The contemporary classical music piece, Miroirs déformants -composed by Nicolas Vérin* and written to be performed by oboe- presents us with an incomplete story. Throughout the piece, the instrument is accompanied by a series of electronic sounds, and instead of the usual classical melodies, strange sounds surround us: whispers, echoes and murmurs. As the name suggests, Deforming Mirrorssample gives us an image of what could be a complete melody, but is no longer so. On the contrary, there is a degradation of the image, and, like it, the melody is deformed, broken and lost. As I read the name of the composition and listen to it, I cannot help but think that certain lines of the poem Cambridgewritten by Borges, invade my head:
"We are our report
we are that chimerical museum of inconstant forms
that heap of broken mirrors".
Like Vérin's composition, Borges reminds us that we are also composed of broken mirrors - deformed mirrors - that are a reflection of our report. The report is, in fact, that which allows me to remember Vèrin and Borges and, at the same time, that which has allowed me to imagine this article before putting it in writing. That is to say, it is what allows us to remember and, through what we have stored in it, to imagine. Contrary to what is usually thought, the report not only evokes the past, but the thought that is anchored towards the future is also an artifice of it.
A clear example of this is found in the Odyssey by Homer. In the work, we are portrayed Ulysses, who tries to return home, but has lost part of his identity, which complicates his journey to Ithaca. For this reason, the hero uses the fragile memories of his wife and son -Penelope and Telemachus- to be able, little by little, to return to them. However, the memory of memory is a bad judge when, through what is remembered, we try to imagine what will be. Even Odysseus has to reconstruct his old memory when he meets Ithaca again. Odysseus is no longer the king he was; on the contrary, he returns to Ithaca as a beggar, and the only one who recognizes him is his dog, Argus. Similarly, Telemachus is no longer the child his father remembers, and the vague report he had of him must be replaced by that of a grown man. On the other hand, Penelope, thanks to her own suffering, has become cautious and, upon meeting her beloved again, doubts that it is really him. The characters have changed and no longer align themselves with the report. The memory of Ulysses has fragmented like a mirror, similar to that of Vèrin's composition, where the report is confronted with an image that becomes more and more distorted. Despite this, we are told that Ulysses has returned home. However, what will happen after a day, a month or two years? Has Ulysses really returned to Ithaca? Is it possible, in the present, to return to a place of memory?
Banville faces the same question in The Alchemy of Timewhere his longed-for Dublin is not the same as he remembered as a child, as if his memories of the city have been fantastically embellished. Similar to Ithaca, there has been a break in time: the past of what Dublin was and the present of what Dublin is. "When does the past become the past, how long does it take for something that happened just like that to begin to give off the secret, luminous glow that is the mark of the true past?" writes Banville. This is the nostalgic problem of the report: we long for a future that aligns with the present and react to the loss of the present. Thus, report may be a weight worthy of being carried by Atlas, but, at the same time, it is also a gift. A gift, because the way St. Augustine presents it in The Confessions, the report is the measure of time and the mechanism through which we can know reality. In a way, the report is the present of past things and without it we would be no one. Because of this, we can say that the man who forgets himself and loses his identity is a man without report. So, what should we do with report, which seems to be a gift but, at the same time -remembering Borges' poem- produces sharp "broken mirrors"?
Proust, in his own way, poses the same problem, but provides answers. In his already much-analyzed "scene of the Madeleine", from the first volume of In Search of Lost Timewe are presented with a memory subject that is involuntarily evoked. That aroma, for example, that transports us against our will to an old love; that taste that takes us to a family dinner, or that vision that turns us into children. Do we lose, then, freedom by being part of this involuntary report ? It is one thing to want to remember, it is another to remember without prior notice. We cannot avoid the past because rather than evoking it, through this involuntary report , it would seem that the past is the one who evokes us. And so, we find ourselves in a Proustian problem.
If we recall the "Madeleine scene" the narrator drinks tea in which he has soaked a madeleine, and the taste transports him to a bygone era. The narrator does not remember where the report comes from, but he relives the sensations and becomes part of them again. "Where could such a strong joy come from? I could tell it went hand in hand with the taste of tea and scone" he thinks. The narrator drinks the tea a second and third time and tries to evoke the memory attached to the muffin, but fails. This leads him to know that this is a problem of the soul and he will only be able to locate the memory through it: "I leave the cup and go back to my soul. She is the one who has to find the truth". And, little by little, he evokes his childhood, owner of that flavor captured through the tea.
The "scene of the Magdalene" reminds us that in the human being there is no such thing as complete oblivion. This involuntary report tells us sample that beyond an image, we can relive the past. And this, very Augustinian, is how Proust describes an activity proper to the soul. Perhaps, indirectly, we are asked to go down into the bowels of the soul and together with the report relive who we have been, but now, implementing the discoveries of who we are. Perhaps, we are not asked to seek continuity. Things end, are cut short and, sometimes, continue to soon say goodbye. Life, in this sense, is discontinuous, which also makes us discontinuous. In due time - like a Dante who leave to Hell - we will descend into the bowels of who we are and, reflecting with our report, perhaps we will find some continuity. An uncle of mine says that good books should be read three times. The first, without analyzing details; simply enjoying. The second reading demands close attention, and the third, sharpness in case we missed something in the second one. Life may be the same way. ThatProustian report can hurt us and, in part, take away our freedom; however, in the long run, it asks us to reclaim it and observe with more perspective who we are and who we have been.
So, what solution is there, how to go down into the bowels of the soul and find meaning, how to accept the loss of a memorial Ithaca? With the honesty of my pen I write: I do not know. I only sense that report is, although painful, a much more beautiful gift than a divine punishment. We are, have been and will be Ulysses. Human beings sailing the sea -or the sea, if we remember Alberti**- and facing new waters. We navigators will observe the fragments of the report, which, despite being sharp, are still a reflection of us.
Bibliography
Homer (2007). Odyssey. Gredos.
J, Banville (2024). The alchemy of time: a Dublin memoir. Alfaguara, Penguin Random House group publishing house
M, Proust (2019). In search of lost time. Alliance
St. Augustine (2010). Confessions. Gredos
*The complete work is not available on public platforms available . However, you can find the second part of it: Miroirs déformants II on soundcloud.
**From the poem El Mar. The Sea by Rafael Alberti
