Jacques, a good friend who lives in Paris, wrote in response to my latest Keelhauler mishap, offering as he frequently does, wisdom from Proust�s �� La Recherche Du Temps Perdu,� sincere on his part but something of a joke between us, based on my admission to him, before I knew of his fondness for the author, that I found Proust�s writing unbearably detailed and circuitous. And concerned with trivial matters. But Jacques has hope I�ll come around, which I appreciate, and sends selected excerpts from the text that challenge my totally frivolous opinion that it�s annoying to read. Jacques compares the delicacy of the prose to the sensation of traveling on an art nouveau railway, and quotes a lyrical passage about Catleya orchids which serves to prove the point that fine detail doesn�t have to mean eye-strain headache.

Jacques is acutely sensitive to nuance, and his letters are filled with detail regarding his travels, 1970s-era Boston music (on which subject he is expert) and curiously intimate conversations with strange girls in silk stockings. His adventures are always entertaining, and never lurid. He possesses the distinctly French talent for walking the fine line between sensual and prurient. He also keeps a weblog, which is notably not a long ramble about a disastrous relationship, but instead a thoughtful exploration of his interest in Pre-Raphaelite paintings, Artaud, and The Modern Lovers.

Jacques has a good sense of humor, and expresses his amusement on e-mail via the phrase �A ha ha ha.� I find the �A� at the beginning absurdly funny, somehow making the phrase �Ha ha ha� seem more formal. I�ve tried to explain it to him, but the humor is lost in translation, not just between me and him, but between my brain and my typing fingers.

My friendship with Jacques predates my association with The Keelhauler, and he�s been privy to the ups and downs of the relationship. Today, he writes, �He must have hidden assets that make you love him so much as to forgive him such rudeness. I feel ashamed for the man species which is such a collection of uncaring individuals.� He simultaneously credits me (undeservedly) with the capacity to forgive, cites The Keelhauler for rudeness, and assigns blame to the entire male sex. It is impossible to read that and not feel at least partly better.

Some day I�ll read �� La Recherche Du Temps Perdu,� in English, of course, as �Remembrance of Things Past.� I don�t expect I'll be quoting Proust any time soon, but I can quote a lyric by Townes Van Zandt (more prosaic than old Marcel but still apt) that expresses my feelings right now: �It don�t pay to think too much on the things you leave behind.�

Star of the day. . .Margo