" And so too, in later years, when I began to write a book of my own, and the quality of some of my sentences seemed so inadaquete that I could not make up my mind to go on with the undertaking, I would find the equivalent in Bergotte. But it was only then, when I read them in his pages, that I could enjoy them; when it was I myself who composed them, in my anxiety that they should exactly reproduce what I had perceived in my mind's eye, and in my fear of their not turning out "true to life," how could I find time to ask myself whether what I was writing was pleasing! "

― Marcel Proust , Swann's Way