I was reading a book (in bed) the other night, and the (married) main character was in bed with her (much younger) lovah and they were animatedly discussing Proust in the afterglow of their afternoon delight. Now granted, I have been married for 18 years but at no point have I discussed Proust or any other French authors with my partner. My husband and I have been known to share pillow talk about kids, work, John Stewart and, if I am feeling really smart, whatever he's reading in "The Economist", but that's about as intellectual as it gets. Lest you try to defend my shallow conversational skills, I have to disclose that the book is not set at the turn of the century when discussing Proust might, in fact, be akin to chatting about John Grisham; it takes place in modern day NYC. And the heroine is not a French literature professor, but an historian and her dashing boyfriend, a florist. They had no reason to be discussing anything more substantial than how he was going to get out of her brownstone without being discovered, and yet their intellectual superiority persevered.
Suffice it to say, the book was essentially ruined for me after that. After all, no one likes to feel inadequate...especially in bed.