There is a very funny cartoon in this week's New Yorker, the fiction edition, where a man is pointing out his designated Proust reader.
Proust is so big, I am just amazed. Still plogging away at Albertine and Marcel in Balbec. 706 pages into the novel. Savoring. Considering. Contemplating. Wonder what the Proust household was like a holiday time. Was there a Christmas goose? A plump capon? A roast beast. A buche de Noel?
Joyeux Noel, to touts le monde. And pardon my fractured French.