Combray

The steeple of Saint HilaireMore left of Combray than I had imagined five years ago in winter when the town of Illiers had seemed so tawdry in comparison with what emerged from the taste of a few crumbs of madeleine in a spoonful of tea.

A novel doesn't translate what's real into fiction.

And the most important books must teach us how to read them.

An object's not inert. It's not even an object.

And everything that's real is a relationship—not a phenomenon.

Aunt Leonie's house.

The bell on the gate that only Swann would ring.

The clapper that would rattle when anyone else would enter.

The siphon coffee system Uncle Adolphe loved to use.

The hawthorns along Swann's way.

 "The autobiographer relates what he has lived through; the novelist lives in order to relate."

                                                                         — Jean-Yves Tadié, Marcel Proust: A Life.

Tansonville.

M. Vinteuil's along the Guermantes' way.

À la recherche du temps perdu.