Proust is the literary world’s great intimidator…known for his massive 7-volume Remembrance of Time Past and little else, it may come as a surprise, as it did to me, that Proust also wrote poetry, sketches, and short stories. As you think about it more, it makes sense that he would – nobody writes a 3,000+ page book and nothing else. So for those intimidated by our Marcel (I include myself), you can get to know him better in a little book, which I picked up yesterday, called Pleasures and Days, which is filled with beautiful short works, the scattered thoughts of a French summertime. This poem is from a series about painters, writers, and musicians.

The dusk applies make-up to trees and faces
In its blue coat, beneath its dubious mask;
A scatter of kisses falls on weary lips…
The vague grows fond now, and the near grows far.

The masquerade is sad and distant too,
Love’s movements now seem forced, with their sad charm.
A poet’s whim – or lover’s wise precaution,
Since love must be adorned with expert skill -
Behold: a ship, a picnic, silence, song.