Patrick
M. Bray, for reasons rhetorical says, ‘could there be anything more mediocre
than a madeleine?’
I have to answer (angrily) ‘Yes!’
In
defence of the madeleine I offer this list.
1. 1. they come in silver
lined bags or see-through bags. they come in bags!
2. 2. they are soft and
smooth and damp to the touch
3. 3. they are French!
4. 4. they have a girl’s
name but are suspiciously bloomingly womanly
5. 5. they are yellow and
buttery
6. 6. they taste of fake
fruit or alcohol
7. 7. they taste of other
people’s houses
8. 8. you are permitted to
eat more than one at a time
9. 9. they come apart from
themselves (when torn) very prettily
10. 10. think of the many
tins that made them
Would
I feel this way if it weren’t for Proust? I most certainly would. And it’s no
good asking me to replace his childhood breakfast aunt snack with my own to
locate an undetected mediocrity, for the macaroon (dense with sugar), the
crumpet (glossy as legs) and the farl (cosy as tea) would send me similarly
loquacious. And as for toast, shredded, dipped into eggs, or damp with butter
and burn, don’t get me started. These are not and never were mediocre things.
The writer did not seize upon an insignificant object and elevate it topsy
turvilly, he copied out the plain song that everyone had long been singing but
had never thought to write down. That is why we like it so much. It makes old
sense not new.
I am reviewing The Novel Map (Northwestern University Press: Evanston, 2013) for Literary Geographies. It is making me think about categories. And the pleasure of the word (when spoken) 'categorically!'
