It is fantastically easy to imitate Proust
's distinctive writing style, the way he wrote, his words arranged together, like soldiers standing in a line, a line such as that which divides the present
from the past
like a glass barrier
, a barrier through which we may perceive that foreign land
, but no more alter
it than a moth might alter the moon
, the dispassionate moon
, sailing through the sky, casting its gaze on all of creation, observing
, casting a cold light on the face of the sleeping
world, a world oblivious to the interloper
wandering about it, wandering through the night sky like a moth
, a moth perceiving the past through a glass barrier
, a barrier
, square, maybe five feet across, dimpled
, with wires
running in criss-cross patterns through its milky
depths like fish
through a sea of confusion
, and so forth.
The closest modern equivalent to Proust is probably Peter Greenaway, whose films are lengthy, hyper-detailed, and often tinged with surrealism. Or Nicholson Baker, who writes chapter-long footnotes. And with his critiques of the banalities of the ruling elite Brett Easton Ellis has undoubtedly drawn inblood from Proust's pen.
Not to be confused with the other famous Marcel, Marcel Marceau.