My esteemed friend, the remarkable, mega-Dada Dr. Really?, decided I needed a website to make Proust Said That readily available to the public—all ten issues are on this site— and to give me a forum for my incessant musings. This is actually his site, as much as mine, and I never know what will show up next.
Dr. Really? calls me a doyenne. I wouldn’t call myself that, as it’s hardly a modest self-assessment. He has imaginative impressions of who I am, perhaps because we have spent fewer actual physical hours in each other’s company, during the years we’ve known each other, than I spent waiting for Muni buses last week. We’ve written letters, sent through the beleaguered USPS.
Since we’ve spent so little actual time together, Dr. Really? has had little chance to observe my flaws. Please be advised that the glowing compliments, fanciful biography, charming project design, invaluable technical assistance, and flights of Dada whimsicality come entirely from him. His ideas about me are not unlike the narrator’s conception of Oriane, Duchesse de Guermantes, before he gets to know her.
To borrow a line from the fabulous old French movie, Children of Paradise, if everyone had a friend like Dr. Really?, “…the world would shine like the sun.”