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.