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A Memory Called E...
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by Arkady Martine (Goodreads Author)
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"I get it's hard to write smart characters, but please try harder." Apr 28, 2026 05:18PM

 
The House Of Wisdom
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"I will finish this........ I must........" Apr 28, 2026 05:17PM

 
Война и мир. Том 1/4
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"Pierre is such an icon that he deserves to be hanged <3" Sep 16, 2025 10:39AM

 
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Marcel Proust
“No sooner had the warm liquid, and the crumbs with it, touched my palate than a shudder ran through my whole body, and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary changes that were taking place. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, but individual, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory—this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me, it was myself. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, accidental, mortal.”
Marcel Proust, Swann's Way

M.L. Wang
“About weapons, not boys!” Misaki said. “Oh my Gods! So, his parents disinherited him because he married a man?”
M.L. Wang, The Sword of Kaigen

Marcel Proust
“the forms of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry, so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds, were either obliterated or had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my consciousness.”
Marcel Proust, Swann's Way

M.L. Wang
“Izumo stood, the branches of the young pine brushing his hair, and Misaki beamed. No matter what he grew into, she was excited to see it. This time she wouldn’t miss a moment of it. Holding Izumo’s hand, she bowed toward the black pine a last time. Until tomorrow, Mamoru.”
M.L. Wang, The Sword of Kaigen

Marcel Proust
“And just as the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water and steeping in it little crumbs of paper which until then are without character or form, but, the moment they become wet, stretch themselves and bend, take on colour and distinctive shape, become flowers or houses or people, permanent and recognisable, so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann’s park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and of its surroundings, taking their proper shapes and growing solid, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea.”
Marcel Proust, Swann's Way

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