When the pleasure of the book becomes physical

"How, at last, has someone solidified what has always escaped—and made it too into this beautiful and perfectly enduring substance? One has to put the book down and gasp. The pleasure becomes physical—like sun and wine and grapes and perfect serenity and intense vitality combined."

  —  Virginia Woolf on Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time

                                     

               


   A picture of a young Virginia Woolf