Translations:CP 03024/8/en: Difference between revisions

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(Created page with "For the death of Albertine to be able to eliminate my suffering, the shock would have had to have killed her not only outside of myself, as it had done, but within me. There, she had never been more alive. In order to enter into us, another person must take on the form, bend themselves to the framework of Time; appearing to us only in successive moments, never being able to reveal to us more than one aspect of themselves at a time, or present us with more than a single p...")
 
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For the death of Albertine to be able to eliminate my suffering, the shock would have had to have killed her not only outside of myself, as it had done, but within me. There, she had never been more alive. In order to enter into us, another person must take on the form, bend themselves to the framework of Time; appearing to us only in successive moments, never being able to reveal to us more than one aspect of themselves at a time, or present us with more than a single photograph of themselves. A great weakness no doubt for a person to consist only of a collection of moments; a great strength also: they are a product of memory, and our memory of a certain moment is not informed of everything that has happened since; this moment which it has recorded still endures, and along with it lives the person whose form is outlined there. A disintegration moreover which not only bring the dead back to life but multiplies them When I had reached the point of being able to bear the grief of losing one of those Albertines, it all began again with another, with a hundred others. So that what until then had constituted the sweetness of my life, the perpetual rebirth of moments from the past, became its torment<ref name="n21" />. (Different times, seasons). I wait until summer is over, then autumn. But the first frosts recall other memories so cruel that then, like an invalid (who sees things from the point of view of his body, his chest and his cough, but in my case mentally) I felt that what I had still to dread most for my grief, for my heart, was the return of winter. Associated as it was to all of the seasons, in order for me to lose the memory of Albertine I should have had to forget them all, only to learn them all over again like a stroke victim learning to read again. Only the actual death of my own self would have consoled me for hers. But one’s own death is nothing so extraordinary, it is consummated every day in spite of ourselves<ref name="n22" />.
For the death of Albertine to be able to eliminate my suffering, the shock would have had to have killed her not only outside of myself, as it had done, but within me. There, she had never been more alive. In order to enter into us, another person must take on the form, bend themselves to the framework of Time; appearing to us only in successive moments, never being able to reveal to us more than one aspect of themselves at a time, or present us with more than a single photograph of themselves. A great weakness no doubt for a person to consist only of a collection of moments; a great strength also: they are a product of memory, and our memory of a certain moment is not informed of everything that has happened since; this moment which it has recorded still endures, and along with it lives the person whose form is outlined there. A disintegration moreover which not only bring the dead back to life but multiplies them. When I had reached the point of being able to bear the grief of losing one of those Albertines, it all began again with another, with a hundred others. So that what until then had constituted the sweetness of my life, the perpetual rebirth of moments from the past, became its torment<ref name="n21" />. (Different times, seasons). I wait until summer is over, then autumn. But the first frosts recall other memories so cruel that then, like an invalid (who sees things from the point of view of his body, his chest and his cough, but in my case mentally) I felt that what I had still to dread most for my grief, for my heart, was the return of winter. Associated as it was to all of the seasons, in order for me to lose the memory of Albertine I should have had to forget them all, only to learn them all over again like a stroke victim learning to read again. Only the actual death of my own self would have consoled me for hers. But one’s own death is nothing so extraordinary, it is consummated every day in spite of ourselves<ref name="n22" />.

Latest revision as of 10:59, 8 December 2021

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Message definition (CP 03024)
Pour que la mort d'Albertine eût pu supprimer mes souffrances, il eût fallu que le choc l'eût tuée non seulement hors de moi comme il avait fait, mais en moi. Jamais elle n'y avait été plus vivante. Pour entrer en nous, un être est obligé de prendre la forme, de se plier au cadre du Temps ; ne nous apparaissant que par minutes successives, il n'a jamais pu nous livrer de lui qu'un seul aspect à la fois, nous débiter de lui qu'une seule photographie. Grande faiblesse sans doute pour un être de ne consister qu'en une collection de moments ; grande force aussi : car il relève de la mémoire et la mémoire d'un certain moment n'est pas instruite de ce qui s'est passé depuis ; le moment qu'elle a enregistré dure encore et avec lui vit l'être qui s'y profilait. Émiettement d'ailleurs qui ne fait pas seulement vivre la morte mais la multiplie. Quand j'étais arrivé à supporter le chagrin d'avoir perdu une de ces Albertine, tout était à recommencer avec une autre, avec cent autres. Alors ce qui avait fait jusque-là la douceur de ma vie, la perpétuelle renaissance des moments anciens, en devint le supplice<ref name="n21" />. (Diverses heures, saisons.) J'attends que l'été finisse, puis l'automne. Mais les premières gelées me rappellent d'autres souvenirs si cruels, qu'alors, comme un malade (qui se place lui au point de vue de son corps, de sa poitrine et de sa toux, mais moi moralement) je sentis ce que j'avais encore le plus à redouter pour mon chagrin, pour mon cœur, c'était le retour de l'hiver. Lié à toutes les saisons, pour que je perdisse le souvenir d'Albertine, il aurait fallu que je les oubliasse toutes, quitte à les réapprendre comme un hémiplégique qui rapprend à lire. Seule une véritable mort de moi-même m'eût consolé de la sienne. Mais la mort de soi-même n'est pas chose si extraordinaire, elle se consomme malgré nous chaque jour<ref name="n22" />.

For the death of Albertine to be able to eliminate my suffering, the shock would have had to have killed her not only outside of myself, as it had done, but within me. There, she had never been more alive. In order to enter into us, another person must take on the form, bend themselves to the framework of Time; appearing to us only in successive moments, never being able to reveal to us more than one aspect of themselves at a time, or present us with more than a single photograph of themselves. A great weakness no doubt for a person to consist only of a collection of moments; a great strength also: they are a product of memory, and our memory of a certain moment is not informed of everything that has happened since; this moment which it has recorded still endures, and along with it lives the person whose form is outlined there. A disintegration moreover which not only bring the dead back to life but multiplies them. When I had reached the point of being able to bear the grief of losing one of those Albertines, it all began again with another, with a hundred others. So that what until then had constituted the sweetness of my life, the perpetual rebirth of moments from the past, became its torment[1]. (Different times, seasons). I wait until summer is over, then autumn. But the first frosts recall other memories so cruel that then, like an invalid (who sees things from the point of view of his body, his chest and his cough, but in my case mentally) I felt that what I had still to dread most for my grief, for my heart, was the return of winter. Associated as it was to all of the seasons, in order for me to lose the memory of Albertine I should have had to forget them all, only to learn them all over again like a stroke victim learning to read again. Only the actual death of my own self would have consoled me for hers. But one’s own death is nothing so extraordinary, it is consummated every day in spite of ourselves[2].

  1. ↑ Cite error: Invalid <ref> tag; no text was provided for refs named n21
  2. ↑ Cite error: Invalid <ref> tag; no text was provided for refs named n22
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