Reading you does matter

Almost like 'climbing a mountain', almost like can be taken as 'to prepare for the battle', reading Marcel Proust renders me sophomoric in my take on my own senses, especially the sixth one. Such labor, grievances he had taken on himself to come out thus, so painstaking, exhaustive, euphonious even in the second language. Maybe related with his upbringing, privilege, being bookworm, seclusion, quest for the truth as well as the means of expression in words adorned with such breathtaking analogies and speaking, vivid delineations; maybe not so--I find him as sensitively sensational as pedantically fecund and sharp. Such hermeneutic trick and approach even for a little thing that mattered to him. Combray is alien to me, but I relate a sort of linkage there through him. Here again, it's sort of coming across some great familiarity when he confidently put forward about the intangible screen of mental constructs or ideas between the observer and the object, the coloration by the intervening phenomena whereby the observer assumes to behold the matter of any, and his arresting the discriminatory constructs between his prime sense of himself and the object. The same tonic trope is endless throughout him.