Но това, което наричаме опит, е просто откровението пред нашите очи на черта на нашия характер, която съвсем естествено се появява отново и се явява пак още по-забележимо, защото ние вече сме я осветлили, така че спонтанният импулс, който ни е водил в началото, се оказва подкрепен от всички предположения на паметта. Човешкото плагиатство, което е най-трудно за избягване, това на индивидите (и дори за нациите, които постоянстват в своите грешки и действително ги правят по-интензивни), е само-плагиатство.
Marcel ProustHappiness is good for the body, but it is grief which develops the strengths of the mind.
Marcel ProustEle só teve um momento de frieza, com o Dr. Cottard: vendo-o piscar o olho e sorrir-lhe com um ar ambíguo antes que se tivessem falado (mímica que Cottard chamava de "deixar fluir"), Swann acreditou que o médico o conheci sem dúvida por ter estado com ele em algum lugar de prazer, embora ele mesmo os frequentasse muito pouco, nunca tendo vivido no mundo da farra. Considerando a alusão de mau gosto, sobretudo na presença de Odette, que poderia fazer dele uma ideia falsa, simulou um ar glacial. Mas quando soube que a dama que se encontrava a seu lado era a sra. Cottard, pensou que um marido tão jovem não teria pensado em fazer alusão, diante de sua mulher, a divertimento desse tipo, e deixou de atribuir ao ar cúmplice do médico o significado que temia.
Marcel ProustTag: romance-love
Embora Swann nunca se tivesse considerado seriamente ameaçado pela amizade de Odette por esse ou aquele fiel, sentira uma profunda doçura ao ouvi-la admitir assim diante de todos, com aquele tranquilo despudor, seus encontros cotidianos de cada noite, a situação privilegiada que ele ocupava em sua casa e a preferência por ele que ali estava implícita.
Marcel ProustTag: humor
Quando Odette deixasse de ser para ele uma criatura sempre ausente, cobiçada, imaginária, quando o sentimento que ele tinha por ela não fosse mais aquela mesma perturbação misteriosa que lhe causava a frase da sonata e sim afeto, reconhecimento, quando se estabelecessem entre ambos relações normais que poriam fim à loucura e à tristeza dele, então sem dúvida os atos da vida de Odette lhe pareceriam si mesmos pouco interessantes.
Marcel ProustTag: jealousy
An hour is not merely an hour; it is a vase full of scents and sounds and projects and climates.
Marcel ProustI would revisit them all in the long course of my waking dream: rooms in winter, where on going to bed I would at once bury my head in a nest, built up out of the most diverse materials, the corner of my pillow, the top of my blankets, a piece of a shawl, the edge of my bed, and a copy of an evening paper, all of which things I would contrive, with the infinite patience of birds building their nests, to cement into one whole; rooms where, in a keen frost, I would feel the satisfaction of being shut in from the outer world (like the sea-swallow which builds at the end of a dark tunnel and is kept warm by the surrounding earth), and where, the fire keeping in all night, I would sleep wrapped up.
Marcel ProustA cathedral, a wave of a storm, a dancer's leap, never turn out to be as high as we had hoped.
Marcel ProustThe alleged 'sensitivity' of neurotic people is matched by their egotism; they cannot abide the flaunting by others of the sufferings to which they pay an ever-increasing attention in themselves.
Marcel ProustTag: guermantesway
By shutting her eyes, by losing consciousness, Albertine had stripped off, one after another, the different human personalities with which we had deceived me ever since the day when I had first made her acquaintance. She was animated now only by the unconscious life of plants, of trees, a life more different from my own, more alien, and yet one that belonged more to me. Her psonality was not constantly escaping, as when we talked, by the outlets of her unacknowledged thoughts and of her eyes. She had called back into herself everything of her that lay outside, had withdrawn, enclosed, reabsorbed herself into her body. In keeping her in front of my eyes, in my hands, I had an impression of possessing her entirely which I never had when she was awake. Her life was submitted to me, exhaled towards me its gentle breath.
I listened to this murmuring, mysterious emanation, soft as a sea breeze, magical as a gleam of moonlight, that was her sleep. So long as it lasted, I was free to dream about her and yet at the same time to look at her, and when that sleep grew deeper, to touch, to kiss her. What I felt then was a love as pure, as immaterial, as mysterious, as if I had been in the presence of those inanimate creatures which are the beauties of nature. And indeed, as soon as her sleep became at all deep, she ceased to be merely the plant that she had been; her sleep,on the margin of which I remained musing, with a fresh delight of which I never tired, which I could have gone on enjoying indefinitely, was to me a whole lanscape. Her sleep brought within my reach something as serene, as sensually delicious as those nights of full moon on the bay of Balbec, calm as a lake over which the branches barely stir, where, stretched out upon the stand, one could listen for hours on end to the surf breaking and receding.
On entering the room, I would remain standing in the doorway, not venturing to make a sound, and hearing none but that of her breath rising to expire upon her lips at regular intervals, like the reflux of the sea, but drowsier and softer. And at the moment when my ear absorbed that divine sound, I felt that there was condensed in it the whole person, the whole life of the charming captive outstretched there before my eyes. Carriages went rattling past in the street, but her brow remained as smooth and untroubled, her breath as light, reduced to the simple expulsion of the necessary quantity of air. Then, seeing that her sleep would not be disturbed, I would advance cautiously, sit down on the chair that stood by the bedside, then on the bed itself.
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