“In conversation, Marcel Proust never breathed. Never.”
“Marcel Proust doesn't care about black people, but he would like you to know that although he doesn't really care for their skin color that rather reminds him of a hot summer day in which the trees drooped with the fiery scorching heat of an inferno, not disco, mind you, but an inferno like the one detailed in Dante's The Divine Comedy, a book in which a man is led through the three afterlives, if you will, by a poet...HOLY FUCKING SHIT, HE'S INVADED MY MIND! GET OUT, YOU BASTARD!”
Valentin Louis Georges Eugène Marcel Proust (10 July 1871 – 18 November 1922) was a French writer and critic born in a tiny mudhovel to miserable but loving parents who fed him nothing but lady fingers, which he later developed an almost pathological fondness for and would eat nothing but the sweet, soft cookies for days on end, a habit which eventually led to his timely death at the age of 102 of malnutrition. He would delicately dip the end of the cookie in a cup of hot tea, though the tea could not be so hot as to scald the tongue, and then slowly raise the dripping biscuit to his lips, whereupon he would allow himself to take a tiny nibble from the corner before sitting back in his chair with his hands laid over his belly and staring dreamily up at the clouds outside the window, which scurried across the sky like a flock of sheep fleeing from a hungry wolf, who pursued them pellmell across the expanse of the sky, and Marcel would often imagine that he could hear the plaintive bleating of the cloud-sheep as they passed frenziedly overhead, although in real life he had never seen a sheep as they were outlawed in France at the time, and this was a source of great sadness to him that would often make tears well up in the corners of his eyes when he thought of how white and woolly the sheep were that he had seen in pictures in books, and how much he would like to pet one, but unfortunately, as aforementioned, sheep were completely illegal, due to the rise of bestiality in France in recent history, although Marcel certainly was not interested in sheep in that way...though, upon reflection, perhaps he was, a thought which disturbed him so much he would break out of his reverie about sheep and return his focus to the tempting cookie in his hand, for by this time the delicious morsel he had previously ingested would have completely dissolved on his tongue, leaving behind only a tingling sweetness that was both intoxicating and sad, and so he would proceed to again dunk the cookie into his tea, allowing to soak up just the proper amount of liquid before taking another tiny nibble, and he would think about how his Aunt Madeleine, with her kind, hazel eyes, would serve him lady fingers and tea in pretty china cups with soft pink flowers on them, as well as hot buttered toast, which he would not touch, every time he visited her, and then when all the tea was drunk and all the cookies and toast consumed (the former by Marcel himself, and the latter by his aunt), Aunt Madeleine would read to him from the newspaper, for she was not much of a reader herself, but she knew how he enjoyed his literary pursuits, or sometimes the two of them would sit in silence while Marcel pored over a book and Aunt Madeleine relaxed with her knitting, the needles clicking gently against each other like the quiet, constant, soothing tick of the clock on the mantelpiece, and at some point during their long, pleasant evenings together she would look up at that same clock and exclaim over how late it was, and Marcel would reluctantly take his leave from her warm house with its plush furniture and walk the long road back to his parents' miserable hut in the dark, finding his way more by memory than by sight, but Aunt Madeleine had been dead for a long time, her tea parties and the clicking of her knitting needles were gone, and Marcel was alone, but nonetheless it comforted him to know that her memory was being preserved in this small way, this ritual consumption of tea and biscuits, and he would shake himself and suck it up and finish his fucking cookie.
Proust's most famous work was the 1748 classic "A La Recherche de Temps Perdu" (in English "Research into Lost Secretaries"). It was initially published in 144 volumes, each of around 10,000 pages. It tells the story of a young man walking to the cake shop, buying a packet of biscuits and walking home, older and wiser.
The Germans believe that he is best read while inebriated, which is why they yell "Proust" before they drink.