Du côté de chez Swann de Marcel Proust (1913)

It's not Proust—it's me.

I approached this classic with high expectations, drawn to its reputation for profound introspection and exquisite prose. And in that regard, it delivers: the philosophical musings on memory and perception can be genuinely fascinating, and Proust's writing is undeniably beautiful, with sentences that linger like poetry.

That said, for me, there was simply no "there" there. The book feels like a series of extended anecdotes about hypersensitive, neurotic characters in provincial French society, interspersed with the child's inner reflections—but without any compelling storyline, drama, or forward momentum to hold it together. The topics, while elegantly explored, never sparked my interest enough to pull me through.

I much prefer the sweeping narratives and vivid drama of someone like Victor Hugo. In the end, I put this down unfinished—not only because reading it in the original French stretched my language skills to their limit, but also because the lack of plot and emotional stakes made it feel more like form without substance. 0/5 Stars