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When nothing remains of our remote past, after the people are dead and the things are destroyed, alone - more fragile yet longer lived, more immaterial, more steadfast, more faithful, the smell and taste of things persist, like souls, ready and waiting to remind us; over the ruin of all the rest they bear unflinchingly on their almost impalpable droplet the immense edifice of memory.
Marcel Proust -
The pleasure that all men experience in mulling over their recollections is often keenest in those whom the tyranny of a malady and the daily hope of its cure keep, on the one hand, from seeking in nature images resembling those recollections and yet, on the other hand, leave confident that they will soon be able to do so. This hope adds an element of expectancy to memories and saves them from being mere recollections of a dead past.
Marcel Proust -
It is not because others are dead that our affection for them grows less; it is because we ourselves die.
Marcel Proust -
“Usually, the older their photographs are, the older women look in them.”
- Marcel Proust
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The moments of the past are not motionless; in our memory they retain the motion which precipitated them toward a future now likewise become the past.
Marcel Proust -
Your fondest dream is to humiliate the man who has insulted you. But if he moves far away and you never hear of him again, your enemy eventually ceases to have any importance to you.
Marcel Proust -
The places we have known do not belong simply to the world of space in which we locate them for our convenience. Originally each place was but a thin slice amidst adjacent impressions which formed our life at that time. The memory of a certain image is merely nostalgia for a certain moment, and houses, roads, avenues are fugitive, alas, like the years.
Marcel Proust -
“Our memory is like those shops which exhibit in their windows now one and now another photograph of the same person. And usually the most recent picture is the only one on view.”
- Marcel Proust
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We think we are in love with a young girl when we merely love in her, alas, that dawn whose blush her face momentarily reflects.
Marcel Proust -
Posted on April 11, 2011 via Robot Heart with 264 notes
Source: Flickr / kaitlynsullivan
