Prouststorm

Travelers passing through the northern shore of France would often report strange storms that would come - seemingly - from no where. On cold days the pressure would dramatically shift and a huge gust of hot air would rush at the traveler. Inexplicably the perfume of honeysuckles and rose water would fill his nostrils and then - just as he felt he was in a warm and fragrant paradise thousands of pages of prose (usually in six volumes but sometimes only in five - but always hard bound.... VERY hard bound) would fall on the unlucky soul. If he survived the Prouststorm he would live on only as a husk of his former self rattling on and on about girls he never dated without end.