I decided to tackle Proust, at last. At least the first volume. A slow book for a slow month, it just felt right - then I discovered that the Guardian's reading group had had the same idea. Du côté de chez Swann has been the subject of many Skype conversations, it's been confusing and heartbreaking and infuriating. I expected to be bored (and I was a bit at first), but instead it's been strangely addictive. Did it feel right to read an almost surgical analysis of a middle-aged man's obsessive love affair? Not really. I felt too young, too impatient, too naive. But that's exactly what I liked.
Every time I finish a book, an essay, a project I feel a bit empty. February has been intense, not only because of Proust. Luckily I'll be going away for a bit soon. Hamburg next week.