Marcel Proust was a French novelist whose seven-volume masterpiece In Search of Lost Time is widely considered the greatest novel ever written, a work of extraordinary length and equally extraordinary precision about time, memory, and consciousness.
Marcel Proust spent the last fourteen years of his life in a cork-lined room in Paris, writing. The result — seven volumes, approximately 1.5 million words, published between 1913 and 1927 — is In Search of Lost Time, a novel so vast and so precise that it has no real competitors. It is the novel that most fully describes the experience of being conscious: what it is like to desire, to remember, to observe, to suffer from jealousy, to move through social life performing a version of yourself.
The premise is deceptively simple. The narrator, lying in bed unable to sleep, tries to recover the past through memory. A madeleine dipped in tea unlocks a flood of involuntary recollection — the experience that organizes the entire work. But this summary tells you almost nothing about what it is like to read Proust, which is to enter a consciousness of unusual sensitivity and intelligence that processes every experience with total fidelity and unhurried completeness. Proust’s sentences are long not because he is verbose but because his sentences are trying to capture something that shorter sentences cannot hold: the way an impression is actually experienced, with all its qualifications and reversals and unexpected additions.
The social world Proust depicts — the aristocratic salons and seaside resorts and Parisian apartments of the Belle Époque — is rendered with the eye of both an insider and an analyst. He grew up on the edge of that world, connected through family and ambition but never quite belonging to it, and his account of snobbery, social aspiration, and the terrible emptiness at the centre of society life is among the most acute in any literature. The comedy is real; so is the devastation. To read Proust is to understand both how time destroys everything and how, through the act of writing, it might be partially recovered.