While Proust’s writing is convoluted enough to make reading him require a certain amount of concentration, it is always a pleasure. He dissects at length the meaning of all gestures, tones of voice, turns of phrase or even shafts of light. I was left feeling that no two gestures are the same, that each and every smile, for example, is unique, and while it may borrow something from the idea of a smile that we have learned to recognise, it is always imbued with the character of its giver and translated in the mind of its observer. Like phrases in a piece of music, it is copied yet transformed, built upon or expressed more subtly, given more meaning by juxtaposition with other emotions, other gestures, or even inverted to portray its opposite.

The names we give our interactions are useful conventions that aid understanding but they also limit our interpretation of the world around us. Proust’s world, though seemingly made up of very little, is rich with meaning, and he conveys this with great precision and insight.