Darn it all

So, I'm recumbent, reading Proust (no, really, all of it) because I don't want to take this tome on the plane to Tejas; though, revisiting would make doing so just. I have achieved page 773 of 1018 of the first volume of The Novel, which, as you know, is .... hefty. Proust is on a carriage ride. In "Place-Names: The Place" (which is also title of part of Bonnefoy's Douve I recall), I read this:

Presently, at a crossroads, the carriage left them. It was bearing me way from what alone I believed to be true, what would have made me truly happy; it was like my life.

I watched the trees gradually recede, waving their despairing arms, seeming to say to me: "What you fail to learn from us today, you will never know. If you allow us to drop back into the hollow of this road from which sought to raise ourselves up to you, a whole part of yourself which we were bringing to you will vanish forever into thin air." And indeed if, in the course of time, I did discover this kind of pleasure and disquiet which I had just felt once again, and if one evening -- too late, but then for all time -- I fastened myself to it, of those trees themselves I was never to what what they had been trying to give me nor where else I had seen them. And when, the road having forked and the carriage with it, I turned my back on them and ceased to see them, while Mme de Villeparisis asked me what I was dreaming about, I was a wretched as if I had just lost a friend, had died myself, had broken faith with the dead or repudiated a god.

Because That is true-true, I know have to take this book on the plane. Oh. Poor. Me. Boo. Hoo. And harass my friends by playing "hey, listen to this." la-la!

Oh, my phone's working. And the folks I interviewed with tonight for that director's gig: yeh, those people are bon-kers.