Last month, I started getting this itching desire to read Proust. Marcel Proust...
I knew nothing about him.
I had no idea what he'd written.
I was clueless as to where I should start.
But there I was, standing in Barnes and Nobles last night, barely able to withstand the temptation a shiny, well-translated (French to English) copy of Swann's Way presented.
I don't know where any of this came from.
Was it Little Miss Sunshine? Or was it an episode of Criminal Minds, in which the opening lines of Swann's Way are read aloud? Or was it helping some guy find Proust's books months ago in that same bookstore, simply because I had a better grasp of the alphabet than he?
I think I had felt the tug before, but never seriously considered reading his books until I saw that unalphabetized man wandering around thinking he could just read Proust for fun. I could just read Proust for fun, I thought, but I know my alphabet. And I am an English major. Or was. I was an English major. But now I am like some kind of expert, right? So I could totally read Proust for fun.
But I didn't buy a copy of Swann's Way last night. I held off. Partially because I have yet to finish the book Jen has wanted me to read for...months...and partially because I am supposed to be reading books for, well, work.
At work today, I decided to check and see if we had a copy here. And we do. Or did, because I just checked it out. And if we get along, that copy of Swann's Way I saw last night is totally mine.
I'll try to keep you apprised of the situation as it progresses. But since one of the St. B's teachers saw me looking at it and asked what was going on, and since I told her what I was doing and why, and since I was feeling pretty good about it...I better read it all. I better not give up.
I am not giving up.
Okay. Now I have to go yell at a little girl who is destroying what little order we have on our shelves down here.