Let but a single flash of reality -- the glimpse of
a woman from afar or from behind -- enable us to project the image of Beauty
before our eyes, and we imagine that we have recognised it, our hearts beat, and
we will always remain half-persuaded that it was She, provided that the woman
has vanished: it is only if we manage to overtake her that we realise our
mistake.
MARCEL PROUST, Within a Budding Grove
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