“Mirror and Map.”
Proust seeming a figure behind me, showing the impossibility of ever knowing or describing one’s own feelings with the necessary exactitude (if only to prove to oneself they are definitely there);
Joyce seeming a figure in front of and above me, emphasizing a similar defect that lies in the opposite direction, of realizing one’s place in the feelings of the world, in history and geography, of knowing one’s situation appropriately.
That is- Proust/ interior, Joyce/ exterior, and not having for oneself hardly any sense of either.
Make a joke of these demented ideas and I’m done.
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 