Sunday Sunday...da..da..da..da...

Have not successfully fought off cold. Am surrendering to bed. With my laptop. Started reading Proust Friday night. Remembrance of Things Past.

But my grandmother, in all weathers, even when the rain was coming down in torrents and Francoise had rushed indoors with the precious wicker armchairs, so that they should not get soaked, you would see my grandmother pacing the deserted garden, lashed by the storm, pushing back her grey hair in disorder so that her brows might be more free to imbibe the life-giving draughts of wind and rain. She would say, "At last one can breathe!"

Go grandma. And, of course, there is the genius of controlling a sentence that long (and this is a short one for Proust); look at everything that comes across in that short space: image, character, weather. It seems so natural it's easy to miss. I know I'll miss a lot of what's referenced throughout this book--I'm guessing...wars, historical leaders, cultural dog-ears--given my spotty study of literature, especially non-American, and especially because most of what I've studied has been out of context of historical narrative. Here's a book. Here's another book. And another. Disconnected dots. But I'll forge ahead with Proust's story. I've stayed away from some tomes long enough thinking I won't get all there is to be gotten. Here I go. Proust on a late Sunday morning, with a cold. Then I'm going to watch me a really bad Michelle Pfeiffer movie. Cuz that's the way I roll.