Each time, a girl is so unlike what she was the time before (shattering as soon as we see her the memory we had kept of her and the desire we had planned to experience) that the stable identity we ascribe to her is purely fictitious, a convenience of language.
Marcel Proust, The Fugitive, translated by Carol Clark, p. 55.
A convenience of language that does not describe image, scent, movement, voice.
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