At a certain point I think it’d be good to attempt a more positive explication here of where I’m at, faith-wise, where I find myself in the Anglican communion and so forth. But maybe later: Although I’m no longer writhing on the floor as my axioms shift about me, I’ve run the risk of theological burnout enough recently to not want to immediately keep spinning the wheels for the edification of the small audience I have here.
On that note, one of the things about having a blog with an archive that spans the greater part of a decade is that it’s able to keep up traffic without my semi-regularly updating it. Not great traffic, but it seems to keep well enough on its own as a personal blog even when I haven’t logged into wordpress for weeks on end. It also makes me feel a bit like I have to compete with younger versions of myself.
Anyway, one of the things I’ve been dipping into this year when I haven’t been cracking into theological tomes (oh, Calvin…) is Marcel Proust’s famous semi-autobiographical opus, In Search of Lost Time. I tried reading it over a decade ago, and never got past the second volume. But it seems like a good pick for this year, in that it’s extremely long, and that Proust’s conversational approach to narrative structure makes it easy to pick up and put down in fits and starts without too much difficulty. Actually, this seems to be part of Proust’s conceit: that the experience of forgetting, remembering and so on should be part of the aesthetic experience. And it’s just so low stakes, with all the various minor melodramas of the French aristocracy and Proust’s desire to wax phenomenological about the most mundane of his experiences. In short, it’s a good distraction for a rather dramatic phase of one’s life.