“Denying temporal succession, denying the self, denying the astronomical universe, are apparent desperations and secret consolations. Our destiny (as contrasted with the hell of Swedenborg and the hell of Tibetan mythology) is not frightful by being unreal; it is frightful because it is irreversible and iron-clad. Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges.” (1)

In trying to formulate something to say about time, I remembered an old essay I read by Borges called, A New Refutation of Time. Rereading it while maneuvering Proust was immensely enjoyable, because I originally read it with idealism and metaphysics in mind. Borges’ argument is directed toward Berkeley’s idealism, but I’m going to use it to examine In Search of Lost Time.

When I picture Proust’s narrator in the process of recalling his earlier years in Combray, particularly the scene with the madeleine, I imagine time as being compressed into the treat, waiting to be unlocked in the mind once tasted. Is the present the sum series of the past or is the past simultaneous with the present? It seems that if the past is simultaneous with the present, then there is no past, only the present, meaning there’s no present without the past, creating an endlessly circular paradoxical headache. I think Borges would refute the idea of time being compressed into a madeleine, which awaits being unlocked, but rather call it a reflection of the past. The subtle difference is that one lives again in the moment, while one reflects it, and to Borges time cannot be regained-it cannot be relived.

The second half of the first sentence I’ve quoted states a “desperation[s] and secret consolation[s]” in idealist notions of time. One is to assume the theory Borges is refuting claims time as not structured a->b, but rather something similar to the madeleine, existing in lumps and possibly eternally recurring. The madeleine then is a source of comfort, because it allows us to slip away from the rigid, unbreakable foundation of a linear sequence, which never breaks in its stretch toward the infinite. Ultimately, this desperation and consolation comes from the fear of death, for the human body is bound to die, and one must come to terms somehow with the acknowledgment of non-existence having once existed.

I find solitude in both Borges and Proust, and being the sort of agnostic, unsure-of-everything kind of person I am, I accept both notions presented here. It seems possible to regain those moments you hold on to dearly, to live in them and stow away the present. At the same time, I’m realistic and accept that time, relative, is a cold, merciless idea which seems inescapable, perhaps due to the dimension we exist in. We must come to terms with parting from ‘good times’, if only to see other good times, or maybe even fall on the bad.

1.)  Borges, Jorge Luis. “A New Refutation of Time.” Labyrinths: Selected Stories & Other Writings. Ed. Donald A. Yates and James E. Irby. New York: New Directions Pub., 2007. 233-234. Print.