In my own under-achieving way, reading ’Swann’s Way’, by Marcel Proust, was a minor but significant accomplishment. It was a ponderous book about love, art, time and memory by way of related sensory and emotional expressions, and ’Swann’s’ was only the first volume of a three thousand page novel titled ‘À la recherché du temps perdu’, (anglicised to Remembrance of Things Past). Proust wrote it over a span of eighteen years, and it’s exhausting just trying to describe it. Proust was so self-absorbed that he took 30 pages to describe how he turns over in bed before finally falling asleep
You put a lot of work into this. My hat's off to you! fyi Swann's Way is as far as I got.