The stone tilts under Marcel's foot, the memories are born for the first time, the act of production is compressed, and there are other yolkish egg-generations throughout the book, each at a different stage; the madeleine the most famous; and now I am thinking of Georg Trakl who takes one word and another and sets them in that productive compression, the words "child" and "sweet" close to "death" or "corpse," or the words "bleak ferns" and then in the next line "crystal blossoms," (The Night), or describing autumn with "dark" then a bright word, "yellowed" (The Autumn of the Lonely One) --
The dark autumn enters with fruit and fullness
The yellowed sheen of lovely summer days.
A pure blue flows from husks of moldered dullness
-- the prose tilting between one feeling and the next.
Imbalance is the word I think (and once I say a thing I am never sure -- always I think, I think --): but there is a force running back and forth between the balance of the poem and the imbalance of the word-ideas, gravity not knowing where to seat itself, a miniature torture niceness and pain, as in Lautreamont, the little boy and his tortured fingers, Trakl removing the padding that would be natural (though not inevitable) if he was writing prose (I am thinking of a prose-exposition like this: "The little sweet girl crept to the gate that opened into the dark garden where crows were flying and the leaves the of the trees were rustling, the gate creaked as a skeleton was moving its joints, and she put her hand on the metal ..." which he would compress down to a few words like "child in dark garden"), he places the words close together as if there is no other thought or calculation between them, and as if the one followed the other intensely and natively in the poet's mind. The girl is only juxtaposed with the garden and is not in it or located in a physical spatial relationship to it, but with it in some place where one thing is with another, and what space is that: where do these things exist together that are declared firmly, the existences of them, and placed there, juxtaposed, but juxtaposition itself is the landscape they live in.
All characters are juxtaposed with their books and with other characters in other books, this protagonist existing against a backdrop of other protagonists, this villain against other villains, though once upon a time each one of us must have encountered the ur-seed of them all: the one who represented that ur for us, the beginning of the whole rigmarole of protagonists and villains in our lives, whose identity and significance, at that point in time, to us, would have been invisible, even if that ur was in fact, as I have no doubt someone somewhere has already theorised (and probably I have read and forgotten), ourselves the readers, us: ourselves wandering divorced from us through each book and the reader pursuing them, crying come back, come back or watching in resentment and despair as those other creatures embark on their adventures.