Re-reading Proust. Mademoiselle Vinteuil is cruel to her father, the very one who adores her. Beyond the grave, she and her friend play ritual games that profane his memory. Memory, Marcel’s prime occupation, divides along trauma lines. What’s a novelist, like him, if not a merciless remaker of those he knew, of whom many loved him? Yet time may transform these thoughtless sadistic games, pleasurable at the time, into guilt or remorse or self-reflection. Praise, even. Mademoiselle Vinteuil grows up to be the thankful overseer of her father’s musical estate, archivist of his time-bound creations, protector of his good name.