So so so far this is what I got
Proust is a guy who got sick one day when he sat on a bunch of flowers an was like “awwww man!” then he hurt it so much he decided to write about it 30 yrs later when he was sick in bed. Terrible affliction so it was, killed his wee cat and dog. Course, he loved both those mammal pups so much not 3000 pages could cover his affection for them. His beautiful dog, you should have seen it! Sodom was the name. And the cat? You guessed it, Guermantes.
So Proust uses this thing called involuntary memory, an I totally related to it like sometimes I’m shopping an then suddenly like a macaw through a plate of sugar glass I’ll have these magical memories that were never my own, or I was really drunk when they happened an I’m suddenly recallinitall, either way it’s quite an experience.
One day Proust saw this girl spitting on a painting of her dad, an I thought how lovely! I never had a painting of my dad, so who am I to judge her anyways? Who knows what malarkey I’d do to it eh!!! My dad has a lovely face an if I had a painting of him I would put it up. I guess. Probably not spit on it though. Never spat on a painting so I’m inclined to think I won’t. The trick is, who knows if it’s the fact it was her dad she wanted to spit on it? Maybe she et a Magdalene and realised it no longer went with the décor.
Proust loves this dude called Odette, named after the Ukranian capital Odessa and Prince’s famous micropolitical communist anthem “Little Red Corvette”. He has nice hair, like whole paragraphs of it, sh*t is magick. He gets up to no good, goes an gets himself photographed with his boyf an Proust’s mum got well upset, scaundalizee as the French call it which means scaulded on the Champs-Elysees. Proust never knew about it til he ate a Madeleine-tardis an saw it wi his own peepers and cried JEEPERS!
Some of my mates do cattaleya but they say if they do it only on weekends they can go into work an be totally fine. I don’t touch the stuff though, if I don’t need it why would I want it an I get rare pollen over my fingies an ruin my collection of tattered French lace.
So I don’t want to spoil the ending… for myself that is, so maybe I’ll never read it. Extrapolating from the general central content, seems like a fitting bookend to all this semi-colon bananas would be a whole lotta nothin. I think of Homer, tied to the Nuclear plant and shying the siren song of Bart’s catapult, of David Copperfield, young Victorian? Famous musician actually!! I think of Dante…’s Peak with Pierce Brosnan and the T-1000 and I feel good.
I would love to go the way of the swans, cos only the Queen can killem. Look it up it’s totally true! If I went and shot a Swann, the Queen could have my guts fer girders, string me up with the corgis and keep me out of reach of more Proust volumes. Gooood!!
Nah man, if you’re thinkin man that I dno’t like Proust man (although let’s be honest shall we, some pages have you searching for your own lost time am I right? Wink wink!) you’re no right man cos man it’s tough man and I take lots of breaks man between meals man so I can swim again as you should too. Swim in his PROSE THAT IS!!!! !BOOOOOMMMM!!!
Inspiring as f*ck this book is, got me punnin all over the place masel eh!!!!!!!!!