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Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true.

Marcel Proust

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Marcel Proust
Age: 51 †
Born: 1871
Born: July 10
Died: 1922
Died: November 18
Author
Essayist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Poet
Prosaist
Writer
Paris
France
Valentin Louis Georges Eugène Marcel Proust
Proust
Valentin-Louis-Georgs-Eugène-Marcel Proust
Valentin Louis Georges Eugéne Marcel Proust
Valentin-Louis-Georges-Eugéne-Marcel Proust
Valentin Louis Georges Eugene Marcel Proust
Valentin-Louis-Georges-Eugene-Marcel Proust
Bernard d'Algouvres
Valentin-Louis-Georges-Eugène-Marcel Proust
Literature
Lying
True
Littles
Little
Falsehood
Everything
Passes
Time
Spoken
Becomes

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There is no idea that does not carry in itself a possible refutation, no word that does not imply its opposite.
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One must never miss an opportunity of quoting things by others which are always more interesting than those one thinks up oneself.
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Laissons les jolies femmes aux hommes sans imagination. Leave the pretty women for the men without imagination.
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Aristocracy is a relative thing. And there are plenty of out-of-the-way places where the son of an upholsterer is the arbiter of fashion and reigns over a court like any young Prince of Wales.
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In reality, in love there is a permanent suffering which joy neutralizes, renders virtual delays, but which can at any moment become what it would have become long earlier if one had not obtained what one wanted -- atrocious.
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Through art alone are we able to emerge from ourselves, to know what another person sees of a universe which is not the same as our own and of which, without art, the landscapes would remain as unknown to us as those that may exist on the moon.
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Masterpieces are no more than the shipwrecked flotsam of great minds.
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Nobility is often no more than the inner aspect which our egotistical feelings assume when we have not yet named and classified them.
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A language which we do not know is a fortress sealed.
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Most of the supposed expressions of our feelings merely relieve us of them by drawing them out of us in an indistinct form that does not teach us to know them.
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The past not merely is not fugitive, it remains present.
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Our intonations contain our philosophy of life, what each of us is constantly telling himself about things.
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Similarly the men who produce works of genius are not those who live in the most delicate atmosphere, whose conversation is most brilliant, or their culture broadest, but those who have had the power, ceasing in a moment to live only for themselves, to make use of their personality as of a mirror.
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There is no more ridiculous custom than the one that makes you express sympathy once and for all on a given day to a person whose sorrow will endure as long as his life. Such grief, felt in such a way is always present, it is never too late to talk about it, never repetitious to mention it again.
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The only true voyage would be not to travel through a hundred different lands, but to see the same land through a hundred different pairs of eyes.
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To be an artist is to fail, as no other dare to fail... failure is his world and the shrink from it desertion
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Griefs, at the moment when they change into ideas, lose some of their power to injure our heart.
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Neurosis has an absolute genius for malingering. There is no illness which it cannot counterfeit perfectly. If it is capable of deceiving the doctor, how should it fail to deceive the patient
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Certainly, it is more reasonable to devote one's life to women than to postage stamps or old snuff-boxes, even to pictures or statues. But the example of other collections should be a warning to us to diversify, to have not one woman only but several.
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The opinions which we hold of one another, our relations with friends and kinsfolk are in no sense permanent, save in appearance, but are as eternally fluid as the sea itself.
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