In transcribing this, I so want to introduce a spelling mistake.
But we cannot judge in the same way the charm of a person who is, like everyone else, exterior to ourselves, painted upon the horizon of our mind, and that of a person who, in consequence of an error in localisation which has been due to certain accidents but is irreparable, had lodged herself in our own body so effectively that the act of asking ourselves in retrospect whether she did not look at a woman on a particular day in the corridor of a little seaside railway train makes us feel the same anguish as would a surgeon probing for a bullet in our heart.
Proust The Sweet Cheat Gone in the translation by C.K. Scott Moncrieff.
The image in one’s mind, a simple error? How then can the obsession be corrected? Displaced by spelling?
And so for day 1988