Marcel Proust

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For those without comedic tastes, the so-called experts at Wikipedia have an article very remotely related to Marcel Proust.

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Proust

A picture of Proust looking more than a little gay, except he wasn't really, in fact he wants you all to know that he was quite strappingly butch and he remembers that when he was twelve years old, on a fine, sunny day he got into a real scrapping fist fight with a four year old girl and won...

Marcel Proust 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; in any case, 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 rise 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...although, 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 mantlepiece, 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.

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