My first week of Proust
Ponderous, self-indulgent, a series of impressions.
One cannot, as of yet, speak of a plot. I suspect this shall remain the case.
A book written for himself alone. Who was his Max Brod?
A vocabulary likely only matched by Shakespeare.
Unedited steam-of-consciousness seeped in psychoanalysis.
I agree with Harold Bloom, or what I can recall, it might not even be Bloom, that Proust has these moments of immense, unsurpassable beauty which are hidden underneath the densest morass conceivable.