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Marcel Proust

"Happiness serves hardly any other purpose than to make unhappiness possible."

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"Happiness serves hardly any other purpose than to make unhappiness possible."

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Amber Hurdle

"Build your home in small moments of joy, and you will always feel at home."

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Amber Hurdle

"A happy person is not without sorrow or grief. Happiness is the acceptance of pain, not the lack of it."

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Amber Hurdle

"Learn to be happy with yourself first, then happiness will follow you everywhere."

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Amber Hurdle

"True happiness is... to enjoy the present, without anxious dependence upon the future."

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Amber Hurdle

"I was delighted to see you again, and forgot for the moment that all happiness is fleeting."

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Amber Hurdle

"Spend more time doing things that make you forget about the time."

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Amber Hurdle

"These things sneak up on him for no reason, these flashes of irrational happiness. It's probably a vitamin deficiency."

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Amber Hurdle

"Success is getting what you want happiness is wanting what you get."

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Amber Hurdle

"I exhort you to be of good cheer."

Explore more quotes by Marcel Proust

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Marcel Proust
"If only for the sake of elegance, I try to remain morally pure."
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Marcel Proust
"The flowers which played then among the grass, the water which rippled past in the sunshine, the whole landscape which served as environment to their apparition lingers around the memory of them still with its unconscious or unheeding air;..."
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Marcel Proust
"But sometimes it is just when everything seems to be lost that we experience a presentiment that may save us; one has knocked on all the doors which lead nowhere, and then, unwittingly, one pushes against the only one through which one may enter and for which one would have searched in vain for a hundred years, and it opens."
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Marcel Proust
"... the good intentions of a third party are powerless to control a woman who is annoyed to find herself pursued even into a ball-room by a man whom she does not love. Too often, the kind friend comes down again alone."
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Marcel Proust
"The inertia of the mind urges it to slide down the easy slope of imagination, rather than to climb the steep slope of introspection."
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Marcel Proust
"We have such numerous interests in our lives that it is not uncommon, on a single occasion, for the foundations of a happiness that does not yet exist to be laid down alongside the intensification of a grief from which we are still suffering."
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Marcel Proust
"A man who, night after night, falls like a lump of lead upon his bed, and ceases to live until the moment when he wakes and rises, will such a man ever dream of making, I do not say great discoveries, but even minute observations upon sleep? He barely knows that he does sleep. A little insomnia is not without its value in making us appreciate sleep, in throwing a ray of light upon that darkness. A memory without fault is not a very powerful incentive to studying the phenomena of memory."
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Marcel Proust
"He imagined himself lying there, unable to sleep, thinking of his mother, separated from her by the unresponsive blankets tucked too tightly round him, feeling the ceaseless thumping of his heart in the silence of the night, the irrevocability of absence, the rigid stillness of repose, the agony of solitude and sleeplessness. If the room was a prison, the bed was a tomb."
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Marcel Proust
"In the case of the solitary, his seclusion, even when it is absolute and ends only with life itself, has often as its primary cause a disordered love of the crowd, which so far overruled every other feeling that, not being able to win, when he goes out, the admiration of his hall-porter, of the passers-by, of the cabman whom he hails, he prefers not to be seen by them at all, and with that object abandons every activity that would oblige him to go out of doors."
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Marcel Proust
"I dined with Legrandin on the terrace of his house by moonlight. "There is a charming quality, is there not," he said to me, "in this silence; for hearts that are wounded, as mine is, a novelist whom you will read in time to come asserts that there is no remedy but silence and shadow. And you see this, my boy, there comes in all our lives a time, towards which you still have far to go, when the weary eyes can endure but one kind of light, the light which a fine evening like this prepares for us in the stillroom for darkness, when the ears can listen to no music save what the moonlight breathes through the flute of silence."
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