I saw that what had appeared to me to be not worth twenty francs when it had been offered to me for twenty francs in the house of ill fame, where it … - Marcel Proust

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Engraved portrait of Marcel Proust, facing left

I saw that what had appeared to me to be not worth twenty francs when it had been offered to me for twenty francs in the house of ill fame, where it was then for me simply a woman desirous of earning twenty francs, might be worth more than a million, more than one's family, more than all the most coveted positions in life if one had begun by imagining her to embody a strange creature, interesting to know, difficult to seize and to hold.

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About Marcel Proust

Valentin Louis Georges Eugène Marcel Proust (10 July 1871 – 18 November 1922) was a French novelist, essayist and critic.

Biography information from Wikiquote · Portrait adapted from Wikimedia Commons, Otto Wegener (Public domain / CC0)

Also Known As

Alternative Names: Valentin Louis Georges Eugène Marcel Proust 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

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Additional quotes by Marcel Proust

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.

But when one believes in the reality of things, making them visible by artificial means is not quite the same as feeling that they are close at hand.

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And more even than the painter, the writer, in order to achieve volume and substance, in order to attain to generality and, so far as literature can, to reality, needs to have seen many churches in order to paint one church and for the portrayal of a single sentiment requires many individuals. For if art is long and life is short, we may on the other hand say that, if inspiration is short, the sentiments which it has to portray are not of much longer duration. It is our passions which draw the outline of our books, the ensuing intervals of repose which write them.

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