In Search of Lost Proust

Unlike my languid kindred Sir Gregor, some of us (insert snobbish uptone here) are still hard at work; and far from being able to recline apon the Proustian shore must instead bury themselves in a sea of Chaucer lest their GPA fall into the B average abyss. We can only dream of Proust while sawing away at Troilus and Criseyde, and flirt with our dearest Swans Way while The Prioresses Tale isn't looking.

This summer however, it is SO on.

My exams end in about a month, and after I climb off my aircraft and back onto American soil I shall flag the first taxi I can find. I will then proceed to make awkward, stilted conversation with the cabbie-attempting no doubt to simultaneously instruct him about my Proustian ventures. And convince him that I'm not a tourist so to not even think about overcharging me, bitch. Once safely in Brooklyn I shall make ways to the first bookshop I can find, no matter how scurvy th establishment shall be. Once inside I shall claim a copy of Proust, fling it triumphantly in front of the sales person, apologize for accidently smacking them in the face with it (or not, if I happen to be at Barnes and Nobles, because lets face it-they probably deserved it), and take it home. And by home, I meen whoevers couch I'm going to be living on first, or a charming cardboard box from IKEA. I shall then snuggle down with Marcel and declaire myself one step closer to being a useful, educated and Proustian human being. I'll also buy a burrito, because damn, I miss those.

Mmm, burritos.

Until then, farewell my lovelies and viva la Proust!