Can’t say I’m feeling the Proust’s magic yet. Love affairs being the center of this one, it just reminded me of an even slower version of “Sons and Lovers,” just with a wimpier protagonist who even manages to come off as obnoxious at times. He somehow manages to retain condescending tone when speaking about “commoners” after crying himself to sleep because his grandmother didn’t say him goodnight last night.

It’s still beautifully written, and there are some interesting ponderings about the intricacies of human mind, but it’s also painfully dull, even more so than the first book.