I dined with Legrandin in the terrace of his, by moonlight. “There is a charming quality, is there not,” he said to me, “in this silence; for hearts that are wounded, as mine is, a novelist, whom you will read in time to come, claims there is no remedy but silence and shadow. And see you this, my boy, there comes in all lives a time, toward which you still have far to go, when the weary eyes can endure but one kind of light, the light which a fine evening like this prepares for us in the stillroom of darkness, when the ears can listen to no music save the moonlight breathes through the flute of silence.” Marcel Proust 1934 (at Deas Slough)
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