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"I do feel it's absurd..." she added with the wisdom invariably shown by people who, not being in love themselves, feel that a clever man should only be unhappy about a person who is worth his while; which is rather like being astonished that anyone would condescend to die of cholera at the bidding of so insignificant a creature as the comma bacillus.

This is where, if it weren't for peer pressure, I would officially give up and declare this a weird combination of melodrama and boring. As it is, though, I'm gonna try and tough it out.

Dear Proust: A name for our protagonist, along with a general sense of his age, would be GREAT. Just, whenever you get around to it. I understand you want to finish describing the steeple using nine different extended metaphors and comparing it to every other steeple you've seen throughout your life, but whenever you're done with that, just a name and an age would be great. Please.