The time at our disposal each day is elastic; the passions we feel dilate it, those that inspire us shrink it, and habit fills it.
MARCEL PROUST
Only by art can we get outside ourselves, instead of seeing only one world, our own, we see it under multiple forms.
More Marcel Proust Quotes
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The time at our disposal each day is elastic; the passions we feel dilate it, those that inspire us shrink it, and habit fills it.
MARCEL PROUST -
There are optical illusions in time as well as space.
MARCEL PROUST -
No man is a complete mystery except to himself.
MARCEL PROUST -
If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time.
MARCEL PROUST -
You can’t learn the truth about a man’s intentions by asking him.
MARCEL PROUST -
A picture’s beauty does not depend on the things portrayed in it.
MARCEL PROUST -
To write that essential book, a great writer does not need to invent it but merely to translate it, since it already exists in each one of us. The duty and task of a writer are those of translator.
MARCEL PROUST -
In love, happiness is an abnormal state.
MARCEL PROUST -
The fixity of a habit is generally in direct proportion to its absurdity.
MARCEL PROUST -
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 PROUST -
Reality is never more than a first step towards an unknown on the road to which one can never progress very far.
MARCEL PROUST -
There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favorite book.
MARCEL PROUST -
When you work to please others you can’t succeed, but the things you do to satisfy yourself stand a chance of catching someone’s interest.
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 -
Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.
MARCEL PROUST -
Death is in truth an illness from which we recover
MARCEL PROUST