Payton Rush’s Reviews > In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower > Status Update
Payton Rush
is on page 268 of 533
"Looking at her, I was filled with that renewed longing for life which any fresh glimpse of beauty and happiness can bring. This lovely girl, utterly different from the patterns of beauty devised by my mind in isolation, gave me an instantaneous taste for a particular form of happiness."
— Sep 23, 2024 11:50AM
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Payton’s Previous Updates
Payton Rush
is on page 368 of 533
Gems like: "On seeing into the real life of another person, learning the truth of an existence that is overlaid by an appearance of truth, we can expect as many surprises as though we were exploring a house of ordinary demeanor that turns out to be full of ill-gotten gains, cat burglar's jimmies, and corpses; and the opposite surprise can result if, instead..." are too long to post in an update.
Proust elaborates.
— Apr 09, 2025 05:03PM
Proust elaborates.
Payton Rush
is on page 217 of 533
Marcel spends around forty pages attempting to play hard to get, and becomes great friends with Gilberte’s mother. His self imposed sorrow is maddening; a relatable idiot.
“With every day that passed, it seemed to me that my prestige, because of my self-imposed separation from her, must be slowly growing in her eyes; and that each of these days of calm sadness was a day gained. . . a day pointlessly gained.”
— May 08, 2024 01:15PM
“With every day that passed, it seemed to me that my prestige, because of my self-imposed separation from her, must be slowly growing in her eyes; and that each of these days of calm sadness was a day gained. . . a day pointlessly gained.”
Payton Rush
is on page 59 of 533
“He was at the stage when the sane man has not quite realized that the man he is chatting with is insane.”
Not much has happened yet as far as plot progression goes… the book has only consisted in ironic quips where Proust absolutely rips into the world of art criticism.
— Mar 16, 2024 06:57PM
Not much has happened yet as far as plot progression goes… the book has only consisted in ironic quips where Proust absolutely rips into the world of art criticism.

