We feel very strongly that our own wisdom begins where that of the author leaves off and we could like him to provide us with desires... That is the … - Marcel Proust

I put down my cup and examine my own mind. It is for it to discover the truth. But how? What an abyss of uncertainty whenever the mind feels that some part of it has strayed beyond its own borders; when it, the seeker, is at once the dark region through which it must go seeking, where all its equipment will avail it nothing. Seek? More than that: create. It is face to face with something which does not so far exist, to which it alone can give reality and substance, which it alone can bring into the light of day.

"None of us constitutes a material whole, identical for everyone, which a person has only to go look up as though we were a book of specifications or a last testament; our social personality is a creation of the minds of others. Even the very simple act that we call "seeing a person we know" is in part an intellectual one. We fill the physical appearance of the individual we see with all the notions we have about him, and of the total picture that we form for ourselves, these notions certainly occupy the greater part."

وأدركتُ المجال الذى يصطدم به الحب، إننا نتخيل كموضوع له، كائناً يمكن أن يتمدّد أمامنا، منغلقاً ضمن جسد، يا للحسرة، ان امتداد هذا الكائن إلى كل النقط فى الزمان والمكان هو ما شغله ويشغله. وإن لم نتملك صلته بهذا المكان أو ذاك بهذه الساعة أو تلك، فنحن لا نتملّك الكائن. إلا أننا لا نستطيع لمس كل هذه النقط. لو تم تعيينها لنا فقط، لربما وجدنا وسيلة للوصول إليها، إلا أننا نتلمس الطريق إليها ولا نجدها. من هنا الشك والغيرة والمضايقات. إننا نبدد وقتاً ثميناً فى البحث عن أدلة غير معقولة، ونمر بجانب الحقيقة من دون أن ندرك وجودها