Soon, what was tedious was everything. ‘Beautiful things, they’re so tedious! Paintings, they’re enough to drive you mad…How right you are, it’s so tedious, writing letters!’ In the end it was life itself that she declared to us was a bore, without one quite knowing from where she was taking her term of comparison.

Soon, what was tedious was everything. ‘Beautiful things, they’re so tedious! Paintings, they’re enough to drive you mad…How right you are, it’s so tedious, writing letters!’ In the end it was life itself that she declared to us was a bore, without one quite knowing from where she was taking her term of comparison.

– Marcel Proust –

Sodom and Gomorrah

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