Tell yourself this, for it is a kind of pleasure to know that you will never love less, that you will never be consoled, that you will constantly remember more and more.
- Marcel Proust, from a letter to Georges de Lauris, October 1905
The bud disappears in the bursting-forth of the blossom, and one might say that the former is refuted by the latter; similarly, when the fruit appears, the blossom is shown up in its turn as a false manifestation of the plant, and the fruit now emerges as the truth of it instead.