as i approach the final pages of the guermantes way, the third volume of the in search of lost time series, in these late hours, a magnificent writer who, with every word, every paragraph, makes you ask what on earth have i been reading all this time. a writer who loved dearly an entire life, one a person can't fully analyze, finds meaningless, and squanders hours of amid the hustle of daily living, along with all its details, its pains, its associations. he emphasizes over and over that everything a person uses to make sense of life and lives within and comes into contact with, whether it's nature, people, emotion, or love, is bound to one another by a terrible bond within a chain of remembering and forgetting. reading his work, forget just taking a spiritual pleasure in it, i'm satisfied through other senses too, as if remembering my stomach being full, my ears hearing, or my eyes seeing.
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