While reading the pages of incessant rumination by the narrator, who seems obsessively absorbed within his subjective experience, just as one has had enough, and wants to finally put the book down and call it quits; a flash of brilliance arrives, a rare self aware revelation, that is so true, so poignant, that one feels as if they had just discovered an objective truth about life; then, one does finally put the book down, but not to bail, rather to contemplate - a momentary reprieve from the monotony of daily life. Again and again. That is the gift of Proust.

What starts of as tedious and exhaustive, that is to say, Proust’s style, slowly becomes a delight, causing one to derive such joy from reading Proust, that it were as if every time they picked up the book, they were seeing an old friend again.

Never have I read anything so beautiful, so moving, delicate in form yet transcendental. The fact that the prose is not merely aesthetic, but serve a purpose for the medium, sweeping you away into another world, dissolving the barrier between subject and object, is testament to Proust’s ingenuity. The prose reads with that effortless Mozartian quality, where the succession of words feels so right, that it could not be done any other way.

A famous critic said In Search of Lost Time was the culmination of the novel. That nothing more had been said or could be said. In the moments I try to read something else to change things up, but always end up gravitating back to Proust, I tend to agree.

I just wanted to share my delight in reading this novel.