I wrote this exactly five years and one day ago.
I’ve just finished the first two parts of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time(though I read them backwards, “In The Shadow of Young Girls in Flower” first, then “Swann’s Way”) and I’m digging it. I especially like the sections where Proust muses about the nature of memory and especially appreciate how he acknowledges that whatever burning passions we feel enslaved to now will only make us ridiculous in the end.
"…[H]ow paradoxical it is to seek in reality for the pictures that are stored in one’s memory, which must inevitably lose the charm that comes to them from memory itself and from their not being apprehended by the senses…The places that we have known belong now only to the little world of space on which we map them for our own convenience. None of them was ever more than a thin slice, held between the contiguous impressions that composed our life at that time; remembrance of a particular form is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years."
I’ll definitely be visiting the library in the next couple of days to see if I can find any of the subsequent volumes.