đď¸ âSo, on those stormy, mild February evenings, the wind â blowing into my heart, which wasnâtâŚ
Translated from French.
đď¸ âSo, on those stormy, mild February evenings, the wind â blowing through my heart, which it made tremble no less than the chimney in my room, the plan for a trip to Balbec â stirred within me a longing for architecture mingled with a longing for a storm at sea.â
â Marcel Proust, âSwann's Wayâ, 1913
PlĂŠiade 1954 (ed. Clarac and FerrĂŠ), p. 385
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