Odette Quotes

It's easy to lose sight of what's real when you're lost in the stars.

An hour or so later he received a note from Odette. Swann had left his cigarette case at her house. "If only," she wrote, "you had also forgotten your heart! I should never have let you have it back.

He had danced with fair maidens before, but Odette was different. She was graceful and beautiful, but there was something in her eyes and in the things she said, an intelligence and a boldness that belied her quiet demeanor.

It takes bravery to be an adventurer,” Odette said, lifting her drink and walking away. “And what better adventure than the discovery of our true selves?

Maybe books are a strange form of human sorcery. For how else can a story feel so satisfying and agonizing at the same time?

The world needs more people like you, Odette." She smiled to lighten the mood."And you, Jorgen Hortman.

The interior of the animal was much as one would expect: close and dark and damp, with an odd smell. It was rather, Odette thought, like trying to enter a really popular nightclub on New Year’s Eve.

Yes, it’s worth it. The good and the bad. It’s the story as a whole that matters.

Odette nodded at my notebook, where I was writing as she spoke. 'Do the people in America really want to read this? People tell me to write these things down, but it's written inside of me. I almost hope for the day when I can forget.

But now, like a fallen sparrow On a golden chain, I'm forever bound in shadow, A prisoner to my pain.

You make me feel the way books do.

You're a tool, to be used and directed for the good of the people. Sometimes you'll be a scalpel, cutting out disease. Sometimes you'll be a sword, and you'll take on threats with all the strength you can muster. And sometimes, Odette, you'll be a stiletto, a hidden weapon that slides quietly into the heart.

My own parents and grandparents came to the United States as refugees from Nazism. They came with stories similar to Odette's ...

There is no way this conversation is not going to get horrible, thought Odette. No situation is improved by the presence of a gigantic anus. At

It was true that Odette played vilely, but often the most memorable impression of a piece of music is one that has arisen out of a jumble of wrong notes struck by unskilful fingers upon a tuneless piano.

That’s the ugliest dress in the whole world.” Odette replied, “My grandmama made it for me. She’s real good at sewin’, but she’s blind.” She popped another piece of candy into her mouth and added, “This ain’t the ugliest dress in the world. I’m gonna wear that one tomorrow.

Magic is like silver cutlery, Ebony, you only bring it out to either impress, or stab, important guests.

Believe in yourself. That's real magic.

Her [Odette's] eyes were beautiful, but so large they seemed to droop beneath their own weight, strained the rest of her face and always made her appear unwell or in a bad mood.

But the presence of Odette continued to sow in Swann's heart alternate seeds of love and suspicion.

I am studying to become a detective, yet I cannot solve my own mystery. –Collei Odette, Devious

It never failed to surprise Odette how white people were always going on about uplifting Aboriginal people, yet they would demand information about the old ways when it suited them.

Elle lui demanda en quoi un jour de pluie pouvait être beau : il lui énuméra les nuances de couleurs que prendraient le ciel, les arbres et les toits lorsqu'ils se promèneraient tantôt, de la puissance sauvage avec laquelle leur apparaîtrait l'océan, du parapluie qui les rapprocherait pendant la marche, de la joie qu'ils auraient à se réfugier ici pour un thé chaud, des vêtements qui sécheraient auprès du feu, de la langueur qui en découlerait, de l'opportunité qu'ils auraient de faire plusieurs fois l'amour, du temps qu'ils prendraient à se raconter leur vie sous les draps du lit, enfants protégés par une tente de la nature déchaînée...

. Even Proust—there’s a famous passage where Odette opens the door with a cold, she’s sulky, her hair is loose and undone, her skin is patchy, and Swann, who has never cared about her until that moment, falls in love with her because she looks like a Botticelli girl from a slightly damaged fresco. Which Proust himself only knew from a reproduction. He never saw the original, in the Sistine Chapel. But even so—the whole novel is in some ways about that moment. And the damage is part of the attraction, the painting’s blotchy cheeks. Even through a copy Proust was able to re-dream that image, re-shape reality with it, pull something all his own from it into the world. Because—the line of beauty is the line of beauty. It doesn’t matter if it’s been through the Xerox machine a hundred times.

A little old lady came walking by with two Scottie dogs in little tartan coats. She sat down on the bench by Odette and silently took her hand. Nothing was said between them, but they held hands until Odette ran out of tears. The lady gave her a clean handkerchief, and Odette mumbled something thankful.

I suggest you marry Jorgen Hartman. In fact, I strongly suggest it.” Odette looked at Jorgen. He looked back at her. By his wide eyes and open mouth, he had not expected the margrave to say that any more than she had. She

Good God! Think of listening to Wagner for a whole fortnight with a woman who takes about as much interest in music as a tone-deaf newt - that would be fun!

Sometimes things weren’t all that complicated. We just make them complicated in order to hide from them. “I’m

But doesn't love cause too much pain?" she said. "To be worth it?" "It causes pain, indeed," Grumpy said. "But it's worth it. It's a good pain.

Sometimes life is just messy no matter what you do," she [Emma] said.

There’s no room for me, not when society has already decided who and what I should be. A daughter. A woman. A wife-in-training. Quiet. Demure. Chaste.

For Swann was finding in things once more, since he had fallen in love, the charm that he had found when, in his adolescence, he had fancied himself an artist; with this difference, that what charm lay in them now was conferred by Odette alone.

You see, I want love from someone who knows me inside and out. Not someone who sees my past as a string of follies, but as building blocks that have made me who I am now. And the man who loves me will not ask me to hide, ignore, or keep any part of me or my past under lock and key. He will love me just as I am.

Perhaps that’s why I choose to disappear into books. It’s a place where I can feel seen for who I am and everything I’ve been through. Where I’m not judged for the things I’ve done or the messes I’ve made. And in these books, I can give myself the ending that was stolen from me. The ending I no longer believe exists in real life.

I think I’m in love with you,” I blurted out. His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “That’s good.” “That’s good?” Disbelief traced my voice. “That’s all you got?” “I’ve been in love with you for months. So, yeah, it’s good that you finally ’think’ you’re in love with me.

It was with an unusual intensity of pleasure, a pleasure destined to have a lasting effect on him, that Swann remarked Odette's resemblance to the Zipporah of that Alessandro de Mariano to whom more people willingly give his popular surname, Botticelli, now that it suggests not so much the actual work of the Master as that false and banal conception of it which has of late obtained common currency.

„But I hate her,” protested Odette. “Oh, I’m sure you think you do,” said Marcel cheerfully, “but you’re still young. It takes decades to really hate someone.” Odette sighed heavily. “I’ll tell you what, if, after fifteen years, you still think you hate her, we’ll do something about it.

Quando Odette deixasse de ser para ele uma criatura sempre ausente, cobiçada, imaginária, quando o sentimento que ele tinha por ela não fosse mais aquela mesma perturbação misteriosa que lhe causava a frase da sonata e sim afeto, reconhecimento, quando se estabelecessem entre ambos relações normais que poriam fim à loucura e à tristeza dele, então sem dúvida os atos da vida de Odette lhe pareceriam si mesmos pouco interessantes.

He stood gazing at her; traces of the old fresco were apparent in her face and limbs, and these he tried incessantly, afterwards, to recapture, both when he was with Odette, and when he was only thinking of her in her absence; and, albeit his admiration for the Florentine masterpiece was probably based upon his discovery that it had been reproduced in her, the similarity enhanced her beauty also, and rendered her more precious in his sight.

Odette gave a small smile, like the kiss J. M. Barrie talked about in Peter Pan. That was one of the first things Rin had thought when she’d first met Odette; the kiss that girls hold on to and won’t give to the world except the soul who matches theirs. Odette had been familiar even as a stranger.

Embora Swann nunca se tivesse considerado seriamente ameaçado pela amizade de Odette por esse ou aquele fiel, sentira uma profunda doçura ao ouvi-la admitir assim diante de todos, com aquele tranquilo despudor, seus encontros cotidianos de cada noite, a situação privilegiada que ele ocupava em sua casa e a preferência por ele que ali estava implícita.

Mother said we had reached the Age of Reason and had to be good now. We must have because we wanted Willy Starr instead.

Evidence doesn't always lead us to the truth," he [August] said.

I want love from someone who knows me inside and out. Not someone who sees my past as a string of follies, but as building blocks that have made me who I am now.

Quand j'étais petite, je gardais les vaches; maintenant ce sont elles qui me gardent…

Guys don’t read instructions,” I reiterated. “No, the girls do and then we tell you what to do,

Maybe it doesn’t have to last forever to be real.

Give me chastity and constancy, but not yet." St. Augustine. "Amen" Odette

Odette never forgot her father’s words: Them whitefellas, they can never touch the stars, no matter how clever they think they are.

He asked her how she felt about the Germans, and she said, “I hate them. I mean that I hate Nazis. For the Germans, oddly enough, I have pity.” “I thought you might separate Germans and Nazis. It was not the Nazis but the Germans who killed your father.” Odette blinked. Jepson had done his homework. She looked at the captain. “Yes, but they were driven then as they are driven now. I think the Germans are very obedient and very gullible. Their tragedy—and Europe’s—is that they gladly allow themselves to be hoodwinked into believing evil to be good.

Ember, I’m tired of pretending. I never want to spend a moment faking anything with you ever again, not even for the sake of public opinion. I want it to be real. I want to show everyone this is real

... Odette seemed a fascinating and desirable woman, the attraction which her body held for him had aroused a painful longing to secure the absolute mastery of even the tiniest particles of her heart.

Bone-white moths drop one by one to cover cuts on Odette's legs and obscure mud-water splotches patterning her skirts. They rest at the bases of her fingers like heaving white jewels on rings lighter than air.

He recognised that all the period of Odette's life which had elapsed before she first met him, a period of which he had never sought to form any picture in his mind, was not the featureless abstraction which he could vaguely see, but had consisted of so many definite, dated years, each crowded with concrete incidents. But were he to learn more of them, he feared lest her past, now colourless, fluid and supportable, might assume a tangible, an obscene form, with individual and diabolical features. And he continued to refrain from seeking a conception of it, not any longer now from laziness of mind, but from fear of suffering.

For in this way Swann was kept in the state of painful agitation which had once before been effective in making his interest blossom into love, on the night when he had failed to find Odette at the Verdurins' and had haunted for her all evening. And he did not have (as I had, afterward, at Combray in my childhood) happy days in which to forget the sufferings that would return with the night. For his days, Swann must pass them without Odette; and as he told himself, now and then, to allow so pretty a woman to go out by herself in Paris was just as rash as to leave a case filled with jewels in the middle of the street. In this mood he would scowl furiously at the passers-by, as though they were so many pick-pockets. But their faces - a collective and formless mass - escaped the grasp of his imagination, and so failed to feed the flame of his jealousy.

And then, while she was making them some orangeade, suddenly, just as when the reflector of a lamp that is badly fitted begins by casting all round an object, on the wall beyond it, huge and fantastic shadows which, in time, contract and are lost in the shadow of the object itself, all the terrible and disturbing ideas which he had formed of Odette melted away and vanished in the charming creature who stood there before his eyes.

If the past few months have taught me anything, it’s that friendship is a smoke screen. The people you think are solid turn out to be mirrors and light; and then you look down and realize there are others you took for granted, those who are your foundation. A year ago, I would have told you that Corinne and I were close, but that turned out to be proximity instead of connection. We were default acquaintances, buying each other Christmas gifts and going out for tapas on Thursday nights not because we had so much in common, but because we worked so hard and so long that it was easier to continue our shorthand conversation than to branch out and teach someone else the language. Odette

Odette, because of you, I laugh, I smile, and I dare to dream of a future that is worthy of poets. The reasons that brought us together weren’t the best or the most romantic, but I am glad for them nevertheless, and I swear to you that from now until the day I die, your dreams are my dreams. Your joy is my joy. Your pain is my pain, and I will never betray you. You are now my body, my mind, my soul, and my heart. You are my sun, my moon, and all of my stars.

Keahi: I didn’t save you, Odette. I won’t take credit for it. You saved yourself, and you saved me. Odete: So am I the princess or the hero? Keahi: I don’t see why the princess can’t be the hero. Princesses are pretty heroic, after all.

My lord,” she said quickly, “I must first ask a question. Why would you have your forester marry me? Should you not allow him to choose?” “He has already chosen.” The margrave’s voice was cool and expressionless. “He wishes to marry you. And I wish to grant him his desire—if you are as worthy as he thinks you are.” Jorgen was still red faced, but he was staring at her with that vulnerable look she could never resist, the look that was melting her heart. “Marry me, Odette.” Her

He suffered greatly from being shut up among all these people whose stupidity and absurdities wounded him all the more cruelly since, being ignorant of his love, incapable, had they known of it, of taking any interest, or of doing more than smile at it as at some childish joke, or deplore it as an act of insanity, they made it appear to him in the aspect of a subjective state which existed for himself alone, whose reality there was nothing external to confirm; he suffered overwhelmingly, to the point at which even the sound of the instruments made him want to cry, from having to prolong his exile in this place to which Odette would never come, in which no one, nothing was aware of her existence, from which she was entirely absent.

This compulsion to an activity without respite, without variety, without result was so cruel that one day, noticing a swelling over his stomach, he felt an actual joy in the idea that he had, perhaps, a tumor that would prove fatal, that he need not concern himself with anything further, since it was this malady that was going to govern his life, to make a plaything of him, until the not-distant end. If indeed, at his period, it often happened that, though without admitting it even to himself, he longed for death, it was in order to escape not so much from the keenness of his sufferings as from the monotony of his struggle.

It was true that Swann had often reflected that Odette was in no way a remarkable woman, and there was nothing especially flattering in seeing the supremacy he wielded over someone so inferior to himself proclaimed to all the “faithful”; but since he had observed that to many other men besides himself Odette seemed a fascinating and desirable woman, the attraction which her body held for them had aroused in him a painful longing to secure the absolute mastery of even the tiniest particles of her heart.

When Odette ceased to be for him a creature always absent, longed for, imaginary, when the feeling he had for her was no longer the same mysterious disturbance caused in him by the phrase from the sonata, but affection, gratitude, when normal relations were established between them that would put an end to his madness and his gloom, then no doubt the actions of Odette's daily life would appear to him of little interest in themselves... (p. 302, In Search of Lost Time Vol. 1 The Way by Swann's, Lydia Davis translation)

It was not only Odette's indifference, however, that he must take pains to circumvent; it was also, not infrequently, his own; feeling that, since Odette had had every facility for seeing him, she seemed no longer to have very much to say to him when they did meet, he was afraid lest the manner - at once trivial, monotonous, and seemingly unalterable - which she now adopted when they were together should ultimately destroy in him that romantic hope, that a day might come when she would make avowal of her passion, by which hope alone he had become and would remain her lover.

... le prime cose che Hélène percepiva nella gente erano la mediocrità, la meschinità, la vigliaccheria, la gelosia, l'insicurezza, la paura; forse perché quei sentimenti erano presenti in lei, li individuava subito negli altri. Antoine invece era portato ad attribuire al prossimo intenzioni nobili, motivazioni di valore, ideali, come se non avesse mai sollevato il coperchio di un'anima per scoprire fino a che punto puzzava e brulicava di vermi.

In any case, Swann was blind not only to the gaps in Odette’s education, but also to her poverty of mind. Indeed, when she told one of her silly stories, he would listen to her full of an obliging, cheerful, even admiring attentiveness, which could be explained only by his finding her still sexually arousing;

...he used to speak of how with very great paintings it's possible to know them deeply, inhabit them almost, even through copies. Even Proust -- there's a famous passage where Odette opens the door with a cold, she's sulky, her hair is loose and undone, her skin is patchy, and Swann, who has never cared about her until that moment, falls in love with her because she looks like a Botticelli girl from a slightly damaged fresco. Which Proust himself only knew from a reproduction. He never saw the original, in the Sistine Chapel. But even so -- the whole novel is in some ways about that moment. And the damage is part of the attraction, the painting's blotchy cheeks. Even through a copy Proust was able to re-dream the image, re-shape reality with it, pull something all his own from it into the world. Because -- the line of beauty is the line of beauty. It doesn't matter if it's been through the Xerox machine a hundred times.

From that evening, Swann understood that the feeling which Odette had once had for him would never revive, that his hopes of happiness would not be realised now. And the days on which, by a lucky chance, she had once more shewn herself kind and loving to him, or if she had paid him any attention, he recorded those apparent and misleading signs of a slight movement on her part towards him with the same tender and sceptical solicitude, the desperate joy that people reveal who, when they are nursing a friend in the last days of an incurable malady, relate, as significant facts of infinite value: "Yesterday he went through his accounts himself, and actually corrected a mistake that we had made in adding them up; he ate an egg to-day and seemed quite to enjoy it, if he digests it properly we shall try him with a cutlet to-morrow,"--although they themselves know that these things are meaningless on the eve of an inevitable death.

In Swann's mind, however, these words, meeting no opposition, settled and hardened until they assumed the indestructibility of a truth so indubitable that, if some friend happened to tell him that he had come by the same train and had not seen Odette, Swann would have been convinced that it was his friend who had made a mistake as to the day or hour, since his version did not agree with the words uttered by Odette. These words had never appeared to him false except when, before hearing them, he had suspected that they were going to be. For him to believe that she was lying, and anticipatory suspicion was indispensable.

happy that the satisfaction of his curiosity had left their love intact and that after having simulated a sort of indifference toward Odette for so long, he had not given her, by his jealousy, that proof of loving her too much which, between two lovers, exempts forever after, from loving enough, the one who receives

They were, of the unknown and potential happiness of life, an illustration so delicious and in so perfect a state that it was almost for intellectual reasons that I was desperate with the fear that I might not be able to make, in unique conditions which left no room for any possibility of error, proper trial of what is the most mysterious thing that is offered to us by the beauty which we desire and console ourselves for never possessing, by demanding pleasure—as Swann had always refused to do before Odette’s day—from women whom we have not desired, so that, indeed, we die without having ever known what that other pleasure was.

On days her spirits are low, like now, or between ballet seasons, when she has time to think about herself outside of the roles she plays, when she is not Odette in Swan Lake or Clara in The Nutcracker, she finds her feet reason enough to doubt the grace for which she is applauded when she spins on the tips of her toes.

... he would not have believed the suggestion, nor would he have been greatly distressed by the thought that people supposed her to be attached to him, that people felt them , to be united by any ties so binding as those of snobbishness or wealth. But even if he had accepted the possibility, it might not have caused him any suffering to discover that Odette's love for him was based on a foundation more lasting than mere affection, or any attractive qualities which she might have found in him; on a sound, commercial interest; an interest which would postpone for ever the fatal day on which she might be tempted to bring their relations to an end.

No doubt I had long been prepared, by virtue of the sway exercised over my imagination and my ability to be moved by the example of Swann, to believe that what I feared was true, instead of what I would have wished for. Thus the comfort brought by Albertine’s affirmations was all but compromised for a moment because I recalled the story of Odette.

It was such an uncomfortable topic that

Looking isn’t necessarily lost. I’m simply on my way somewhere that I have yet to find.

He made what apology he could and hurried home, overjoyed that the satisfaction of his curiosity had preserved their love intact, and that, having feigned for so long, when in Odette's company, a sort of indifference, he had not now, by a demonstration of jealousy, given her that proof of the excess of his own passion which, in a pair of lovers, fully and finally dispenses the recipient from the obligation to love the other enough. He never spoke to her of this misadventure, he cased even to think of it himself. But now and then his thoughts in their wandering course would come upon this memory where it lay unobserved, would startle it into life, thrust it more deeply down into his consciousness, and leave him aching with a sharp, far-rooted pain.

Ele só teve um momento de frieza, com o Dr. Cottard: vendo-o piscar o olho e sorrir-lhe com um ar ambíguo antes que se tivessem falado (mímica que Cottard chamava de "deixar fluir"), Swann acreditou que o médico o conheci sem dúvida por ter estado com ele em algum lugar de prazer, embora ele mesmo os frequentasse muito pouco, nunca tendo vivido no mundo da farra. Considerando a alusão de mau gosto, sobretudo na presença de Odette, que poderia fazer dele uma ideia falsa, simulou um ar glacial. Mas quando soube que a dama que se encontrava a seu lado era a sra. Cottard, pensou que um marido tão jovem não teria pensado em fazer alusão, diante de sua mulher, a divertimento desse tipo, e deixou de atribuir ao ar cúmplice do médico o significado que temia.

if, when Odette wished to go for a walk, in the morning, along the Avenue du Bois-de-Boulogne, his duty as a good husband had obliged him, though he had no desire to go out, to accompany her, carrying her cloak when she was too warm; and in the evening, after dinner, if she wished to stay at home, and not to dress, if he had been forced to stay beside her, to do what she asked;

He made what apology he could and hurried home, glad that the satisfaction of his curiosity had preserved their love intact, and that, having feigned for so long a sort of indifference towards Odette, he had not now, by his jealousy, given her the proof that he loved her too much, which, between a pair of lovers, for ever dispenses the recipient from the obligation to love enough. He

Those memories are like a cloud in the sky shaped like something so uncannily familiar, until it begins to shift and transform into nothing more than a white blur. Like it never was what you first saw it to be.

But the lies which Odette ordinarily told were less innocent, and served to prevent discoveries which might have involved her in the most terrible difficulties with one or another of her friends. And so, when she lied, smitten with fear, feeling herself to be but feebly armed for her defence, unconfident of success, she was inclined to weep from sheer exhaustion, as children weep sometimes when they have not slept. She knew, also, that her lie, as a rule, was doing a serious injury to the man to whom she was telling it, and that she might find herself at his mercy if she told it badly. Therefore she felt at once humble and culpable in his presence. And when she had to tell an insignificant, social lie its hazardous associations, and the memories which it recalled, would leave her weak with a sense of exhaustion and penitent with a consciousness of wrongdoing.

You were in the trunk while they —” This time, Gentry closed his eyes. “Please. I’m going to have flashbacks. I don’t want flashbacks.” Sophie couldn’t contain their amusement any longer and broke out into laughter. “Odette, you naughty girl!” “I didn’t know he was back there!” She didn’t turn around. Odette didn’t want to see the look on Sophie’s face. “If I did, I wouldn’t have climbed into Keahi’s lap in the first place!” “Okay!,” Gentry said. “I don’t need visuals, either.

the past having often thought with terror that one day he would cease to be in love with Odette, he had promised himself to be vigilant and, as soon as he felt his love was beginning to leave him, to cling to it, to hold it back. But now to the weakening of his love there corresponded a simultaneous weakening of his desire to remain in love. For one cannot change, that is to say become another person, while continuing to acquiesce to the feelings of the person one has ceased to be.

En effet l'écart que le vice mettait entre la vie réelle d'Odette et la vie relativement innocente que Swann avait cru, et bien souvent croyait encore, que menait sa maitresse, cet écart, Odette en ignorait l'étendue, un être vicieux, affectant toujours la même vertu devant les êtres de qui il ne veut pas que soient soupçonnés ses vices, n'a pas de contrôle pour se rendre compte combien ceux-ci, dont la croissance continue est insensible pour lui-même, l'entrainent peu à peu loin des façons de vivre normales.

Every young woman dreams of marrying a royal. A king, a prince, it doesn’t matter, so long as he’s richer than sin and handsome enough to fake a smile at. What else could a girl ask for? Well, a working brain, for starters. And I do suggest all young women have one of those.

Already he had begun to put further questions. For his jealousy, which had taken an amount of trouble, such as no enemy would have incurred, to strike him this mortal blow, to make him forcibly acquainted with the most cruel pain that he had ever known, his jealousy was not satisfied that he had yet suffered enough, and sought to expose his bosom to an even deeper wound. Like an evil deity, his jealousy was inspiring Swann, was thrusting him on towards destruction. It was not his fault, but Odette’s alone, if at first his punishment was not more severe.

In spite of myself, still pursued in my jealousy by the memory of Saint-Loup’s relations with “Rachel when of the Lord” and of those of Swann with Odette, I was too given to believing that the moment I was in love I could not be loved, and that self-interest alone could attach a woman to me. It was no doubt foolish to judge Albertine in terms of Odette and Rachel. But it was not her, it was me; it was the sentiments I might inspire that my jealousy caused me to underestimate. And of this—perhaps erroneous—judgment were no doubt born many of the misfortunes that would befall us.

My life in the kitchen began with my grandmother in the village of Champvert in the Tarn-et-Garonne department of southwestern France, the town so small you'd need a magnifying glass to find it on the map. I'd sit on a tall wooden stool, wide-eyed, watching Grand-mère Odette in her navy-blue dress and black ballerina flats, her apron adorned with les coquelicots (wild red poppies), mesmerized by the grace with which she danced around her kitchen, hypnotized by all the wonderful smells- the way the aromas were released from the herbs picked right from her garden as she chopped, becoming stronger as she set them in an olive oiled and buttered pan. She'd dip a spoon in a pot or slice up an onion in two seconds, making it look oh so easy, and for her it was. But my favorite part was when she'd let me taste whatever delight she was cooking up, sweet or savory. I'd close my eyes, lick my lips, and sigh with happiness. Sometimes Grand-mère Odette would blindfold me, and it wasn't long before I could pick out every ingredient by smell. All the other senses came to me, too- sight (glorious plating), taste (the delight of the unknown), touch (the way a cherry felt in my hand), and hearing (the way garlic sizzled in the pan).

Maussade, elle regardait la pluie s'abatter sur la forêt landaise. - Quel sale temps! - Tu te trompes, ma chérie. - Quoi? Viens mettre le nez dehors. Tu verras à quel point le ciel dégouline! - Justement. Il s'avança sur la terrasse, approcha du jardin à la limite des gouttes et, narines gonflées, oreilles dressées, nuque renversée pour mieux sentir le souffle humide sur sa figure, il murmura les yeux mi-clos en reniflant le ciel mercure: - C'est un beau jour de pluie. Il semblait sincère. Ce jour-là, elle acquit deux certitudes définitives: il l'agaçait profondément et, si elle le pouvait, elle ne le quitterait jamais.

and told him about the potion Rumpelstiltskin had given him. - I have the opportunity to forget my love if I wish to. - No. It's not right. - Why give up the freedom? - Because it wouldn't be real, he explained. It would always stay buried deep inside us, gnawing at us from the inside. It is impossible to pretend that what happened never happened. Whatever memories we have of it.

I thought then about all that I had learned of Swann’s love for Odette, and of the way in which Swann had been made a fool of all his life. Fundamentally, if I try to think about it, the hypothesis that led me little by little to construct Albertine’s whole character, and to interpret painfully each moment of a life I was unable to control in its entirety, was the memory, the idée fixe, of the character of Mme Swann, such as I had been told that it was like. These accounts helped to ensure that in future my imagination played the game of supposing that, instead of being a good girl, Albertine might have the same immorality, the same capacity for deception, as a former whore, and I thought of all the suffering that would have awaited me in that event had I ever had to love her.

What agony he suffered as he watched that light, in whose golden atmosphere were moving, behind the closed sash, the unseen and detested pair, as he listened to that murmur which revealed the presence of the man who had crept in after his own departure, the perfidy of Odette, and the pleasures which she was at that moment tasting with the stranger. And yet he was not sorry that he had come; the torment which had forced him to leave his own house had lost its sharpness when it lost its uncertainty, now that Odette's other life, of which he had had, at that first moment, a sudden helpless suspicion, was definitely there, almost within his grasp, before his eyes, in the full glare of the lamp-light, caught and kept there, an unwitting prisoner, in that room into which, when he would, he might force his way to surprise and seize it; or rather he would tap upon the shutters, as he had often done when he had come there very late, and by that signal Odette would at least learn that he knew, that he had seen the light and had heard the voices; while he himself, who a moment ago had been picturing her as laughing at him, as sharing with that other the knowledge of how effectively he had been tricked, now it was he that saw them, confident and persistent in their error, tricked and trapped by none other than himself, whom they believed to be a mile away, but who was there, in person, there with a plan, there with the knowledge that he was going, in another minute, to tap upon the shutter. And, perhaps, what he felt (almost an agreeable feeling) at that moment was something more than relief at the solution of a doubt, at the soothing of a pain; was an intellectual pleasure.

and told him about the potion Rumpelstiltskin had given her. - I have the opportunity to forget my love if I wish to. He seemed impressed with the idea, but, a little later, shook his head. - No. It's not right. - Why give up on freedom? - Because it wouldn't be real, he explained. It would always stay buried deep inside us, gnawing at us from the inside. It is impossible to pretend that what happened never happened. Whatever memories we have of it.

You remember that thing you said about pasta being the only thing that matter?” Charlie said. “What did you mean?” “Did I say that?” Odette looked surprised. “Well, if I did, I suppose I must have meant it exactly as it sounds.” “Isn’t who we are today what counts?” Charlie didn’t know why she was pressing this point, since she wasn’t particularly happy with the person she was today. And Odette had been talking about Vince when she’d said it, not Charlie. Odette laughed. “Sure, honey.” “Isn’t that the point of reinventing ourselves?” Charlie asked. Odette took a second sip of her drink and closed her eyes in pleasure. “Ah, yes, that’s good.” Then she fixed Charlie with a look that made her remember that Odette had lived longer than she had and maybe lived harder too. “Who we were and what we did and what was done to us—we don’t get to shrug that stuff off and become some new shiny person.” Charlie raised her eyebrows. “We can try.

You remember that thing you said about the past being the only thing that matters?” Charlie said. “What did you mean?” “Did I say that?” Odette looked surprised. “Well, if I did, I suppose I must have meant it exactly as it sounds.” “Isn’t who we are today what counts?” Charlie didn’t know why she was pressing this point, since she wasn’t particularly happy with the person she was today. And Odette had been talking about Vince when she’d said it, not Charlie. Odette laughed. “Sure, honey.” “Isn’t that the point of reinventing ourselves?” Charlie asked. Odette took a second sip of her drink and closed her eyes in pleasure. “Ah, yes, that’s good.” Then she fixed Charlie with a look that made her remember that Odette had lived longer than she had and maybe lived harder too. “Who we were and what we did and what was done to us—we don’t get to shrug that stuff off and become some new shiny person.” Charlie raised her eyebrows. “We can try.

You’re a fiend! You enjoy torturing me, making me tell you lies, just so that you’ll leave me in peace.” This second blow was even more terrible for Swann than the first. Never had he supposed it to have been so recent an event, hidden from his eyes that had been too innocent to discern it, not in a past which he had never known, but in the course of evenings which he so well remembered, which he had lived through with Odette, of which he had supposed himself to have such an intimate, such an exhaustive knowledge, and which now assumed, retrospectively, an aspect of ugliness and deceit. In the midst of them, suddenly, a gaping chasm had opened: that moment on the island in the Bois de Boulogne. Without being intelligent, Odette had the charm of naturalness. She had recounted, she had acted the little scene with such simplicity that Swann, as he gasped for breath, could vividly see it: Odette yawning, the “rock, there,” . . . He could hear her answer—alas, how gaily—“I’ve heard that tale before!

Charlie Hall!” José called. “Long time. You don’t like us anymore?” He was standing in a little knot with Katelynn and Suzie Lambton, who had made that comment to Doreen about Charlie being like the devil. “Have you heard from him?” José demanded as she approached. He worked at a tiny gay bar called Malebox, where he’d met his ex, the one who’d moved to Los Angeles for a guy and stuck Charlie with double shifts. Charlie shook her head. “But Odette might have an address to send his last check on file, if you want to send him a haunted object or something. Or there’s a service that ships packages filled with glitter to your enemies. They don’t call it the herpes of crafting for nothing.” He gave her a wan smile but was clearly sunk in misery. “He’s probably basking in the sun, happy, eating avacodos off the trees in his backyard, having sex with a hot surfer every night. Meanwhile I will never find love.” “I told you,” Katelynn said, “I’ll fix you up with my cousin.” “Isn’t he the one who ate a dead moth off the bathroom floor?” José raised his eyebrows. “As a child! You can’t hold that against him,” Katelynn protested. “I should just get a gloom to cut my feelings right out of me,” José declared dramatically. “Maybe then I’d be happy.” “You can’t be happy without feelings,” Katelynn said, pedantic to the end.

She went on speaking, and he did not interrupt her, but gathered up, with an eager and sorrowful piety, the words that fell from her lips, feeling (and rightly feeling, since she was hiding the truth behind them as she spoke) that, like the sacred veil, they retained a vague imprint, traced a faint outline, of that infinitely precious and, alas, undiscoverable reality—what she had been doing that afternoon at three o'clock when he had called—of which he would never possess any more than these falsifications, illegible and divine traces, and which would exist henceforward only in the secretive memory of this woman who could contemplate it in utter ignorance of its value but would never yield it up to him. Of course it occurred to him from time to time that Odette's daily activities were not in themselves passionately interesting, and that such relations as she might have with other men did not exhale naturally, universally and for every rational being a spirit of morbid gloom capable of infecting with fever or of inciting to suicide. He realised at such moments that that interest, that gloom, existed in him alone, like a disease, and that once he was cured of this disease, the actions of Odette, the kisses that she might have bestowed, would become once again as innocuous as those of countless other women. But the consciousness that the painful curiosity which he now brought to them had its origin only in himself was not enough to make Swann decide that it was unreasonable to regard that curiosity as important and to take every possible step to satisfy it.