“And suddenly the memory returns. The taste was that of the little crumb of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray…my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of real or of lime-flower tea. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the interval, without tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks' windows, … the little scallop-shell of pastry, so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds….”
Swann's Way, by Marcel Proust, who died November 18, 1922, in Paris.
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I visited Marcel Proust's grave in Pere Lachaise cemetery in September.
Very moving. A French woman and I reminisced about him. It was a perfect moment.
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