The Death of Swann
The death of others is like a
voyage one is going to undertake and where we remember, by now a
hundred kilometres from Paris, that we have forgotten two dozen
handkerchiefs, to leave a key for the cook, to say goodbye to our
uncle, to ask the name of the town whose ancient fountain we were
wanting to visit.
While all the omissions that are assailing you and that you express in a loud voice, for pure form's sake, to the friend who is travelling with you receive no answer in the end but that of not being able to find a train seat, the name of the station called out by the porter, that do nothing but distance us further from our now impossible achievements, so completely that, renouncing any further thoughts of the things we have left irretrievably undone, we forsake the packet of food we have left behind and exchange newspapers and magazines.
An unused fragment
from La Prisonnière.
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