"Marcel Proust passed away in November 1922. One day, I could no longer resist: I went in search of him. I prowled about, I visited the places he had lived, I walked in his footsteps. The brilliant writer was concealing a doppelganger, and I pursued him as though he were a missing relative."- Jerome Prieur
This book is not a biography, but a quest; an expedition to unearth what remains of the author of Remembrance of Things Past. What was it like to be in his remarkable presence? What was it like to be inside his skin-especially during his final years of intense reclusive absorption in the writing of his great book?
