A photograph acquires something of the dignity which it ordinarily lacks when it ceases to be a reproduction of reality and shows us things that no longer exist.
MARCEL PROUSTA photograph acquires something of the dignity which it ordinarily lacks when it ceases to be a reproduction of reality and shows us things that no longer exist.
More Marcel Proust Quotes
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The bonds that unite us to another human being are sanctified when he or she adopts the same point of view as ourselves in judging one of our imperfections.
MARCEL PROUST -
It is not because other people are dead that our affection for them grows faint, it is because we ourselves are dying.
MARCEL PROUST -
Everything great in the world comes from neurotics. They alone have founded our religions and composed our masterpieces.
MARCEL PROUST -
Happiness is beneficial for the body, but it is grief that develops the powers of the mind.
MARCEL PROUST -
There comes in all our lives a time, when the ears can listen to no music save what the moonlight breathes through the flute of silence.
MARCEL PROUST -
Thanks to art, instead of seeing one world, our own, we see it multiplied and as many original artists as there are, so many worlds are at our disposal.
MARCEL PROUST -
Desire makes everything blossom; possession makes everything wither and fade.
MARCEL PROUST -
Instead of seeking new landscapes, develop new eyes.
MARCEL PROUST -
The bonds that unite another person to our self exist only in our mind.
MARCEL PROUST -
Let us be grateful to people who make us happy.
MARCEL PROUST -
Happiness serves hardly any other purpose than to make unhappiness possible.
MARCEL PROUST -
We think and name in one world, we live and feel in another.
MARCEL PROUST -
One must never miss an opportunity of quoting things by others which are always more interesting than those one thinks up oneself.
MARCEL PROUST -
The only true voyage of discovery, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes.
MARCEL PROUST -
When from a long distant past nothing subsists after the things are broken and scattered, the smell and taste of things remain.
MARCEL PROUST