Reading various types of books from variety of authors, I reckon I can safely say that I have found Marcel Proust's prose as soothing as coffee. When I started rereading it, every night I opened it and each night sip several pages from the hot meanwhile a bit bitter coffee. Unfathomable human interactions were untangled in front of my eyes by the magical power of Proust's prose. And in that very moment, I was drenched in profound thoughts. Allow me to correct myself. I was buried under the sudden avalanche of nostalgies and bitter/sweet memories. I miss reading In search for lost time.
