Odette Carotte

Reading the Penguin Proust in English, like a glutton

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For what we believe to be our love, or our jealousy, is not one single passion, continuous and indivisible. They are composed of an infinity of successive loves, of different jealousies, which are ephemeral but by their uninterrupted multitude give the impression of continuity, the illusion of unity.
Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time (via homme—ridicule)

(Source: homme-ridicule)

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