The artist who gives up an hour of work for an hour of conversation with a friend knows that he is sacrificing a reality for something that does not 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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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 -
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 -
Desire makes everything blossom.
MARCEL PROUST -
Just as those who practice the same profession recognize each other instinctively, so do those who practice the same vice.
MARCEL PROUST -
We don’t receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us.
MARCEL PROUST -
My destination is no longer a place, rather a new way of seeing.
MARCEL PROUST -
Love ever unsatisfied, lives always in the moment that is about to come.
MARCEL PROUST -
The fixity of a habit is generally in direct proportion to its absurdity.
MARCEL PROUST -
Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.
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 -
It comes so soon, the moment when there is nothing left to wait for.
MARCEL PROUST -
The creation of the world did not occur at the beginning of time, it occurs every day.
MARCEL PROUST -
Everything great in the world comes from neurotics. They alone have founded our religions and composed our masterpieces.
MARCEL PROUST -
Do not wait for life. Do not long for it. Be aware, always and at every moment, that the miracle is in the here and now.
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