*The Fugitive

The Fugitive -Marcel Proust
Parallel, in the soft beauty of its impossible concept, strikes me as a fit arithmetical description of the maundering, sinuous, laughable perusings of Proust. Never faltering. Ever equidistant. Strange. Perhaps another apt macaronic would be recherché. Not that she were to be expiated by philology, or, rather, shackled hand and foot, like the purposeful victimization of a housepet, by said, candlelit, effeminate author’s brutish ukase.
What?
Well, suddenly Remembrance of Things Past jumped into a new realm, or shall I say, returned to an old one, of sheer, happening, spirited, gut-twisting, gorgeous and unparalleled philosophic narrative. Absolutely book throwing. He made me want to hug myself. Which I did. And I felt almost as silly and self-moralizing, as lonely and dear, as sweet, wet, whimpering Marcel.
“I knew that one can never read a novel without giving its heroine the form and features of the woman one loves.”
“for the force that circles the earth most times in a second is not electricity but pain.”
“…there is not a woman in the world the possession of whom is as precious as that of the truths which she reveals to us by causing us to suffer.”
“The creation of the world did not occur at the beginning of time, it occurs every day.”