“There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favourite book.” – Marcel Proust
As a lover of books and an author, this is a lovely thought, but Proust’s childhood must have really sucked for him to feel this way.
I have many wonderful childhood memories of time spent with books, but can a rainy day spent reading a great book really trump an afternoon of tackle football in the mud or fishing from a canoe with the prettiest girl in school or getting lost for two days in the White Mountains of New Hampshire with your best friend?
I don’t think so.
Proust’s childhood must have really sucked for him to have felt this way.
