It’s the birthday of Marcel Proust (1871-1922, #diedtooyoung), whose novel In Search of Lost Time (formerly Remembrance of Things Past) is considered “one of the greatest achievements of the modern novel,” an achievement crammed into a mere seven volumes, or about 4,300 pages in translation, which, at only $1.99 on Kindle for the whole schmear, is a heck of a deal.

Fifty life points to anyone who has read it.

Proust was born in Auteuil, France. His father was Catholic, his mother Jewish, and he grew up summering in seaside resorts in Normandy, which, when it isn’t being invaded, is probably a very nice place to summer. Proust developed asthma at nine, was a brilliant student of literature, and served one year in the French army. (There *is* a French army. You can’t make this stuff up.) He studied law and literature at the School of Political Sciences, after which he managed to avoid working, though Daddy wanted him to; this last may have had something to do with the fact that Proust lived with his parents until they both died, at which point he inherited a lot of money and could focus on writing without anyone nagging about work.

Proust started In Search of Lost Time when he was 38 and published the first volume, Swann’s Way, in 1913 at his own expense; the publishers who rejected it spent the rest of their lives kicking themselves. Proust originally planned to write two more volumes but things got out of control, like they do, and before he died of pneumonia, three more volumes appeared; the final three were published posthumously. By the time of his death, Proust was internationally famous and lauded by the likes of Graham Greene and W. Somerset Maugham.

Stay hydrated this tropically steamy Wednesday, for goodness’ sake if you’re mooching off your parents at least write something brilliant instead of playing Fortnite all day, and stay scrupulously honest to the data.