a€:,b'

Hi tbb
{
I 11r-_;;1rr6) ti .'/- r!^,
.lt r I K oc*tPrt
-/

An excerpt
(1913)
from Morcel Proust, Remembranceof ThingsPasf, Book f

T feel thot there is muchto be soidfor the beliet thot the soulsof
thosewhomwe hovelost ore heldcoptivein someinteriorbeing,in on onimol,
in o plont,in someinonimote object,ondso effectivelylost to us until the
doy (whichto monyneve?comes)whenwe hoppento possby the tree or to
obtoinpossessio n of the cbject whichforms their prison. Thenthey stort
ond trembfe,they call us by our nome,ond os soonos we hove recognized
thein voicethe spellis broken. We hovedeliveredthem;they hoveovercome
deothondreturnto shoreour life.

And so it is with our post. ft is o lobor in vointo ottempt to recopture

it; ofl the efforts of our intellectmust Provefutile. The post is hidden
somewhere outsidethe reolm,beyondthe reochof intellect,in some
moteriolobject(in the sensotion whichthot moteriolobject will giveus)
whichwedonot suspect.And os for thot object,it dependson chonce
urhetherwe comeuponit or not before we ourselvesmustdie.

Thus,onedoy in winter,os f comehome(monyyeors after leovingit),

my mother, seeingthot f woscold,offered me someteo, a thing f did not
ordinaritytoke. f declinedqt first,.ondthen,for no porticulorreoson,
chongedmy mind. she sent out for oneof those plumplittle cokescolled
petites madeleines,which tookos thoughthey hod beenmouldedin the
fluted scollopof o pilgrir'sshell. Andsoon,mechonicolly, wecryofier o dull
doy with the prospect of o depressing morrow,f roisedto my lips a spoonful
of the teo in whichf hodsookedo morselof the coke. No soonerhod the
wqrmliguid,cnd ihe ci'unbswith it, touchedmy polotethon o shudderron
throrrghmy wh,-,lebody,ondf stopped,intent upontha extroordinory
chongesthot weretokingploce.An exguisitepleosurehod invodedmy
senses,but individuol, detoched,with nosuggestion of its origin. Andot
oncetheviiissitudesof life hod Lecomeindifferentto me, its disasters
innocuous, its brevity illusory- this newsbnscfionhsvinghod on me the
effect whichlovehosof filling me rvith o preciousessence: or rother this
essencewasnot in me, it wosmyself. f had ceasedto feel mediocre,
occidentol, mortol. Whencecouldit hovecometo me,this oll-powerful joy?
\ = ,

f wosconscious thot it wosccnnectedwith the toste of reo ond coke,but

thot it infinitelytronscended thosesovours,couldnot, indeed,beof the
somenotureos theirs. Wheredidit comefrom? Whot did it signify? How
coufdT seizeuponond defineit?

And r begonogointo qskmyselfwhot it couldhovebeen,this

unremembered stote whichbroughtwith if rrologicolproof of its existence,'
but onlyfhe sensethot it woshsPPy,thot it wosq reol stote in whose
melted snd vonished.
presentceotherstotes of consciousness

And suddenlythe memoryreturned. The toste wosthot of the little

crumbof modeleine whichon Sundoymorningsot Combroy*,whenf went to
soygooddoy to her in her bedroom,my ount Leonieusedto give me,dipping
it first in her owncupof lime-flowerteo. And oncef hod recognizedthe
toste of the crumbof modeleine soakedin her decoctionof lime-flowers
whichmy ountusedto giveme,immediotely the old grey houseuponthe
street, whereher roomwos,roseup like the sceneryof o theoter to ottoch
on to the gorden,whichhod beenbuilt
opening
itself to the little povilion,
out behindit for my parents;ondwith the housethe town,from morningto
night,ondin oll weothers,the Sguore,whereI wossent before luncheon, the
streets olongwhichf usedto run erronds,the countryroodswe took whenit
wos fine.'Andjust os the Joponeseomusethemselvesby filling o porceloin
bowlwith woterondsteepingin it little crumbsof poperwhichuntil then qre
withoutchorocteror form, but, the moment1l'1s'l becomewet, stretch
qll
themselves ondbend,toke on coloronddistinctiveihope,ihot moment
the flowersin our gordenondin M. Swonn's pork,ondthe woter-lilieson fhe
Vivonneondtha goodfolk of the villogeondtheir little dwellings-nnd the
porishchurchondthe wholeof Combroyondof its surroundings, tokingtheir
propershopesondgrovlingsolid,sPronginto being,townsondgordensolike,
from my cupof teo.

*Proust's-chi
ldhoodhome