Reading Marcel Proust’s short stories, called Les Plaisirs and Les Jours. The Pleasure of My Days –
Freedom he takes in story about Madame de Breyves and her Melancholy Vacation. Examines beauty and her sorrows, goes in on every ferocious divinely exquisite detail – right up my alley. As asserts a frightening resistance to all things banal.
Madame is struck, falls in love with someone – not quite in her class – very French, but it ends up that he has gone away. And she cant get him out of her head.
Love that exerts as curse of desire, when one’s imagination is too much. Cripples and conspires due to the person being out of reach.
Through the depths he details a heart’s merciless compulsion for whats missing – as a wild delicacy of treasonous virtues that inhabit her heart as prisoner of (momentously) impossible, and her imagination is unforgiving.
Love that wont let go, its intensity & admissions terrifying –
Also loved Proust’s take on Flaubert, using characters Bacard and Pecuchet – think Plato as two feckless vaniloquent bourgeoisie BFF posing a (‘cooperative argumentative type’) dialogue – as they are discussing virtues and merits of adjoining Music and High Society – Its delicious fictitious drollery, really funny & by contraries profound, cheeky, charming, delightful.