The secret to sainthood is never shitting in public.

Will you not watch as I dance for you? Will you not listen as I sing? Songs of love and heartbreak? As I pluck the plaintive strains of desire, are your rhythms not moved to a fever?

The night’s memories fade into a haze. The soul is alive, but the flesh, weak and weakened, drags the mind into hated slumber. If only to dream of one’s lover!

Such dreams are the position of lovers, nos. 11, 13, and 34, but this is the position of lovers, no. 17.

I scarcely remember, it was so much a dream. One needs, first, the quiet hours of night, the private hours past dusk where love’s isolation may be shielded from the jealous Sun.

We had planned on a date. It was so weird. I hadn’t been on a “date” in years. Her mother answered the door when I arrived to pick her up, and we left for dinner, dusk slowly easing into night.

Second, one must have music. Oft, the swelling hearts of young love emit suitable sweet melodies, but oftly, the swelling hearts of young love have clamoured for glorious sounds to accent their courtship. Such songs will do.

Away from the restaurant, the rousing evening bade us onward: she led me through her secrets and secret places. We stood and watched the fountains play. Back in the car, she sang all the words to all the good songs on all the good stations.

Third, the one lover faces the other, masked with the wry grin of shared secrets and sacred gifts. The one lover sings to the other, casts wanting glances, and completes a ritual dance.

She squealed when she saw the Patsy Cline, and she sang every word to “Walkin’ after midnight” and “I fall to pieces,” a swaying sashay and coy expressions illustrating the lyrics.

[Editor’s note: After M. Swann’s death, the estate discovered several tube letters originally sent to his lover that were not mentioned in the novel. They are released here for the first time, to replace the missing chapter at the end of Swann’s Way. This marks the first letter. The rest will be released sequentially.]

Dearest,

My driver said he was not able to come round for you. I came round hoping no ill had befallen, but the door man did not answer.

I am sure you must be well, but send me just one tender note, so I might sleep knowing you harbor, still, your sweet smile.

Yours,
M.

The night’s memories fade into a haze. The soul is alive, but the flesh, weak and weakened, drags the mind into hated slumber