1,085 Quotes by Marcel Proust
- Author Marcel Proust
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It was the quartets of Beethoven (numbers 12,13,14, and 15) which over fifty years, created and expanded the the audience of listeners to the quartets of Beethoven, thus achieving, as all masterpieces do, progress if not in the quality of artists, at least in the company of minds, which is largely composed these days of what was missing when the work appeared: people capable of liking it.
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- Author Marcel Proust
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Why did you not forget your heart also? I should never have let you have that back." ...
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- Author Marcel Proust
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Memory, instead of being a duplicate, always present before one's eyes, of the various events of one's life, is rather a void from which at odd moments a chance resemblance enables ones to resuscitate dead recollections, but even then, there are innumerable little details which have not fallen into that potential reservoir of memory, and which will remain for ever unverifiable.
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- Author Marcel Proust
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With graceful deviations in which caprice is blended with virtuosity
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- Author Marcel Proust
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And then, gradually, the memory of her would fade away, I had forgotten the girl of my dream.
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- Author Marcel Proust
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Ah, in those earliest days of love how naturally the kisses spring into life! So closely, in their profusion, do they crowd together that lovers would find it as hard to count the kisses exchanged in an hour as to count the flowers in a meadow in May.
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- Author Marcel Proust
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It is the same in life; the heart changes, and that is our worst misfortune ; but we learn of it only from reading or by imagination ; for in reality its alteration, like that of a certain natural phenomena, is so gradual that, even if we are able to distinguish, successively, each of its different states, we are still spared the actual sensation of change.
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- Author Marcel Proust
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Dinner-parties bore us because our imagination is absent, and reading interests us because it is keeping us company.
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- Author Marcel Proust
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For in this world of ours where everything withers, everything perishes, there is a thing that decays, that crumbles into dust even more completely, leaving behind still fewer traces of itself, than beauty: namely grief.
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