Marcel Proust was famous for his long, long sentences, that you can find all over In Search of Lost Time, and that sometimes make reading his novel difficult, but the amazing thing is that, while the first and second volumes may seem obscure, little by little you get used to his style, you learn to remember what the beginning of the sentence was, and it becomes easier and easier to read, so that you may concentrate on the insightful psychological descriptions, on the characters that grow old as you read the novel, on the role of time, on the humour because, yes, Proust is very funny sometimes, and you have more and more pleasure until, in the last volume, in twenty or thirty breathtaking pages which would justify all the time you spent on this book if each one of the previous volumes were not already beautiful and pleasant by itself, the main character eventually understands how he can become a writer, his life-long dream, by writing a book about his life, a book which is precisely the book you are reading, a book which convinced me to add a write-up about In Search of Lost Time.