closetpoesie

Thus, nothing came closer than a fine phrase of Vinteuil’s to the particular pleasure which I had sometimes experienced in my life, before the spires of Martinville, for example, or certain trees on a road at Balbec, or more simply, at the beginning of this work, when drinking a certain mouthful of tea. As the tea had done, the multiple sensations of light, the airy sounds, the noisy colours which Vinteuil sent us from the world in which he composed, presented to my imagination, forcefully but too rapidly to take in, something which I could compare to the perfumed silk of a geranium.

—Marcel Proust, The Prisoner, translated by Carol Clark, p. 346. (via odettecarotte)

torfalcon:

I use grey days in May to count greens. Generous light through layers of cloud revealing the full spectrum of tender, spring greens moves me deeply. Has my eye been tuned by millions of years of evolution to distinguish nuances in green above all else? Did my ancestors need to know their…