[...] a winter day, coming home, my mother saw that I was cold, offered me to take, contrary to my habit, a little 'tea. At first I refused and then, I do not know why I changed my mind. She went to get one of those short and sweet filled called madeleine that appear to have been printed in the fluted valve of a shell of St James. And soon, mechanically, oppressed by the gray day and the prospect of a sad day, I took it to my lips a spoonful of tea which I had soaked a piece of madeleine . But at the same time that the drink mixed with crumbs of cake I had to the palate, startled, alert to what was happening to me extraordinary. A delicious pleasure had invaded me, isolated, without the notion of its cause. I had just become indifferent to the vicissitudes of life, its disasters harmless, its brevity illusory in the same manner in which love, filling me with a precious essence: or rather, that experience was not in me but it was myself . I had ceased to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. From where I was able to come this powerful joy?
Á la Recherche du Temps Perdu - Marcel Proust
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