Many years later, long after the Great War, Proust returns to once familiar scenes and the ever-colourful high society people of Paris he once knew, and wrote about at length. And what do you know: everyone has changed. Everyone has grown older. And Proust himself is older: he can tell by comparing himself with the changed scenes he is now slowly moving through. Then he falters. He trips over the edge of some paving in a courtyard and he has an epiphany: he knows what he is destined to write about. About not much happening. About the texture of life. Subjectivity. What it means to exist. To feel that one is existing. And at the centre of it all are those moments of lost time, when a memory coexists with a clear sense of ourselves in the present. Those moments of blessed insight are what make life worth living. A sense of timelessness. When we exist outside of time. And that, my friends, is the point of the whole 3,000 plus pages. He decides to write about his life, what it means to be him, living, that strange mixture of memories and quotidian existence. And he hopes against hope that he’ll live long enough to achieve it. He doesn’t.