"One morning, bearing arranged within me all my regular disabilities, from whose constraint, internal circulation I kept my mind turned as resolutely away as from the circulation of my blood, I had come running into the dining-room where my parents were already at table, and β having assured myself, as usual, that to feel cold may mean not that one ought to warm oneself but that, for instance, one has received a scolding, and not to feel hungry that it is going to rain, and not that one ought not to eat anything β had taken my place between them when, in the act of swallowing the first mouthful of a particularly tempting cutlet, a nausea, a giddiness stopped me, the feverish reaction of a malady that had already begun, the symptoms of which had been masked, retarded by the ice of my indifference, but which obstinately refused the nourishment that I was not in a fit state to absorb." ~ This, my friends, is one sentence; one sentence which clearly illustrates why I'm struggling through Proust. . . . . . #withinabuddinggrove #rememberanceofthingspast #insearchoflosttime #marcelproust #cutlet https://www.instagram.com/p/ByAhqxWA8v-/?igshid=wr99dezwlgr6
