Odette Carotte

Reading the Penguin Proust in English, like a glutton

130 notes

I was throbbing with the same anguish I had felt before, in the distant past, when, as a small child, I lost her one day in a crowd, an anguish that was less connected to not finding her than to the thought that she was searching for me and telling herself that I was searching for her, an anguish not unlike the feeling I was to have later, on the day when we speak to those who are no longer able to reply, and when we are anxious for them at least to hear all the things we have unsaid to them, and our assurance that we are not unhappy.
Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way, translated by Mark Treharne, p. 130

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