For the love of god, someone please stop me.

It's been staring at me for a month now, ever since I bought it on a whim at a used book store, daring me to pick it up. And so instead I read some London, and some Yates, and some Chabon, but now--yes, now, just in time for summertime reading fun--I think I'm gonna read me some Proust.

Pretentious cookies of memory, here I come.