Saturday, June 27, 2009

Marcel Proust

"Every day I set less store on intellect.

Every day I see more clearly that if

the writer is to repossess himself

of some part of his impressions, get to something

personal, that is, and to the only material

of art, he must put it aside. What intellect

restores to us under the name of the past,

is not the past. In reality, as soon

as each hour of one's life has died, it embodies

itself in some material object, as do

the souls of the dead in certain folk-stories,

and hides there. There it remains captive, captive

forever, unless we should happen on the object,

recognize what lies within, call it

by its name, and so set it free. Very likely

we may never happen on the object (or

the sensation, since we apprehend every object

as sensation) that it hides in; and

thus there are hours of our life that will never

be resuscitated: for this object is

so tiny, so lost in the world, and there is

so little likelihood that we shall come across it."

--Marcel Proust

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