In Search of Lost Time [volumes 1 to 7]

by Marcel Proust

absorbed so much of his dreams, which materialised so much of his longing, — a sort of superabundant sweetness and a mysterious solidity. And yet he was inclined to suspect that the state for which he so much longed was a calm, a peace, which would not have created an atmosphere favourable to his love.

Is the chapter Swann In Love the most beautiful thing ever written? The paranoia that can accompany new love is so powerfully displayed. My goodness how gorgeous.