Found during the recopying process:

[Proust - v. 4 of Recherche]

... I, the strange human who, while he waits for death to release him, lives behind closed shutters, knows nothing of the world, sits motionless as an owl, and like that bird can only see things at all clearly in the darkness.

If I do not know a whole section of the memories that are behind me if they are invisible to me, if I do not have the faculty of calling them to me, how do I know whether in that mass that is unknown to me there may not be some that extend back much farther than my human existence?

As by an electric current that gives us a shock, I have been shaken by my loves, I have lived them, I have felt them; never have I succeeded in seeing or thinking them