There were evenings Many were the nights when, as I passed through the
town, on my way to the restaurant, I felt so keen a longing for Mm. de Guermantes
that I could scarcely breathe; you

might have said that part of my breast had been cut open out by a skilled anatomist, taken out and replaced by an equal part of immaterial suffering.

by an equivalent load of longing and love. However neatly the wound may have been stitched together there’s little comfort in life when regret for the loss of another somebody’s loss the lost object replaces one’s guts
over such a loss replaces one’s entrails

It seems to fill be taking up occupy more room space than they; or so one constantly feels; one feels it perpetually it all the time and besides, what a contradiction in terms to be obliged to think a part of one’s body

Only, it seems // that we are worth more, somehow.

it seems seeming to occupy more space than they; one feels it all the time; and
besides, what a contradiction to be obliged in terms: to think apart of one’s body. Only it seems
that we are worth more, somehow.

and besides, what a contradiction in terms: to think apart of one’s body. Only it seems we are worth more, somehow.

[Translation of extract from vol.1 of Remembrance of Things Past, Swann’s Way, Place-Names: The Name, by Marcel Proust. WG]

Those who we love absolutely
as a faculty of being
in the moment discontinuous
*
I walk up hills
for the good of my legs, and avoid others those
“who follow
who take different” paths
in their own parks, under in their own suns orbits
around which they circulate

Love requires practice too
The be[?] and f[?] movements.
Those sometimes There are times I can see the child
in you, and lend a hand
to lift.

* [A dome catching he sun, plastic:
a broken Frisbee?]

[Translation of…? More Proust? Or…? Citation needed! WG]