I was given this book about 30 years ago and couldn‘t get into it. Having decided it was time to read it and let it go, I forced my way through Malte‘s uninteresting recollections of his childhood and whatever else he was rambling on about. Thank goodness he didn‘t blab on as long as Proust did. I couldn‘t have taken much more of it. A few worthy sentences for sure but the rest was a great big yawn. Good for insomnia though. 😴