Quotes by Marcel Proust
Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.
The greatest journeys are not those we take across continents, but those we embark upon within ourselves.
The greatest prisons aren't built of stone, but of the limitations we impose upon ourselves.
Memory is not a faithful portrait, but a painter's impression, colored by time and desire.
To truly understand another, one must first understand the silence that resides within them.
To truly see the world, one must first learn to see within.
We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full.
We do not receive wisdom, we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us.
Regret is merely the ghost of a choice not made, haunting the halls of what might have been.
To truly see, one must first learn to linger, to let the moment unfold like a forgotten letter.
Regret is the ghost of possibilities unrealized. Let us strive to embrace the present.
Even in the grandest ballroom, we dance alone with our memories.
The search for beauty is often a search for a reflection of our own forgotten dreams.
True wisdom lies not in knowing everything, but in understanding the limitations of what we can know.
One's true character emerges not in moments of triumph, but in how one navigates the labyrinth of despair.
The mask we wear for the world eventually becomes the face we show ourselves.
The echo of unspoken words often reverberates louder than those we dare to utter.
Our fears are but shadows cast by the light of our own potential.
Jealousy is the shadow love casts when the sun of trust is obscured.
We are all, in essence, collectors of moments, curating our lives one experience at a time.
Our perception of reality is but a fragile tapestry woven from memory and desire.
Memory is not a faithful mirror, but a painter who recreates the past in the colors of the present.
The intensity of a feeling is often inversely proportional to its expression.
The habit of looking inward, though painful, is the only way to discover oneself.
Memory is a relentless sculptor, forever reshaping the past to fit the desires of the present.
The subtlest betrayals are often those committed in the name of love.
Time, a relentless sculptor, molds us into beings unrecognizable to our younger selves.
To truly know a place, one must not merely observe, but linger until its essence permeates the soul.
Habit is a powerful artist, capable of both embellishing and obscuring the truth of our existence.
Memory is not a faithful portrait, but a painter who embellishes, forgives, and ultimately, creates anew.
The true measure of a life is not its length, but the depth of its lived moments.
Time unfolds not as a straight line, but as a series of overlapping echoes.
The greatest form of escapism is not travel, but the creation of a beautiful, internal world.
Regret is a phantom limb; we feel its ache long after the experience has passed.
The intensity of feeling deceives us; we believe it will last when, in truth, it is fleeting.
Grief, like a persistent guest, lingers long after the departure of joy.
The greatest voyages are not those across oceans, but those within the labyrinth of the self.
We are all, in the end, striving to recapture a lost paradise.