proust's sentence

Not all of Proust's sentences are alike, but there is one he's fond off which, by its behavior, suggests that P. grew weary of the limits of the sentence. He wants so badly at certain monents to include everything, thought, feeling, plus some sense of the physical world where the thought and feeling are taking place, that the sentence begins to distend, hemmoraging with parentheses, backpedaling into the past with dependant clause inside dependent clause, to the point almost of bursting. It seems as though he's showing us that the sentence can't really contain what there is of life, and yet he will not quite break it, believing, I would assume, that no other communicative protocol can approach the sentence's omnivorous jaws.