For there is in this world in which everything wears out, everything perishes, one thing that crumbles into dust, that destroys itself still more com… - Marcel Proust

The fixity of a habit is generally in direct proportion to its absurdity.

In this way, the mansions arranged along either bank of the canal made one think of objects of nature, but of a nature which seemed to have created its works with a human imagination.

And not only does one not seize at once and retain an impression of works that are really great, but even in the content of any such work (as befell me in the case of Vinteuil’s sonata) it is the least valuable parts that one at first perceives... Less disappointing than life is, great works of art do not begin by giving us all their best.