The memory of one enriches the remembrance of the other, and if I can picture myself reading, then I have the impression of almost total sensory recall.It's appropriate that the first on the list is Proust. The memory of reading him must be, for everyone I think, indistinguishable from that of a long, hot, idle summer.
Proust's luscious, sinuous, long-winded sentences slow down the experience of reading, and the sensation I had was one of great spaciousness.It's also the sort of post to which one immediately wants to respond in kind. The curious thing is that I can't. Not sure why.
The final book mentioned was unknown to me but I now long to get a copy of it: Adalbert Stifter's Indian Summer. Unfortunately the translation is out of print. All I know about Stifter is that he's distantly related to Reger, the monstrous critic in Thomas Bernhard's glorious Old Masters. He (Reger) isn't a fan.