In the literary machine that Proust's In Search of Lost Time constitutes, we are struck by the fact that all the parts are produced as asymmetrical sections, paths that suddenly come to an end, hermetically sealed boxes, noncommunicating vessels, watertight I partments, in which there are gaps even between things that are contiguous, gaps that are affirmations, pieces of a puzzle belonging not to anyone puzzle but to many, pieces assembled by forcing them into a certain place where they mayor may not belong, their unmatched edges violently bent out of shape, forcibly made to fit together, to interlock, with a number of pieces always left over.