The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.
MARCEL PROUSTIn a separation it is the one who is not really in love who says the more tender things.
More Marcel Proust Quotes
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A picture’s beauty does not depend on the things portrayed in it.
MARCEL PROUST -
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 -
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 -
Nine tenths of the ills from which intelligent people suffer spring from their intellect.
MARCEL PROUST -
If we are to make reality endurable, we must all nourish a fantasy or two.
MARCEL PROUST -
You can’t learn the truth about a man’s intentions by asking him.
MARCEL PROUST -
Even though our lives wander, our memories remain in one place.
MARCEL PROUST -
The bonds that unite another person to our self exist only in our mind.
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 -
When from a long distant past nothing subsists after the things are broken and scattered, the smell and taste of things remain.
MARCEL PROUST -
We do not receive wisdom, we must discover it for ourselves, after a journey through the wilderness which no one else can make for us, which no one can spare us, for our wisdom is the point of view from which we come at last to regard the world.
MARCEL PROUST -
Love ever unsatisfied, lives always in the moment that is about to come.
MARCEL PROUST -
A woman one loves rarely suffices for all our needs, so we deceive her with another whom we do not love.
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 -
Let us leave pretty women to men devoid of imagination.
MARCEL PROUST