Proust and Powell and the insular qualities of vast narratives

Thinking about the insular world of Proust's In Search of Lost Time (reading "Swann's Way," Davis tr.), how in this really vast, 7-volume novel there are ultimately very few characters, and their worlds keep intersecting - they go to the same few salons and dinner parties, vacation at the same resorts, cross paths all the time, over 20 years or so, in Paris. In a way, every life is like this - we live in a world where we see literally thousands of people every week, maybe every day, but the narratives of our lives really only crosses a few dozen people, maybe? The insularity therefore doesn't feel odd or strange in Proust, but he does create the feeling that these people, for all their wealth and their "nobility," lead a life that is painfully narrow in scope - their interst in the world of art, politics, world affairs is limited and trivial - they're interested in fashion (in art), not in great art (Swann may be an exception, and of course so is Marcel, which is why he breaks from his milieu and becomes a chronicler). The narrowness is part of the emotional and political theme and climate of Recherche. I compare this with the 12-volume Dance to the Music of Time, by Powell, English novelist, work often compared with Proust, and though I have enjoyed Powell's books (have read the first 7), they really pale compared with Proust, in large part because the extent to which the same dozen or so characters cross paths over many years - in school, in business, in politics, in society, ultimately in the Great War - is ludicrous, almost comic, clearly a novelist's device to manage his broad canvas and not an intrinsic quality of the society he is portraying.