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Some people, over-fervent, or fervent by starts - loving on credit, if I may put it that way - will hurl themselves upon the experience instead of waiting for it to happen. Before the nature of an object can produce its proper sensation in them, they have blindly invested it from afar with imaginary charm which they conjure up inexhaustibly within themselves.

...because nothing paralyzes the imagination like an appeal to memory.

The memories produce a semblance of love; there is the pricking at your pride and the sadness in satisfaction; the atmosphere of romantic fiction catches you by the throat, and you believe yourself lovesick and melancholy, for vanity will always pretend to be grand passion.

...myth hides nothing: its function is to distort, not to make disappear. There is no latency of concept in relation to the form: there is no need of an unconscious in order to explain myth.

"I am destroyed irrevocably..."

If Proust's ISoLT appeals particularly to the visual aesthetic, Bely's Petersburg is an auricular titillation.

...that solitary weapon of writers: literality: yet it is this weapon alone which can strip the poetic metaphor of its artifice, reveal its fulguration of a truth, won over a continuous nausea of language.