This made me think of when I joined a Proust circle. I was on sick leave and the other members were retired. We met in each other’s homes, discussed what we had read and, at the same time, our lives. Mine suddenly felt very short.

Then I started working again, and I didn’t have the energy or focus to keep reading at the same pace as the others. But we have met a few times since.

The book is still the best I’ve ever read, even though I haven’t finished it yet. I have never felt so seen by a novelist before. (To finish my reading properly, I probably just need to leave society for another year or two.)