Each artist seems thus to be the native of an unknown country, which he himself has forgotten, different from that from which will emerge, making for… - Marcel Proust

Whether it is because the faith which creates has ceased to exist in me, or because reality takes shape in the memory alone, the flowers that people show me nowadays for the first time never seem to me to be true flowers.

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.

...love, and consequently fear, of the crowd being one of the most powerful motives in all human beings...