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

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Love is a striking example of how little reality means to us.
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It has been said that beauty is a promise of happiness. Conversely, the possibility of pleasure can be a beginning of beauty.
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We have such numerous interests in our lives that it is not uncommon, on a single occasion, for the foundations of a happiness that does not yet exist to be laid down alongside the intensification of a grief from which we are still suffering.
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Existence is of little interest save on days when the dust of realities is mingled with magic sand.
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Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true.
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Even though our lives wander, our memories remain in one place.
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For one cannot change, that is to say become another person, while continuing to acquiesce to the feelings of the person one no longer is.
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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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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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Even from the simplest, the most realistic point of view, the countries which we long for occupy, at any given moment, a far larger place in our actual life than the country in which we happen to be.
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The reason why life may be judged to be trivial although at certain moments it seems to us so beautiful is that we form our judgment, ordinarily, not on the evidence of life itself but of those quite different images which preserve nothing of life-and therefore we judge it disparagingly.
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I should have been happy: I wasn’t.
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But,instead of what our imagination makes us suppose and which we worthless try to discover,life gives us something that we could hardly imagine.
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People who, not being in love themselves, feel that a clever man should only be unhappy about a person who is worth his while which is rather like being astonished that anyone should condescend to die of cholera at the bidding of so insignificant a creature as the comma bacillus.
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Having a body is in itself the greatest threat to the mind... The body encloses the mind in a fortress before long the mind is besieged on all sides, and in the end the mind has to give itself up.
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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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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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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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The features of our face are hardly more than gestures which force of habit made permanent. Nature, like the destruction of Pompeii, like the metamorphosis of a nymph into a tree, has arrested us in an accustomed movement.
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I understood that all the material of a literary work was in my past life, I understood that I had acquired it in the midst of frivolous amusements, in idleness, in tenderness and in pain, stored up by me without my divining its destination or even its survival, as the seed has in reserve all the ingredients which will nourish the plant.
Marcel Proust