Proust is what comes to me, not what I summon

From Roland Barthes’ Le plaisir du texte (pg 58-59):

Reading a text reported by Stendhal (but which is not his), I find Proust there through a small detail … in the same way, in Flaubert, there are flowering normandy apples that I read based on Proust …

I recognize that Proust’s work is, at least for me, the reference work, the general mathesis, the mandala of the entire literary cosmogony – as were the letters of Mme de Sevigne for the narrator’s grandmother, the novels of chivalry for Don Quixote, etc.; That does not at all mean that I am a “specialist” in Proust: Proust is what comes to me, not what I summon;  He is not an “authority”; simply a circular memory.  And that is indeed the inter-text: the impossibility of living outside the infinite text.

Lisant un texte rapporte par Stendhal (mais qui n’est pas de lui), j’y retrouve Proust par un detail minuscule … de la meme facon, dans Flaubert, ce sont les pommiers normands en fleurs que je lis a partir de Proust…

Je comprends que l’oeuvre de Proust est, du moins pour moi, l’oeuvre de reference, la mathesis generale, le mandala de toute la cosmogonie litteraire – comme l’etaient les Lettres de Mme de Sevigne pour la grand-mere du narrateur, les romans de chevalerie pour don Quichotte, etc.; cela ne veut pas du tout dire que je sois un “spcialiste” de Proust: Proust, c’est ce qui me vient, ce n’est pas ce que j’appelle; ce n’est pas une “autorite”; simplement un souvenir circulaire.  Et c’est bien cela l’inter-texte: l’impossibilie de vivre hors du texte infini

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