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We think and name in one world, we live and feel in another.

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
Feel
Feels
Name
Think
Philosophy
Thinking
Names
World
History
Art
Another
Live

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The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it...
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And so when studying faces, we do indeed measure them, but as painters, not as surveyors.
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Let us be grateful to people who make us happy.
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Every reader finds himself. The writer's work is merely a kind of optical instrument that makes it possible for the reader to discern what, without this book, he would perhaps never have seen in himself.
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For a long time I would go to bed early. [Fr., Longtemps, je me suis couche de bonne heure.]
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All the mind's activity is easy if it is not subjected to reality.
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...Hard people are weak people whom nobody wants, and the strong, caring little whether they are wanted or not, have alone that meekness which the common herd mistake for weakness.
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Nine tenths of the ills from which intelligent people suffer spring from their intellect.
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No exile at the South Pole or on the summit of Mont Blanc separates us more effectively from others than the practice of a hidden vice.
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We see things but we don't see them, like things that slid through the mind, one flowing into another.
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The truth has no need to be uttered to be made apparent, and ... one may perhaps gather it with more certainty, without waiting for words and without even taking any account of them, from countless outward signs, even from certain invisible phenomena, analogous in the sphere of human character to what atmospheric changes are in the physical world.
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The only thing that does not change is that at any and every time it appears that there have been great changes.
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After a certain age, the more one becomes oneself, the more obvious one's family traits become.
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A work in which there are theories is like an object which still has the ticket that shows its price.
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Reality is never more than a first step towards an unknown on the road to which one can never progress very far.
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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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No days, perhaps, of all our childhood are ever so fully lived as those that we had regarded as not being lived at all: days spent wholly with a favourite book. Everything that seemed to fill them full for others we pushed aside, because it stood between us and the pleasures of the Gods.
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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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Sometimes in the afternoon sky the moon would pass white as a cloud, furtive, lusterless, like an actress who does not have to perform yet and who, from the audience, in street clothes, watches the other actors for a moment, making herself inconspicuous, not wanting anyone to pay attention to her.
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It is the tragedy of other people that they are to us merely showcases for the very perishable collections of our own mind.
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