in search of the end
Proust’s volumo secundo, “Within a Budding Grove,” has been veritably subdued! Onwards—gallantly, headlong into the thick of it—toward and through volume the third.
Reflections, observations, vehement fulminations are still warranted. Give it time. I am even now reeling with the “news” undoubtedly disclosed to southbound eyes.
Still…..I’m guiltily enjoying it, without knowing why I should feel guilty in doing so. The work is beautiful, plainly beautiful, and my advocacy of high modernism, against which I place Proust as a sort of over-qualified and contemporaneous preamble, has been trundling into obscurity and uncertainty as a result.
I, too, doubt the accuracy of my Latin.