“Is there any greater joy possible than to recall grief—and to remember is to feel it—in time of felicity? Does not the freed prisoner feel nostalgia for his prison? Does he not miss his former dreams of freedom?”
If understood as sentimentalizing
the past, a longing for a Golden Age that never existed, nostalgia is seductive
and repellent. It suggests “homesickness” and in the nineteenth century was a
recognized medical diagnosis. Since then, the meaning has been watered down to
a “wistful yearning for the past.” Based on every conversation I have with my
brother, I think there’s another way to understand nostalgia.
When we talk, each of us
is flooded with memories, some involuntary and formerly only latent, and in
that sense Proustian. Both of us are blessed with ample memories. One inspires
the next, which starts a chain of associations. On Sunday, I asked if he
remembered the German bakery near our house where we bought rye bread. At one
end of each loaf – the “heel” – the baker stuck a postage stamp-sized label
with the bakery’s name into the dough before it went into the oven. My brother
and I would argue over who would claim it, for no good reason I can recall other
than not wanting the other guy to get it.
I love these trivial, meaningless,
“wistful” memories, as does my brother, but this pleasure has nothing to do
with homesick yearning. I have no wish to return to that bakery. There’s no
regression to a childish state. I recognize the past for what it was, and not
all of it was rosy. Ultimately, even our personal pasts, including their attractiveness, remain mysteries never to
be solved. These random, unattached memories are precious to us only because they are
ours. Otherwise, they are worthless, of no interest to others.
The passage quoted at the
top is from Miguel de Unamuno’s The Tragic Sense of Life in Men and Nations
(1912; trans. Anthony Kerrigan, 1972). Unamuno is inverting Francesca's statement in Inferno,
Canto V: “There is no greater sorrow, / Than to think backwards to a happy
time, / When one is miserable.” (trans. C.H. Sisson, 1980.)
Albert Camus, The Plague: "So all a man could win in the conflict between plague and life was knowledge and memories."
ReplyDeleteI think those little rye bread stamps from Hough and Davis bakeries were a kind of union label.
ReplyDelete