This week, with houseguests, we have been looking at old slides of Paris, Nice, Portofino, St. Tropez and vacations past. Everyone in the family, even the kids, dressed to the nines. Not formally, but very well. wonder when that habit disappeared. Maybe during the Jeans Years. Lots of memories of the Nice train station, and photos of us sitting at the Cafe de la Paix eating croissants the size of luncheon plates. We ordered 'way too many. A family joke by now. The beach of rocks (shingles, so-called) at Nice. No comfy sand there.
Lots of yachts and always a scene somewhere. Like Balbec? That would require some analysis, and of course one can't really go to Balbec again, except with the narrator. Is he a reliable narrator? Probably, but his interests aren't necessarily ours. A huge disconnect. I would have to think about this stuff for a long time. In the meantime, I fall asleep after a few pages before bedtime.
Speaking of aids to sleep, The History of Political Ecomony (by Bell) was always the best soporific, followed by Henry James. My god, the number of times I snoozed a few pages into those books, although I love and respect James, he can be rather turgid.
I found a couple more good Proust blogs for you. Interesting perspectives.