A la recherche du temps perdu

"The writer, long before he knew he was going to be one, habitually avoided looking at all sorts of things other people noticed... [while] ordering his eyes and ears to retain forever what to others seemed puerile... 'Fashionable society mattered to him...but in the manner that flowers matter to a botanist, not in the way that flowers matter to a man who buys a bouquet.'" (Davenport-Hines, Proust at the Majestic)

Dead Proust (Man Ray, 1922)

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Shoes I never wear like posing with books they never read.

Growing up, Proust was my favorite recluse and asthmatic.

What if all we are is our favorite pretenses? It is the favorite pretense of those who dislike pretense to dislike pretense. Most acts of cruelty come from a lack of reflection that, precisely because of this vacuum-like lack, sucks everything into an infinite regress.

Whoever says that self-awareness will save your soul is lying.