`Have you ever read Proust?' he asked her. `I've tried, but he bores me.' `He's really very extraordinary.' `Possibly! But he bores me: all that sophistication! He doesn't have feelings, he only has streams of words about feelings. I'm tired of self−important mentalities.' `Would you prefer self−important animalities?' `Perhaps! But one might possibly get something that wasn't self−important.' `Well, I like Proust's subtlety and his well−bred anarchy.' `It makes you very dead, really.' `There speaks my evangelical little wife.'
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