Porque la mejor parte de nuestra memoria está fuera de nosotros, en una brisa húmeda de lluvia, en el olor cerrado de un cuarto o en el perfume de un… - Marcel Proust

For there is in this world in which everything wears out, everything perishes, one thing that crumbles into dust, that destroys itself still more completely, leaving behind still fewer traces of itself than Beauty: namely Grief.

این باور که کسی زندگی ناشناسی دارد که با دل‌بستن به او به آن راه توانیم یافت برای عشق از همه‌ی شرط‌هایی که دارد تا پدید آید مهم‌تر است، که اگر این باشد از بقیه به آسانی خواهد گذشت

Memory, instead of being a duplicate, always present before one's eyes, of the various events of one's life, is rather a void from which at odd moments a chance resemblance enables ones to resuscitate dead recollections, but even then, there are innumerable little details which have not fallen into that potential reservoir of memory, and which will remain for ever unverifiable.