" Real life, life which has at last been uncovered and illuminated, the only life in consequence fully lived, is literature. This life in a sense inhabits all people not just artists, at every moment, but they do not see it because they do not attempt to illuminate it, and so their past is littered with innumerable photographs, which are useless to them because their intelligence has not developed them. Our life and also the lives of others, since style for the writer just as colour for the painter is a question not of technique, but of vision. It is the revelation, which would be impossible by direct or conscious means, of the qualitative difference in the way we see the world; a difference which, if art did not exist, would remain each persons internal secret. Only through art are we able to escape from ourselves; to know what another sees of a universe, which is not the same as ours, whose landscape would have remained as unknown to us as those that may exist on the moon ".

Marcel Proust