Tuesday, March 3, 2020
Behind Proust's fictive sonata with haunting melody
some try to identify the "real thing," as though
Proust--of all people!--could not make something up.
What piece could he have been thinking of?
They wonder... But isn't Proust's music more real
than what they hope to find? If fiction is cardboard
cutout of something of thicker substance
what good is it anyway?