I have been so comically altered by this book.
If you’ve seen me in the last 3 years there’s a good chance that I’ve had a pastel-colored volume that makes up In Search of Lost Time in my hand or in a bag with me or holding up my coffee as I type away at work. I’ve read this book all around the world, tracing paths in the places that I’ve taken it. And, as a result, the book has traced paths through me. In my life this book has become the bathing Nereids of Habit and Art and Memory. Just so, my interactions with it have been transmuted into Time itself. Over 10% of the Time that’s made up my life, to be specific.

I gave up on Proust some ten years ago (mostly by lack of persistence). You've convinced me to give it another try. This was a beautiful text, thank you.
Do it! And thank you! If you made it through my wall-of-text blog post here then I have no doubt you can make it through Proust.