I think if I had read Swann's Way a few years ago it would have felt monumental. The author-reader connection is nearly seamless. Proust influenced a few of my favorite authors, so I almost feel like I've already had the experience. I'm not moved by humor or wonder right now. Well, nonetheless. I spent March in this house, but April through early July I managed to get out by relying on the kindness of others. It's pretty funny that, all that time, I expected something to happen, some remarkable change to occur that would divert me from this path I knew I was on. For some reason, I wrote that paper in two weeks, but all that besides, I am back where I started. No one has the answer. Juliette said that maybe there's a reason I'm back at my childhood home, and I should make the best of it. I hope it's not true. I hope that, if this were my own disappointment, I would have exceeded it. Sometimes I think things will change and then they don't. It's difficult to look forward to anything when I know I will return to this. Exhausted from all the combinations of ideas and pretend plans

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