I'm reading this book at the moment.

Part of the novel is Mme. Proust's diary and I'm not sure whether it's fictional or not. Maybe I don't even want to know.

Years ago I found one of my mother's old diaries, and read most of it. Her writing was so sterile, like a grocery list. It was written when she was pregnant. She wrote lots about how sick I made her, and nothing about how happy she was to be having a child.

I also found my father's diary; a thick stack of loose papers. I rifled through it and read bits and pieces and couldn't bring myself to read more. I assume mom has thrown it out since then, and wonder if she's read it. I wish she'd talk about him sometimes.