I like to pretend I’m not pretentious about what I read. I like to say I treat my fantasy novels, my young adult fiction and my classics all the same.
But I don’t.
And people, I’ve been reading Proust.
For a long time, I avoided Proust because I felt he personified pretentiousness. What could be more self-indulgent than a seven-volume novel of more-or-less fictional remembrances of a dead French dude? What could be more ostentatious than telling all your friends you were reading him?
Maybe telling all of Juneau you were reading him.
And enjoying it.