Well! After my research trip to Paris last weekend (which I did _without_ my book), I am back to The Fugitive, where I'm now at page 509. While reading in the last few days, I found a reference to the church in Combray, and I thought, "You couldn't possibly have seen that in it, because it doesn't exist! It's just a tacky, worn down little church in the middle of nowhere with an utter lack of stained glass!" But then I thought that what he described was an amalgamation of many churches, and that it isn't really right for me to try to impose the reality of Proust's childhood on the deliberately misnamed places in his book. It's actually a bit like the David Sedaris frou fraw going on (as I read in the New York Times last week and as scarlettina mentioned in her journal), where somehow there is this expectation that a work that seems autobiographical is actually a representation of reality. It's actually kind of like a template an author can use to tell a story - some outlines, some details may be provided from reality, but the author is busily creating his own world to his own purposes, none of which requires a faithful reproduction of reality - in fact, it would be worse for it.
I hope that I can actually get back to my recreation of these places I had in my head - it would be a lot purer. And I should really think about that Proust short movie I want to do, now featuring shots of my childhood summer home and the associated church. I bet it would be really neat.