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Proust, Marcel, 1871-1922

"Swann's Way"

For the buttercups grew past numbering on
this spot which they had chosen for their games among the grass, standing
singly, in couples, in whole companies, yellow as the yolk of eggs, and
glowing with an added lustre, I felt, because, being powerless to
consummate with my palate the pleasure which the sight of them never
failed to give me, I would let it accumulate as my eyes ranged over their
gilded expanse, until it had acquired the strength to create in my mind a
fresh example of absolute, unproductive beauty; and so it had been from my
earliest childhood, when from the tow-path I had stretched out my arms
towards them, before even I could pronounce their charming name--a name
fit for the Prince in some French fairy-tale; colonists, perhaps, in some
far distant century from Asia, but naturalised now for ever in the
village, well satisfied with their modest horizon, rejoicing in the
sunshine and the water's edge, faithful to their little glimpse of the
railway-station; yet keeping, none the less, as do some of our old
paintings, in their plebeian simplicity, a poetic scintillation from the
golden East.


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