Brussels supermarket, shopping on a Friday evening. Tired at the end of another week at work (novelty is exciting, yes, but it can be also exhausting). Among the shelves of the over-cooled supermarket, a Proustian moment:
Suddenly, all is warm and homey. Suddenly it smells and feels like pre-Christmas.
(Every now and then I think of the anomynous and sometimes surreal writers/translators of texts and words that we read every day, on vending machines - 'thank you for your purchase' - or on food wrappings.)
Someone from 'Delhaize' had set up a beautiful Proustian minute, for me. And it was not the madeleine itself (is this really a madeleine, btw?) nor was it the word Madeleine. My madeleine was a Prăjitură.
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