Reading Proust rekindles a woman’s memories of her grandmom.

(from Best American Short Stories 1996)

About 500 words in, I put my finger on the page and closed the book on so I could look at the cover. I was momentarily worried that I had picked up one of those Best American Essays collections instead. (I had just purchased this collection a few days ago; it was possible that after 20 minutes of deliberation, I had grabbed the wrong one when it was time to leave the Book Trader. I also bought Bobby Clarke and The Ferocious Flyers.) But no. This is simply a short story that reads like an essay, partly because it is a collection of anecdotes and facts that seem real enough.

Ever read any Marcel Proust? I never have. A gap in my education, I suppose. I’m going to have to getting around to reading him. Why? Because I fancy myself a writer, of sorts, and every 12th writer is required to write a book (or at least an essay or short story or CD review) which references this apparently indespensible literary lynchpin. Proust is a Beer Of The Month Club. He’s a pyramid scheme. He’s the gift that keeps on giving. If it turns out I’m the 12th, I better know what I’m talking about.

Or.

Everybody could just give it a rest about Proust already.

That said, back in 1996, Mary Gordon, author of “Intertextuality,” was not aware of my impending moratorium on Proust. We have to read her story on its own antiquated merits. I rather liked it, mostly because I choose to believe the snooty, cold tone was meant to tell us something about this family that never had much need for sharing emotions. So it’s a success, and a fine read, Mary Gordon. And Marcel Proust would surely drop $10 in your PayPal account for the shout-out. Then, turning to the writing community as a whole, he would say, but really, please, give it a rest.