So, I’m reading Swann’s Way, Marcel Proust, via dailylit.com, and it’s a rough read. When I described him as Western civ’s biggest moonbat, I was not kidding.

And, quite possibly, this lack (or seeming lack) of participation by a person’s soul in the significant marks of its own special virtue has, apart from its aesthetic meaning, a reality which, if not strictly psychological, may at least be called physiognomical.

There you go. That was yesterday’s gem.

I may not make it.

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