Monday, June 03, 2002 7:23 PM
Time Regained

That was the peculiar title for a movie on one of the two independent movie channels. Was supposed to be “A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu” adapted for film. (Raul Ruiz's splendid adaptation of Proust’s .etc.blah etc says the TV Guide Guide). Variously and foreignly called A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu, Il Tempo Ritrovato; Le Temps Retrouve. As you can tell, if you have a soupcon of romance polyglot in you, a Franco-Italian production.

I know that many folks (far more picky and bright than I) are troubled by the translation of the shall we say, roman-fleuve, or shall we just say 6 or 7 or 8 parts depending on the amount of paper old Marcel ink stained from his bed, with the translated title: “Remembrance of Things Past”. I suppose it is a poor and plebian name for what is a textured and captivating work. Would you rather In Search of Lost Times? Like some Leonard Nimoy TV vehicle?

So my choices for freedom from this translatory and transitory yoke, seem to be, become a French scholar, make my point and get tenure. Make fun of a translation that I have no authority to challenge, or bumble along with C.K. Scott Moncrieff via Terrence Kilmartin. I choose the latter and happily find myself among the various ways at Combray evoked by the Madeleine or in my case a bit too much wine (a French grape I assure you) on my patio in the dying summer sun. Hat protecting the ever growing patch of skin on my head and sun screen number 1009 on my upper body and legs.

Still, one evening this past weekend I noticed Time Regained was next-up in the TV thousand movie channel line up. I fully expected some diverting and digestible bit of time travel nonsense. Instead a man who looked a mightily like Proust talked endlessly across a dinner table. I wasn’t in the mood and fell asleep and had dreams about Madame Defarge knitting a Terrible Tile while I munched a crusty fried cake covered with powdered sugar. The guillotine cuts the pastry into quarters and I offer it to the blood thirsty crowd. They turn down my bonhomie, singing I Get By With a Little Help From My Bread. Marie Antoinette comes out does a disarming pirouette and punches me in the mouth. I let them cut off her head.

I shudder awake. And think about Time Regained. That has got to be a lame translation. And what does it mean anyway? To regain time? And here comes Monday evening and I haven’t written in the blog for two weeks. And I think, wow, what about that tirade that I almost wrote. Temps Perdu, Mon Ami! And what about that priceless thought about the nature of the universe and the delicate petal (or is it pedal) of a crushed flower? Pas Retrouve, Je Cois. Sorry, nothing to evoke those moods and thoughts. Going! Going! Gong!! Well, Marcel, my basement isn’t cork lined and I am not writing this from my bed, but the wine bottle has a cork stopper and my bed is where I am headed in a short while. Shouldn’t that count for something? I sure hope they don’t try to translate Finnegans Wake into French. ALP it hurts too much missed Plurabelle and mister earwicker!