I did it.
Four hundred and forty-four pages. Three and a half months. Approximately 70 billion metaphors. But I killed that bottle: Swann's Way is a fait accompli.
The last passage of the book, a few pages spent strolling through the autumn Bois du Boulogne, sums up everything about Proust that is wonderful--love of nature, descriptive detail,
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But you know what would be teh awesome? A novel about a woman who keeps a blog called "Shut Up Proust." And you are just the person to write that.
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Hmm, aren't I supposed to be sucking up to you? Crap...
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BUT . . . warning: tortured metaphor approaching)
You can't climb straight up Everest, so stop for a palette cleanser between every volume. Read Murukami's The WInd Up Bird Chronicles next -- it will also keep you stylistically loose and limber (even in translation -- it's that good), and then you will wake up from base camp reinvigorated, and ready for the next ascent . . . plus I want it back when you're done.
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Wind Up Bird is hard too (in a different way)--dense and weird. Besides, she really needs to read Garlic & Sapphires RIGHT NOW so I can discuss it with her.
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