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Title: Another classic disappointment...
Review: This is the "Seinfeld" of literature: a long, drawn-out narrative about *nothing*. There are, however, other infinitely more enjoyable books that deal with memories and non-linear time. In my opinion, if a person is going to write a 3,000+ page self-reflective epic, he better be an interesting person, and this narrator is simply not one. At least not on any page of this introductory volume. Maybe he becomes interesting in a subsequent volume, but this one does not inspire me to attempt to find this out. I can appreciate the fact that this work was revolutionary in Proust's time, but I submit that in ours, it is more of a cure for insomnia than the literary masterpience it is cracked up to be.
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