To read Proust is to consent to a double enchantment: that, first, which arises from these long carefully woven sentences, in which the inventive and precise metaphor unfolds; that, then, which proceeds from a sovereign humor, which judges the beings to their fair weight of inconsistency. But to these poetic splendours, to this healthy exercise of intelligence, this story adds another dimension, the attachment to the mother, to memories and to the emotions of childhood.
