This book was written by Proust. Apparently he was allergic to Petite madeleines which set him off on this tome. Remembrance of Things Passed out My Nose. Is it solipsistic in here, or is it just me?
And yet Proust somehow still managed 300,000 words about his disappointing experience at mattress pounding. Just imagine if he had a sub-par visit to his local Chipotle? Little known fact: Proust loved Mexican food.