online: 20 january 2015
modified: 20 january 2015

16 january 2015 in a bookshop cafe...


...after being driven from the heath by a sudden hailstorm to seek somewhere dry and warm enough in which to write these thoughts...

...the hail storm which arose so suddenly brought icy wind and a vast unstable showery cloud of frozen raindrops in the sky... and also at ground level...

...which soon disappeared to the east to reveal a pale blue western sky in which floated clouds of pink and darker blue and even white in shapely order not easy to describe but wonderful to see...

...but now i am indoors... surrounded by thousands of books all filled with abstract letters abc that nearly everyone can read (and even write) despite the wide divide between the thoughts and things described and the many millions of abstract letter shapes that comprise the written world...

...and now for some of those words from Marcel Proust whose essay On Reading i've just chosen for someone whose mother tongue is French and whose birthday is today:

Il n'y a peut-être pas de jours de notre enfance que nous ayons si pleinement vécus que ceux que nous avons cru laisser sans les vivre, ceux que nous avons passés avec un livre préféré.

There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we believe we left without having lived them, those we spent with a favourite book.*


* the first words of Marcel Proust's essay On Reading as translated by Jean Autret and William Burford, Souvenir Press, London and J M Dent (Canada), Ontario 1972 with the French original (titled Sur la Lecture) on facing pages... (in other translations it is titled Days of Reading)...

...it is described on the flyleaf as 'Proust's first act of literary rebellion'... and 'the beginning of his long pursuit of psychological truth'.





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