if just now I thought that Bergotte was wrong when he talked about the joys of the life of the mind, it was because at that moment what I meant by ‘life of the mind’ was the sort of logical reasoning which had no connection with it, or with what existed in me at that moment – exactly as I had been able to find life and society boring because I was judging them according to untruthful memories, whereas I had a considerable appetite for living now that a real moment of the past had just, on three separate occasions, been recreated within me.
