Marcel Proust Quotes

This have I known always: Love is no more than the wide blossom which the wind assails, than the great tide that treads the shifting shore, strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales; Pity me that the heart is slow to learn, that the swift mind beholds at every turn.

People still do fall in and out of love and can and cannot express what they feel and are very much pained because the person they love is with somebody else. That's happening the whole world over, and I think it always has been.

Divorce is simply modern society's version of medieval torture. Except it lasts longer and leaves deeper scars. A divorce releases the most primitive emotions; the ugliest, raw feelings. Emotionally wounded people do their best to inflict pain upon the other party, but rather than using claws they use divorce lawyers.

Sure my love is all crostLike a bud in the frostAnd there's no use at all in my going to bed,For 't is dhrames and not slape that comes into my head!

Love is an incurable disease. In love, there is permanent suffering. Those who love and those who are happy are not the same.

The day is breaking someone else's heart.

Indeed — why should I not admit it? — in that moment, my heart was breaking.

my heart would swell without warning, and tremble, and lurch with a stab of pain. I would try clamping my eyes shut and gritting my teeth, and waiting for it to pass. And it would pass -- but slowly, taking its own time, and leaving a dull ache behind.

...we're told by TV and Reader's Digest that a crisis will trigger massive personal change--and that those big changes will make the pain worthwhile. But from what he could see, big change almost never happens. People simply feel lost. They have no idea what to say or do or feel or think. they become messes and tend to remain messes.

You'd be amazed at the pain and tears a single smile hides.

love is so very subtle an essence, such an indefinable metaphysical marvel, that its due force, though very cruelly felt by the sufferer himself, is never clearly understood by those who look on at its torments and wonder why he takes the common fever so badly.

grief is a house that disappears each time someone knocks at the door or rings the bell a house that blows into the air at the slightest gust that buries itself deep in the ground while everyone is sleeping

in the caves of my heart, where pain taps out its rhythms and sorrow sets its loss, i am without direction.

The pleasures of love are pains that become desirable, where sweetness and torment blend, and so love is voluntary insanity, infernal paradise, and celestial hell - in short, harmony of opposite yearnings, sorrowful laughter, soft diamond.

Incredible nervous state, trepidation beyond words: to be this much in love is to be sick (and I love to be sick).

Love is a popular romantic notion that leads to nothing but its own brand of misery.

Love is divine only and difficult always.

To love is to suffer and there can be no love otherwise.

Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.

Must being in love always mean being in pain?

Waiting for your answer is one of the most painful things I have ever been through. At least let me know whether or not I hurt you.

Love is life's snow. It falls deepest and softest into the gashes left by the fight - whiter and purer than snow itself.

The deeper the feeling, the greater the pain