How much more distressing still, after that day...did it seem to me than it had seemed before to have no aptitude for literature, to have to give up all hope of ever being a famous writer! The sorrow i felt over this, as i day-dreamed alone, a little apart from the others, made me suffer so much that in order not to feel it anymore, my mind of its own accord, by a sort of inhibition in the face of pain would stop thinking altogether about poems, novels, a poetic future on which my lack of talent forbade me to depend.

Finally finally putting a real effort into reading Proust.