Il y avait déjà bien des années que

Il y avait déjà bien des années que, de Combray, tout ce qui n’était pas le théâtre et le drame de mon coucher n’existait plus pour moi, quand un jour d’hiver, comme je rentrais à la maison, ma mère, voyant que j’avais froid, me proposa de me faire prendre, contre mon habitude, un peu de thé. Je refusai d’abord et, je ne sais pourquoi, me ravisai. Elle envoya chercher un de ces gâteaux courts et dodus appelés Petites Madeleines qui semblaient avoir été moulées dans la valve rainurée d’une coquille de Saint-Jacques. Et bientôt, machinalement, accablé par la morne journée et la perspective d’un triste lendemain, je portai à mes lèvres une cuillerée du thé où j’avais laissé s’amollir un morceau de madeleine. Mais à l’instant même où la gorgée mêlée des miettes du gâteau toucha mon palais, je tressaillis, attentif à ce qui se passait d’extraordinaire en moi. Un plaisir délicieux m’avait envahi, isolé, sans la notion de sa cause. Il m’avait aussitôt rendu les vicissitudes de la vie indifférentes, ses désastres inoffensifs, sa brièveté illusoire, de la même façon qu’opère l’amour, en me remplissant d’une essence précieuse: ou plutôt cette essence n’était pas en moi, elle était moi. J’avais cessé de me sentir médiocre, contingent, mortel. D’où avait pu me venir cette puissante joie ? Je sentais qu’elle était liée au goût du thé et du gâteau, mais qu’elle le dépassait infiniment, ne devait pas être de même nature. D’où venait-elle ? Que signifiait-elle ? Où l’appréhender ? Je bois une seconde gorgée où je ne trouve rien de plus que dans la première, une troisième qui m’apporte un peu moins que la seconde. Il est temps que je m’arrête, la vertu du breuvage semble diminuer. Il est clair que la vérité que je cherche n’est pas en lui, mais en moi. Il l’y a éveillée, mais ne la connaît pas, et ne peut que répéter indéfiniment, avec de moins en moins de force, ce même témoignage que je ne sais pas interpréter et que je veux au moins pouvoir lui redemander et retrouver intact, à ma disposition, tout à l’heure, pour un éclaircissement décisif. Je pose la tasse et me tourne vers mon esprit. C’est à lui de trouver la vérité. Mais comment ? Grave incertitude, toutes les fois que l’esprit se sent dépassé par lui-même ; quand lui, le chercheur, est tout ensemble le pays obscur où il doit chercher et où tout son bagage ne lui sera de rien. Chercher ? pas seulement : créer. Il est en face de quelque chose qui n’est pas encore et que seul il peut réaliser, puis faire entrer dans sa lumière.

Résultats (Anglais) 1:

There were already many years that Combray, everything that wasn't the theatre and the drama of my sunset no longer existed for me, when one winter day, as I came home, my mother, seeing that I was cold, offered to let get me caught, against my usual, a little tea. I refused first, and I know why, me ravisai. She sent to look for one of these short and plump cakes called Petites Madeleines, which seemed to have been moulded in the fluted valve of a shell of Saint James. And soon, mechanically, overwhelmed by the dreary day and the prospect of a depressing Morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of tea where I had left to soften a piece of madeleine. But at the moment even where the SIP mixed with cake crumbs touched my palate, I tressaillis, attentive to what was happening of extraordinary in me. A delicious pleasure had invaded me, isolated, without the notion of its cause. He immediately gave me the vicissitudes of life indifferent, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory, in the same way that operates love, filling me a valuable fuel: or rather this essence was not in me, it was me. I had ceased to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Where could I come this powerful joy? I felt that she was bound to the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it was infinitely, should not be of the same nature. Where did she come from? That meant? Where to apprehend him? I drink a second SIP where I find nothing more than in the first, a third that brings me a little less than the second. It is time that I stop, the virtue of the beverage seems to decrease. It is clear that the truth I'm looking for is not in him, but in me. It it is awake, but does not know, and can only repeat indefinitely, with less and less force, this same testimony I know not interpret and I want at least power to ask and look for intact, at my disposal at the time for a decisive clarification. I put the Cup and turn to my mind. It is for him to find the truth. But how? Serious uncertainty, all the times that the mind feels overwhelmed by itself; When he, researcher, is all the obscure country where should look and where all his luggage will be nothing. Search for? not only: create. It is in front of something which is not yet and that only it can achieve, and then bring in his light.

Résultats (Anglais) 2:

There were already many years that Combray, everything that was not the theater and drama of my bed no longer existed for me, when a winter day, as I got home, my mother seeing that I was cold, offered me to take me against my usual, a little tea. I refused at first and I do not know why, changed my mind. She sent for one of those short, plump cakes called Madeleines ads that appeared to have been molded in the fluted valve of a shell of St. Jacques. And soon, mechanically, dispirited after a dreary day with the prospect of a depressing morrow, I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake. But at the very moment when the sip mixed the crumbs touched my palate, I flinched, attentive to what was happening in me extraordinary. An exquisite pleasure had invaded me, isolated, with no suggestion of its origin. He had me at once the vicissitudes of life indifferent, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory in the same way that operates love, filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me, it was me. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Whence could it have come to me this powerful joy? I felt that it was bound to taste tea and cake, but it exceeded infinitely, should not be of the same nature. Where does it come from? What did it mean? Where apprehend? I drink a second mouthful where I find nothing more than in the first, third, which gives me a little less than the second. It's time I stop, the potion seems to decrease. Clearly, the truth that I seek is not in him, but in me. He awakened them, but does not know, and can only repeat indefinitely, with less and less force, this same testimony I can not interpret, and I want to at least be able to ask again and look intact, to me, just now, to final enlightenment. I put the cup and turn to my mind. It is for him to find the truth. But how? Grave uncertainty, whenever the mind feels overtaken by itself; when he, the researcher is the dark region where it must seek and where all its equipment will avail it nothing. Look For? not only that: create. It is in front of something that is not yet and that only it can achieve and bring into the light.

Résultats (Anglais) 3:

There were already many years that, of Combray, everything that was not the theater and the drama of my bedroom no longer existed for me, when a winter's day, as I was coming back to the House, my mother, seeing that I was cold, offered me to make me, against my usual, a little bit of tea. I out pretty first and, I do not know why, me ravisai.She sent up one of these cakes short and that fatten up called Small Madeleines that seemed to have been molded into the valve grooved to a shell of Saint-Jacques . And soon, mechanically, overwhelmed by the dreary day and the prospect of a sad day, i Morlocks to my lips a spoonful of the tea or i had left to soften a piece of Madeleine.But at the moment or the sip fray of crumbs of the cake touched my palace, i tressaillis, attentive to what was happening to extraordinary in me. A delicious pleasure me had invaded, isolated, without the concept of its cause. He told me immediately visited the vicissitudes of life indifferent, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory, in the same way that operates the love,In me fulfilling a valuable petrol: or rather this essence was not in me, it was me. I had ceased to feel poor, quota, mortal. OF or had been able to come this powerful joy? I felt that it was linked to the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it exceeded the infinitely, should not be of the same nature. Where was it? That meant it?Or apprehend? I wood a second tasting or i find nothing more than in the first, a third which gives me a little less than the second. It is time that I stopped, the virtue of the old beverage seems to decrease. It is clear that the truth that I seek is not in him, but in me. He is awake, but does not know, and can only repeat indefinitely,With less force, this same witness that I do not know interpret and that I want to be able to at least ask him and regain intact, at my disposal, all at the time, for a decisive clarification. I install the cup and am turning to my spirit. It is up to him to find the truth. But how? Serious uncertainty, all the times that the spirit feels exceeds by itself ;When him, the researcher, is everything the country together obscure or it must seek and or all his baggage does him will be nothing. Look? Not only: create. It is in the face of something which is not yet and that only he can achieve, and then to enter in his light.