I’d read it about a dozen years ago and enjoyed it thoroughly. Now there is a new edition of the translation, so I bought the paperback version and again, enjoyed it thoroughly.
I’ve tried in other place to write long, Proustian sentences that slalom across the page. They were long, but obvious parodies. Good for a laugh and nothing more.
Proust must have been the world’s keenest observer. And the world’s biggest neurotic; the worries with which Swann and the narrator torment themselves are truly brilliant in their craziness and truth to reality.
I plan to read the other volumes over time.
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