delectable stupefaction

I have the image of Proust-qua-narrator ascending the wonderful path that leads to la Raspelière, together with some of the faithful — i.e., Mme Verdurin’s chronies. The air redolent of salt and sand whafs and in the distance, as if in the periphery of a human affected reality, the undulating ocean.

I hear the prattle, the incosequential and sedulous conversations — substance devoid of essence — diluted into a single and gentle hubbub, melodic susurration that exists parallel and distinct to his thoughts. They are the light-emitting wick piercing the incipient and seminal darkness: the abyss from which the world time immemorial arose, as if elevating herself from the stupor.

The narrator’s robiscund, effete, pallid face reveals a pair of dark brown eyes burning with intensity. He is consuming the world ferociously; he is the redemptor, the savior — the _ quote from yates _

My numbed face adumbrates
In the numbed face of mine, a neanderthal recording is etched, an adumbration of a smile. I feel the breeze, for I am transplanted into this Balzacian scene, this world of thoughts, of observations and digressions.