So, there’s a tirade about George Sand. Blah blah blah something something blah blah blah about that shlock lit blah blah blah upset my sensibilities.
Then we get the whole, “[…] these events, so mundane, these things so common, these words so used in regular expression, I felt like a strange intonation.”
But, here’s the thing: Proust’s entire work, here, is about the mundane, the everyday, the regular expressions, the common things of life. I mean, dude spends pages upon pages talking about how he wants his mommy.
It is interesting to see the disdain he uses for what he considers to be mundane lit, when really, this is a class judgment. His mundane lit is, at least, of a respectful, hauty family, that would never be caught dead reading that trashy George Sand.
Even though they do.