I've fallen off the bandwagon.
I haven't been reading like I was in January. February has brought with it some health challenges and all I want to do after work is drink tea and flip through old editions of British Country Living.
Confession: I don't want to read right now. I think I know why, too: I dedicated March to reading "Swann's Way" by Marcel Proust. Now, if any of you have read that immortal madeline and lime blossom tea scene (and if you took any literature or humanities classes in college, you have), you'll know that Proust tends to be a bit...verbose. Not a problem for me. Usually. I LOVE long-winded authors. Give me some Tolkien any day of the week and I'll be a happy little nerd.
Oh my. This dude seriously had some childhood hangups with not being allowed to receive a kiss from his mother before heading up to bed. The imagery is beautiful. He paints an exquisite picture of a pastoral, upper class, French countryside and the people who could be found there. You see his parents, his aunts; you smell the flowers in the early, evening air. You can even hear Mr. Swann whistle as he comes up the pathway and the creak of the gate as it opens on it's hinges.
Unfortunately, I don't care a hoot about anyone in this entire story. The only characters I'm remotely interested in, is Mr. Swann, the enigmatic neighbor who, I believe, the focus is on in the next section.
I don't want to read any more. But neither do I want to turn my back on the 50+ pages I've read. I'm in a bit of a conundrum.
What would you do? Have you read Proust? Does it get any less...whiny and gushy?