Illness is the doctor to whom we pay most heed; to kindness, to knowledge, we make promises only; pain we obey. - Marcel Proust

with one image he would make that beauty explode into me.

A cathedral, a wave of a storm, a dancer's leap, never turn out to be as high as we had hoped.

And indeed when we are no longer in love with women whom we meet after many years, is there not the abyss of death between them and ourselves, just as much as if they were no longer of this world, since the fact that we are no longer in love makes the people that they were or the person that we were then as good as dead?