My progress on In Search of Lost Time continues unabated; at turns I find the prose difficult, and then I am swept up in the beauty of his words and find that I've raced through hundreds of pages. I don't have much to say that hasn't already been said, and so I leave you with a thought from Proust on why solitude is essential to artistic creation:
We may talk for a lifetime without doing more than indefinitely repeat the vacuity of a minute ...
Reminiscent, really, of Susan Cain's book on introversion.