On one particularly low January evening on the Brooklyn Bridge, I asked myself what I would be missing out on if I jumped off. The answer came to me unbidden: I would never find out how In Search of Lost Time ended. I resolved, with a self-seriousness I can only smile at fifteen years later, to finish the book and then kill myself, but just as when Proust read Ruskin, when I read Proust “the universe suddenly regained infinite value in my eyes,” and when I came to the book’s last word, “time,” on September 11, 2009, I no longer wanted to die.)
GOOD for you!
