I’ve decided to finally read Proust.
It feels like a momentous thing, though, in reality, it’s not much of a thing at all. It’s a book. Just a humble book. No lives will be harmed in the reading of this version, aka the Lydia Davis translation. (At least no lives that I know of. Apologies if there’s some weird cosmic law out there in the universe that mandates the death of another being for every copy read. This is a strange thought, I know, but stranger thoughts have been written.)
I’m pretty sure I’m only noting this read because of the way countless authors talk about their own experiences while reading Proust. (I mean, whole books have been written about these types of experiences, but, really, I don’t expect much at all. I’ll read it, and I’ll either enjoy it or I won’t. But at least I will have finally done so.)
I’ve long wanted to, and long have I put it off—it never seemed like the right time. One gets the feeling we should be reading this book in a rather leisurely but studious fashion. But life doesn’t often allow for those types of drifting days. And maybe it never will again. No time like the present.
So, yes, I’m reading Proust. I’ll send myself a bouquet of flowers 🌸 💐 🌼 , a box of Madelines, or maybe a bottle of wine 🍷 when I’m done.
Or maybe I’ll finally take that long long awaited trip to Paris.