It is fantastically easy to imitate
Proust's distinctive writing style, the way he wrote, his words arranged together, like soldiers standing in a line, a line such as that which divides the
present from the
past like a
glass barrier, a barrier through which we may perceive that
foreign land, but no more
alter it than a moth might alter
the moon, the dispassionate
moon, sailing through the sky, casting its gaze on all of creation,
observing,
distant, casting a cold light on the face of the
sleeping world, a world oblivious to the
interloper wandering about it, wandering through the night sky like a
moth, a moth perceiving the past through a
glass barrier, a
barrier of
glass, square, maybe five feet across,
dimpled, with
wires running in criss-cross patterns through its
milky depths like
fish through a sea of
confusion, and so forth.
The closest modern equivalent to Proust is probably Peter Greenaway, whose films are lengthy, hyper-detailed, and often tinged with surrealism. Or Nicholson Baker, who writes chapter-long footnotes. And with his critiques of the banalities of the ruling elite Brett Easton Ellis has undoubtedly drawn inblood from Proust's pen.
Not to be confused with the other famous Marcel, Marcel Marceau.