Beautiful books are always written in a sort of foreign language.

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 (our friends being friends only in the light of an agreeable folly which travels with us through life and to which we readily accommodate ourselves, but which at the bottom of our hearts we know to be no more reasonable than the delusion of the man who talks to the furniture because he believes that it is alive.).

But when one believes in the reality of things, making them visible by artificial means is not quite the same as feeling that they are close at hand.

Just as those who practice the same profession recognize each other instinctively, so do those who practice the same vice.

It is always thus, impelled by a state of mind which is destined not to last, we make our irrevocable decisions

The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it...

It's odd how a person always arouses admiration for his moral qualities among the relatives of another with whom he has sexual relations. Physical love, so unjustifiably decried, makes everyone show, down to the least detail, all he has of goodness and self-sacrifice, so that he shines even in the eyes of those nearest to him.