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An hour or so later he received a note from Odette. Swann had left his cigarette case at her house. If only, she wrote, you had also forgotten your heart! I should never have let you have it back.

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
House
Notes
Left
Wrote
Also
Hour
Back
Forgotten
Heart
Later
Never
Case
Cigarette
Cases
Note
Hours
Received

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A sleeping man holds in a circle around him the thread of the hours, the order of years and of worlds. He consults them instinctively upon awaking and in one second reads in them the point of the earth that he occupies, the time past until his arousal but their ranks can be mingled or broken.
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Masterpieces are no more than the shipwrecked flotsam of great minds.
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Photography is the product of complete alienation.
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We ought at least, from prudence, never to speak of ourselves, because that is a subject on which we may be sure that other people's views are never in accordance with our own.
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The charms of the passing woman are generally in direct ratio to the swiftness of our passage.
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Like many intellectuals, he was incapable of saying a simple thing in a simple way.
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Words do not change their meanings so drastically in the course of centuries as, in our minds, names do in the course of a year or two.
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It is not only by dint of lying to others, but also of lying to ourselves, that we cease to notice that we are lying.
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A woman whom we need and who makes us suffer elicits from us a whole gamut of feelings far more profound and vital than a man of genius who interests us.
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In a separation it is the one who is not really in love who says the more tender things.
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Habit! that skillful but slow arranger, which starts out by letting our spirit suffer for weeks in a temporary state, but that thespirit is after all happy to discover, for without habit and reduced to its own resources, the spirit would be unable to make any lodgings seem habitable.
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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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Laissons les jolies femmes aux hommes sans imagination. Leave the pretty women for the men without imagination.
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It is up to my spirit to find the truth. But how? Grave uncertainty, each time the spirit feels beyond its own comprehension whenit, the explorer, is altogether to obscure land that it must search and where all its baggage is of no use. To search? That is not all: to create.
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Knowing does not always allow us to prevent, but at least the things that we know, we hold them, if not in our hands, but at leastin our thoughts where we may dispose of them at our whim, which gives us the illusion of power over them.
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The courage of one's opinions is always a form of calculating cowardice in the eyes of the other side.
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Like a kaleidoscope which is every now and then given a turn, society arranges successively in different orders elements which one would have supposed immutable, and composes a new pattern.
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It is a mistake to speak of a bad choice in love, since, as soon as a choice exists, it can only be bad.
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When from a long distant past nothing subsists after the things are broken and scattered, the smell and taste of things remain.
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She was a woman of uncertain age.
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