Proust once told a story about a young man who spent much of his waking hours finding things to be unhappy about. An aesthete at heart, he would sit at the dining table and fantasize about the splendor of museums, then feel dissatisfied when he snapped back to reality: a used spoon lay on the table, the family cat napped on an old cupboard in the corner, and the tablecloth that had turned half-black from hot skillets was fraying on all sides.
You see, he had a taste for beautiful and expensive things—things he couldn’t afford. He would envy the financiers and lawyers who had enough money to decorate their houses properly, down to the gold on their cocktail tongs. And so, to escape what he considered an eyesore of a home, he would visit the Louvre to satisfy his appetite for beauty, perusing the grand palaces by Veronese and the princely portraits by Jacques-Louis.
One day, Proust tried to change his mind by suggesting that he take his Louvre tour in a different direction. Instead of Ve…
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