translate this to persian:
At the center of experience in the “new” fiction is memory. Bergson
distinguishes between mémoire volontaire, which is a product of reason and will,
the portion of memory we can control, and mémoire involontaire, which is the
part writers can make use of. This latter is capricious, flowing uncertainly, never
quite graspable. We see when we look at writing by Joyce or Woolf, for instance,
just how much of memory is involuntary, how little control we have over the
images that float to the surface, often to haunt or mock us.
Another key notion is la durée, or durational time. As opposed to clock time
or metronomic time, humans experience time subjectively, so that moments are
almost infinitely elastic, as in the instant before the car crash when one “sees”
one’s life flash before one’s eyes. The notion of durational time, curiously
enough, is picked up by the imagist poets for their tiny creations and by novelists
with ambitions as large as the author of Ulysses and Finnegans Wake. In the
practice of fiction, durational time allows for almost limitless exploration of a
single moment, as the mind can be functioning on a host of levels and covering a
wide array of subjects all at once as time seems, at least sometimes, to stand still.
The change in the narrative presence is most notable in the stream-ofconsciousness novel. This is not to suggest, however, that narrators disappear
entirely; rather, the narrator ceases to act as mediator or filter for the characters’
thoughts and acts more as presenter or conduit for direct transcription, with little
or no authorial commentary. Where Dickens would tell us what someone was
thinking and what it might mean or portend, Faulkner or Joyce give us not only
the thoughts (the word suggesting an awareness and even a control by the
character), but the whole jumble of thought, instinct, pre-thought, reflex, and
response to stimulus to which the character is subject. In stream-ofconsciousness fiction a character’s thoughts are presented directly, without
mediation by an intrusive narrator; he speaks, as it were, to himself. Hence the
use of contractions and of the second person. The effect of the latter is to give
what is said a more general significance, the speaker assuming that his reactions
and thoughts do not hold for him alone but for any human being.
If the entire history of stream of consciousness had been a failure, it would
have been redeemed by a single section of a single novel. In fact, this section
may be why the entire field developed. In the trade the episode, which begins
and ends with the word “yes,” is called Penelope, but Penelope has nothing to do
with its brilliance. It’s all about Molly:
they might as well try to stop the sun from rising tomorrow the sun
shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons
on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him
to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seed-cake out of my mouth
and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long
kiss I near lost my breath yes he said I was a flower of the mountain yes
so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said
in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him
because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could
always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading
him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked
out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt
know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and old captain
Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and washing
up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the
governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil half
roasted and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall
combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the jews and the
Arabs and the devil knows who else from all the ends of Europe and
Duke street and the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharons and
the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks
asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts of the
bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome
Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their
little bit of a shop