In A la Recherche du Temps Perdu Proust has his character, Marcel, reconstruct from memory the world of the aristocracy in Paris that he moved in from his fin de siecle childhood, through the early C20th, WW1 and into old age. It is a comedy of manners, an analysis of 'love', a document of its historical moment and an aesthetic masnifesto.
As a boy, Marcel is fascinated by Swann's infatuation with Odette, described in rapturous longuers of infatuation, that is wracked by jealousy and later echoed in his own affair with Albertine. The social world that Swann is a star of is an endless round of gatherings, both in Paris and the resort of Balbec, with the hosts and guests all very conscious of the significance of who is or isn't invited and how it reflects on their social standing.
Marcel is a great admirer of the actress, Berma, the novelist, Bergotte, and the music of the composer, Vinteuil. The novel progresses towards Marcel becoming a writer himself, the aesthetics he develops to do so and the book is the book he eventually writes.
The main political issue is that of Dreyfuss and the anti-semitism revealed by it in many of the nationalist aristocrats.
Marcel's dissatisfactions with life are addressed, if not solved, by making art from it. The web of lies, infidelities and anxieties he is witness to in life lead to a de-humanizing analysis of love, an unsatisfactory promiscuity but possible redemption through art.
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In the Monty Python sketch, contestants are given 15 seconds to 'Summarize Proust'. I don't think it's possible to recite the above in under 45 seconds or summarize it much more succinctly. Which is, of course, the joke. I could leave out Berma, Bergotte and Vinteuil and bring it nearer to 30 seconds but I've left out his other infatuations, like the Duchess de Guermantes, the unpalatable character of the Baron de Charlus and many other friends and society people.
But it surely is the greatest novel. I understand that Tolstoy is long-winded on account of him spending several pages ruminating on the action and that is also true of Proust, extrapolating abstract philosophies from his experience, often with use of extended metaphors. But it is highly readable in the brilliant Kilmartin translation and, having done it in a very respectable 13 weeks, will miss it. Given a period of reading a few shorter books that demand less of a 'programme' to make sure one keeps up the good work, I'll maybe go back and see about Ulysses, 40-odd years since first being intrepid enough to try.
