Reading Proust

(with apologies to Jonathan Larson but not many)

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred pages –
Five hundred twenty-five bonny mots introduced –
Five hundred twenty-five thousand well-perused pages –
How do you measure the reading of Proust?

Five hundred twenty-five thousand mild fits of asthma –
Five hundred twenty-five social axes to grind –
Five hundred twenty-five thousand strolls in the country –
How do you measure the time of the mind?

In snubs –
In snobs –
In snarls –
In snarky artists –
In ma-
deleines
you dip in your tea –
In conversations
And railway stations
And invitations
To someone’s for tea,
In beaches –
And leeches –
And nouveaux reaches –
And finding some new artist to be.

What about lo-ove? (Selfish old love)
What about lo-ove? (It’s never requited)
What about lo-ove? (Sleep to forget it)
What about lo-ove? Art comes from love.

Five hundred twenty-five uncompleted sonatas,
Five hundred twenty-five girls in Albertine’s bed,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand duchesses’ parties –
How do you know when your Proust has been read?

Five hundred twenty-five thousand lavender curtains –
Five hundred twenty-five thoughts you realize at last –
Five hundred twenty-five thousand cattleya orchids –
How do you know you’ve recaptured the past?