PrOWst, Proost, what have you.
As an English major with an adequate amount of the old amour propre, I have taken on the challenge of Marcel Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time.”
Reflections and reactions are bound to follow; I have only completed Vol. 1, “Swann’s Way,” and it can be said that its position as a masterpiece is fully justified. The intricacies in its architecture and syntax, which, in fact, are presented in a most simple way, are resplendent—coursing with life and hidden associations. The ambiguities present act as agents of disambiguation to what came before—I will not begin here, I hope to have the entirety of this beautiful monstrosity tamed and constrained by summer’s end.
Luck wished once is appreciated,
twice, and it is abhorred.