What It Is Like to Read Proust

For a long time, I did not read Proust. I never imagined what it would be like to read Proust, the way one imagines, in that strange almost premonitory way, oneself enjoying a certain book based on the title or something in the style of its presentation or a passing remark from a friend or in an essay. No-one I knew spoke about Proust, or, if they did, it was a name without connotations, and I didn’t pay attention; I did not internalise Proust nor associate him with anything. Whenever I read about Proust, it likewise passed me by. Still, I gradually acquired the impression of Proust as one of the greats and by the time I was aware enough to want to read him, I was forever putting it off. Something else always needed to be read. I never got that premonitory feeling.