of transforming our limited knowledge of a boundless, circular phenomenon, like the mind, into a rigid, calculated machine-like instrument.