On the other hand, I am finding reading this book a considerable pleasure. I had been rather absently reading Trudi Canavan's The Magician's Guild, where every character seems like a cardboard cut-out with different colored hair and clothing stuck on it. To fall into Proust's world, where the first chapter was like watching the giant Christmas tree in the Nutcracker opening up in front of me, has been an all-but physical delight.
Today our narrator has been talking about the church at Combray, and his relatives. (I have no idea if there will ever be a plot, but, whatever.) In this chapter he has met his uncle's "fancy lady," a secret which he is supposed to keep from his parents. He says, "I imagined, like everyone else, that the brains of other peope were lifeless and submissive rceptacles wtih no power of specific reaction to anything that might be introduced into them; and I had not the least doubt that when I deposited in the minds of my parents the news of the acquaintance I had made at my uncle's I should at the same time transmit to them the kindly judgment I myself had based on the introduction." As you would guess, he is wrong.
I think at this rate I might get through this portion of the work some time around the middle of January, and even though it is longer than the "month," I am going to keep trying. Good books add too much to your life to not more firmly pursue their reading.