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Marcel Proust (1871 - 1922)  

Proust was born in Auteuil. His father was a famous doctor and epidemiologist and his mother was the daughter of a rich and cultured Jewish family (her father was a banker). She was highly literate and well-read.
By the age of nine Proust had had his first serious asthma attack, and thereafter he was considered by himself, his family and his friends as a sickly child.
Despite his poor health, Proust served a year (1889–90) as an enlisted man in the French army, stationed at Coligny Caserne in Orléans. As a young man Proust was a dilettante and a successful social climber, whose aspirations as a writer were hampered by his lack of application to work. His reputation from this period, as a snob and an aesthete, contributed to his later troubles with getting Swann's Way, the first volume of his huge novel, published in 1913.
Proust was quite close to his mother, despite her wishes that he apply himself to some sort of useful work. In order to appease his father, who insisted that he pursue a career, Proust obtained a volunteer position at the Bibliothèque Mazarine in the summer of 1896. After exerting considerable effort, he obtained a sick leave which was to extend for several years until he was considered to have resigned. He never worked at his job, and he did not move from his parents' apartment until after both were dead.
Proust was a homosexual and, though not completely open about his own sexuality, he was one of the first European writers to treat homosexuality at length.
His life and family circle changed considerably between 1900 and 1905. In February of 1903 Proust's brother Robert married and left the family apartment. His father died in September of the same year. Finally, and most crushingly, Proust's beloved mother died in September of 1905. In addition to the grief that attended his mother's death, Proust's life changed due to a very large inheritance he received. Despite this windfall, his health throughout this period continued to deteriorate.
Proust spent the last three years of his life largely confined to his cork-lined bedroom, sleeping during the day and working at night to complete his novel.
He died in 1922.


…唯一真正的書,作家不需要在世界的平凡感覺中創造它,因為它已經存在於我們每個人之中;他只需要將它編譯出來。作家的責任及任務就是翻譯員的責任及任務
一個人的意圖的真實性是不可能通過詢問而得知的
們彼此間的回憶,即使在戀愛期間也不盡相同
我們都有責任保留我們的一點偏心來容忍現實
當一個讀者在閱讀的時候就等於閱讀自己。一個作家的作品只是一種向讀者提供瞭解他自己的目測器具。沒有了書本,讀者就會連他自己本身也無法看到
當我們生病的時候,我們會領域到其實我們並不是單獨存在著,而是與一個不同的領域連結。在那裏,我們被不瞭解我們的深淵所隔離,因此,也不可能讓我們自己瞭解:我們的身體
航行的真正發現不是新大陸,而是用新的眼睛來看待事物。