For one cannot change, that is to say become another person, while continuing to acquiesce to the feelings of the person one no longer is.
Marcel ProustA collection of bad love songs, tattered from overuse, has to touch us like a cemetery or a village. So what if the houses have no style, if the graves are vanishing under tasteless ornaments and inscriptions? Before an imagination sympathetic and respectful enough to conceal momentarily its aesthetic disdain, that dust may release a flock of souls, their beaks holding the still verdant dreams that gave them an inkling of the next world and let them rejoice or weep in this world.
Marcel ProustGriefs, at the moment when they change into ideas, lose some of their power to injure our heart.
Marcel Proust