We may talk for a lifetime without doing more than indefinitely repeat the vacuity of a minute. - Marcel Proust

My grandmother had a love which found in me so totally its complement, its goal, its constant lodestar, that the genius of great men, all the genius that might ever have existed from the beginning of the world, would have been less precious to my grandmother than a single one of my defects.

His nature was really like a sheet of paper that has been folded so often in every direction that it is impossible to straighten it out.

No doubt very few people understand the purely subjective nature of the phenomenon that we call love, or how it creates, so to speak, a supplementary person, distinct from the person whom the world knows by the same name, a person most of whose constituent elements are derived from ourselves.