I'm halfway through the last volume of Proust's In Search of Lost Time, and I admit I'm proud of it. I don't know what can be said in a small space about a novel so large and canonical, but I've deeply enjoyed it. An unexpected quirk of the novel is that though I've been heavily absorbed in it the whole way, and found it moving, funny, and in general a complete literary experience, I can't really recommend it to others without absurd sounding qualifiers, e.g., "As long as you can put up with hundreds of pages on end of detailed descriptions of things like churches, landscapes, flowers, parties, dinners, families, manners, morals, and the like, you'll find it immeasurably beautiful and immediately personally meaningful!" --where I'd of course have never previously taken that bait.