Everything Great In The World Comes From Neurotics

Today, in 1922, Marcel Proust passed away. I did not know this bit of trivia when I began my project, but now, knowing it, my undertaking seems "right" in a cosmic sense. Whether or not he would agree with my express lane approach to his life's work or not, I hope that at least, in reading it, I have done sufficient homage to a truly artistic human being. There are many works of art regarded throughout human history, but few have stacked up to the scale of Proust's Remembrance of Things Past.

There is such a real weight to what I have found so far in Proust's writing. I have begun to question, for example, my initial intent. Thirty days seems so inadequate, now recognizing the depth that exists in each of his sentences. It is fully possible to read this book in thirty days- I'm a bit behind schedule, but not so far that I cannot finish on time (thank you, 13.5 hour shifts)- though I feel that I'm going to have to read this all again.

Yup. One more time. One more spin through the 3,200 pages that used to seem so insurmountable. Being at a point where there is just about the same amount to come as has been completed, I have realized how cursory a glance this project has truly been. Granted, I have become vastly more aware of certain facets of daily life and of my own self that I had very often ignored or simply never taken note of, but there are nights where I read a sentence only to find, hours later, staring at my feet in the swirling water while I shower, that I totally missed the point. The insight was lost on me. The true meaning went over my head while I hunkered down and tried to get to the finish line in time. There is more to life than the finish line. There is more to Proust than the last page. That is the point of his work, and it took me 1,600 pages to figure it out. Somehow.

I can't say how soon after finishing I'm going to begin reading this books again- I'd like to read a few things that have been recommended to me first- but I am positive it will be within twelve months' time. There is so much to dig into, so many levels of understanding I have not yet reached with Proust's work, that I cannot sate my desire to know without immersing myself more fully.

Death scared me for a very long time. Now, though, I understand that death is vastly less frightening if a person has done what they truly desire to do with their time. If Proust died, truly, feeling as though he had not "done it," then there's simply no hope for the rest of us at all. I like to imagine that he passed away knowing he really had done it, no matter how many years he spent morose and hidden away in that cork room.

Marcel, this beer is for you.