I cried for a long time, telling her all those ugly things which it took the ignorance of my youth to confess, and to which, without understanding them, my mother listened divinely, minimising their importance with a goodness that lightened the weight of my conscience. That weight grew lighter, grew lighter; my crushed and humiliated soul rose more and more buoyant and strong, overflowed - I was all soul. A divine frangrace emanated from my mother and my recovered innocence. Soon I was conscious of another odor in my nostrils just as fresh and pure. It came from the lilac bush, one whose branch, hidden by my mother’s parasol, was already in flower and unseen was filling the air with its perfume. High in the trees the birds were singing with all their strength. Higher still, between the green tops, the sky was so deep a blue that it seemed merely the entrance to a sky where one could climb forever.
Proust, from Pleasures and Regrets (@o-delaisse)
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The London Magazine is the UK’s oldest cultural journal featuring the best original poetry, short fiction, cultural reviews and literary essays since 1732.