A cathedral, a wave of storm, a dancer's leap, never turn out to be as high as we had hoped.
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A cathedral, a wave of storm, a dancer's leap, never turn out to be as high as we had hoped.
In love, happiness is an abnormal state.
Things don't change, but by and by our wishes change.
People who are not in love fail to understand how an intelligent man can suffer because of a very ordinary woman. This is like being surprised that anyone should be stricken with cholera because of a creature so insignificant as the comma bacillus.
The paradoxes of today are the prejudices of tomorrow, since the most benighted and the most deplorable prejudices have had their moment of novelty when fashion lent them its fragile grace.
We passionately long that there may be another life in which we shall be similar to what we are here below. But we do not pause to reflect that, even without waiting for that other life, in this life, after a few years we are unfaithful to what we have been, to what we wished to remain immortally.
Only through art can we get outside of ourselves and know another's view of the universe.
And not only does one not seize at once and retain an impression of works that are really great, but even in the content of any such work (as befell me in the case of Vinteuil's sonata) it is the least valuable parts that one at first perceives. Less disappointing than life is, great works of art do not begin by giving us all their best.
That translucent alabaster of our memories.
Happiness serves hardly any other purpose than to make unhappiness possible.