Revisiting an author I avoided when I studied French at university, I was surprised that Proust's writing was more accessible than I had feared. Not that it immediately grabs you: the vast sentences with their minute analysis of characters' motives ("Nooo, not another subclause - my puny intellect can't cope!") engages you only slowly. Don't look for a page-turning twist-driven plot here. What you get is a sort of beautifully-written, melancholy and contemplative retrospective set in fin de siecle France and driven by the big themes of love and memory.