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samedi, 12 mai 2012


powell_1605542c.jpgCobb was making notes in a little book.  Marinko gazed out of the window, overcome with Slav melancholy, or, more specifically — being of the party that supported the Resistance groups of Mihcilovic — dejection at the course British policy appeared to be taking in that connexion.

"Just spell out the name of that place we stopped over last night, Major Jenkins," said Cobb.

"C-A-B-O-U-R-G, Sir."

As I uttered the last letter, scales fell from my eyes. Everything was transformed. It all came back-like the tea-soaked madeleine itself — in a torrent of memory ... Cabourg ... We had just driven out of Cabourg ... out of Proust's Balbec.  Only a few minutes before, I had been standing on the esplanade along which, wearing her polo cap and accompanied by the little band of girls he had supposed the mistresses of professional bicyclists, Albertine had strolled into Marcel's life. Through the high windows of the Grand Hotel's dining room — conveying for those without the sensation of staring into an aquarium — was to be seen Saint-Loup, at the same table Bloch, mendaciously claiming acquaintance with the Swanns. A little further along the promenade was the Casino, its walls still displaying tattered play-bills, just like the one Charlus, wearing his black straw hat, had pretended to examine, after an attempt at long range to assess the Narrator's physical attractions and possibilities. Here Elstir had painted; Prince Odoacer played golf. Where was the little railway line that had carried them all to the Verdurins' villa? Perhaps it ran in another direction to that we were taking; more probably it was no more.

(The Military Philosophers, p. 167)

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